"At The Hour"

I am honored to participate in a flourishing exercise of "30 in 30". This is a challenge, not a contest, presented to the few willing to take it upon their duties to create thirty poems in thirty days in anyway way, shape, or form, no strenuous and strict rules, starting December 15th, 2009, through January 13th, 2010. (Twitter hashtag #30in30)

Here's #9 of 30 of the "30 in 30" project

Ifeanyi Okoro II (CopperSoul)
Houston, Tx


So we give thanks to those who wear
The coldest apparel with the general flair
Soldiers with those black boots
Lead by the orisa with that royal red suit
White trim, wielding the ax like he was wired on Grey Goose
Nights afire when lightning bolts get loose
This ain't Santa, it's Sango
Dark like the Congo
Called by the bataa songs sung like the bongo
Tapped and relaxed on the throne like bones
Chaperoned to the ocean floor with revenge to be honed
Left alone to be hung and return like Redeemer
Seen as a crafty one, some say the schemer
Scheduling the scene to be torched to the crisp
Blowing Osun a kiss, but it's Oya he misses
Others think he was born on just December 25th
Misnomered, honored by people frontin' folks with gifts
No wonder the try to confine his entry through the chimney
Simply cause they smoked the history of African memories
Entry to the logs of computerization
Numbered and blogged to synchronization
I'm hatin' not even our own wanna give him praise
Then wanna cry to Christ when all hell gets raised?
This nation did a good job, adorning the door knob
With the "Do Not Disturb" sign near the fresh floor mopped
Of ya past, trashing your ancestors with imagery
Of a pasty male, impaled on a fucking tree
Lucky me, I awake eyes open to mockery
Stopping the utter recycling of hypocrisy
And not to be outdone
there's always gonna be a sound shoutout to those
Who recognize the sun
Coming unfroze...but celebrate that bullshit I suppose
Give me the Nubian-nosed King in the crimson robe
And that's dope.

Kabiyesi Kabiosile


© 2009 Ifeanyi Okoro II

"Breakdown of Words"

I am honored to participate in a flourishing exercise of "30 in 30". This is a challenge, not a contest, presented to the few willing to take it upon their duties to create thirty poems in thirty days in anyway way, shape, or form, no strenuous and strict rules, starting December 15th, 2009, through January 13th, 2010. (Twitter hashtag #30in30)

Here is #3 of 30 of the "30 in 30" project.

Ifeanyi Okoro II (CopperSoul)
Houston, TX




There's a brainstorm of questions
Pecking at the door like trickling drops
An insatiable inquiry that involves three words
Rain pours with its facial cloudiness
And then comes the tears
And blaming
And hurt
And regressions
And forgiveness
And realization
And...
The ands
The ifs
The buts
What if
There was no such thing as affection?
What if we all played hide and go seek the meaning of life
Under trees made with lies
And grass growing on regret
Drink from the streams of lust when we thirst
This sounds about right, yes?
So why are we banking on pain
To invest in death
Stock up experience but
Do this shit all over again?
I am broke.
No expense for forlorn loves
I give no credit to heartache
No IOUs to ex-mates
But somehow
There's always ands
And there's always an if
If there is no but
Would there be a spiritual lift?
I think people use "but" with another "t"
To get in between a crease of insecurity
Or false security
Or just a piece
But
People misuse "and", replacing "n" with the "d"
So they could combat solutions with more animosity
Tacking on terrible histories to price tag memories
Too high to pay for mentally
What if "if" isn't "if"?
But these two are needed for a shift
If you doesn't feel right...get uplifted
If he cheats... he drifted
If you're clicking on all cylinders...this is gifted bliss
Relationships stay in neutral sifting through bullshit
But
Not all vocab is necessary when loving is in action
So
Satisfy your conversations
With no ifs,
ands,
or buts.
And then you'll see clear skies in each other's eyes
If that's what the weather calls for in your souls
But remember...
Keep you speech short
Leave these words here in December.

© 2009 Ifeanyi Okoro II

(No) Ailment

My soul doesn't answer to sorrowful names
My eyes were not designed to hide shine behind Ray Bans and Oakleys
My hands couldn't possibly be pre-shaped to drape around Spalding and Wilson's balls
Naw
My feet cannot understand walking a mile in Jordan's shoes
My voice wasn't trained to sang too much soulful blues
Brown brothers weren't meant to be red with whip scars on backs, blood flow
Mother seeing alabaster and peach plowing her daughter so
No
My fingers misunderstand cotton and wheat constant picking
My beliefs see grief in a cross-colored, no pants, FUBU
Kani take a trip to Mecca without Lugs and Timbs?
Could I embrace my family when cuffs restrain my wrists,
Can't extend my limbs past the heavy burdened branches
That store my people dangling over the Banks of America
Cashed in to the Lord, forgive the tellers and give thanks
To sorrowful kinds, we hum hymnals and write rhymes
Graduating to better niggas in the worst of times
Saturating in central air when the heat was mine?
Never
I cannot shake the same hand that makes the same man of my hue
the blame of your spewed hatred
In tobacco-flavored words and snare and fife
Or go to war to fight for the coward trying to screw my wife
Or go to prison for delivering what you put me behind for life
I go to hell cause heaven seems to be so white
But wait
Now I'm a bigot, a bigger idiot, ignored bidder
Trying to buy, vying for my freedom, Mason-Dixoned on the Street of Walls
But my mind wrinkles while your iron fists remains hot
To try and smooth my thoughts when even my kinks dread you (k)not
Shit
My children haven't been poisoned by your longstanding happiness from our labors
My legacy precedes your dying dynasties predicting your destiny
My legs will not dash for your limp dick Olympic dream
My trinity wasn't a sausage party
My spirituality didn't involve crooked televangelists or choir directing fashionistas
My culture isn't oinking nor snorting, nor clucking
Like hell
My heart is beating my ribcage to work harder
In the heat of passion to exude the fire
To press on the desire in order to overturn the New World Order
My drink runneth over without diamonds and gems adorned on the chalice
My prayers haven't fallen on deaf ears, in fact, they are catching dropped calls
From your carrier
Your savior savoring silly Scuds and nuclear hors d'oeuvres
My teeth refuse to bite down on the piece of the American Pie
My hair stays locked up regardless if you try to lock us down
My tongue tastes knowledge of my ancestors' fruitful history
My nose swells to smell that African soil so insulin sweet
My ears can't hear you past my homeland's heartbeat
Your sound blast podcasts couldn't outlast my homeland's drumbeat
My buttocks couldn't be affixed to your hybrid/diesel car seats
My knees won't bend to live,
I would rather die standing than serving.
My mouth doesn't speak betrayal in many European or Latin languages
My body is not responding to this treatment
My system isn't worried about shutting down
No...
How about yours?

"The Arbor Of Old"

I fall at the feet of the tree.
Limp and in the trance of love, praising ancestors above
Tears dancing in my eyes an African tune along with
beating drums of my coronary to the point of return
there are no mo' "no mo's"
So I don't serenade the clouds solo
Grasping at the leaves and branches that share fallen fruit
of sisters in Selma and Brothers in Beirut
of play cousins in the Palestine and aunts in Angola
of history's treasures a-stolen over
They are too easy for me to pluck down
I frown at these discolored coloreds
Covered in bloated faces and swollen throats
and coated corpses and blood-drenched ropes
This isn't a lesson taught 101 or live and direct
This is where I wash my hands
with their souls swimming
At the roots!
They dive into my palms to bring clenched fists
Freedom songs and war psalms
I'm no longer a long no wailed
whipped like winds whistling through slave ship sails
I am the strongest of cries yelping out loud
Like orange colored tunics and dashikis splashed proud
I kneel, naked and torn and humble at the bark and stumps
For every road block, for every bruise and bump
I can't write a story so bold about saving face
On music awards shows when I can't uphold my race!
On home plates and hardwood courts where I stand not on grace
But in front of those who'd jeer my cultural taste...
If I didn't recognize my arbor...
My soul's arbor.
Growing through concretes on Mississippi days and Texas nights
Shading from Georgia sun and Carolinian stocks
Hiding my figure from Tennessee crops, and Virginia canines
My scent is on these rings, sprinkled in a spiral
Deep within these arbors harboring
Intellects as old as oaks and warriors with keen eyesight
And kinky hair like tangled moss.
I fall at the feet of the tree
At the point of Igbo and Yoruba roots
Branching through my dreams and truths
This arbor is my armor, protecting my love
For my people
Unpruned by predators
preserved and uncarved
I stay rooted, and unforgotten.
Unrelenting.

© 2009 Ifeanyi Okoro

Which is it?

Which is it, America? All of us or none of us? Indigenous occupation or Columbus land disfiguration? Pilgrim or pillage? Pilgrimage to villages of my ancestors' souls' sole prints on pyramid grounds, not Plymouth Rock. Plundering, pasty, pale face pirates barter we good for their goods in our hoods. What's under the hood? Volkswagen? Folks draggin' my mans an' nem the body tumbling and thuds background sound for America's anthem. Mexican reclamation of real estate, now y'all up at arms throwing immigrant tantrums unforeign to we colored folk that have seen this before. Which is it, America? Go green or be black? Plant a tree for your tomorrow, while we sob in sorrow. Can we borrow a saw to sever our fruit from your bigoted branches and uproot racist remarks? You lie? You lie! You lie on our creativity's bed, reproducing cash from fucking us instead. Reduce credit, reuse demoralizing themes, recycle beats for sympathizing beatniks to freak and front our flavor. Profiting from persona-pimping my people from hip-hop, to rock, to jazz, to lips, hips, hair, nose, genitals and ass. I ask which is it, America? The other white meat, get beat to the white meat, or influenza driving under the influence of swine no matter whole, malignant, or benign. Pork, police, or pressing the oppressed to get shots, or get fined, or get jailed, or get shot, or get sick, or get profiled, or get pulled, or get lynched, or get premium lunch meat. Which is it? Bald Eagle or Pitbull? Sick of Vick or sic 'em? I guess while dogs battle now, back then they circled us like herded cattle, nipping at our dogs, so tired from protesting. Gnawing at our bones simmering in the Mason-Dixon sun and determined sweat. Your pup shits on trees while your laws shit on we. At least your bullets were free to roam in our dome, right? Can't even call this place your home, right? Which is it, bitch? Health care or Hollywood head? Which? Bi-partisanship or badger bi-racial brother? Monotonous monopoly on mahogany inspiration. WHICH IS IT, AMERICA? USA...or US?