Tag Archives: job

My Adidas

 

Sometimes your stride pattern is just as important as your shoes. The worn soul of mine meant all I had was my stride. All I had were stops and starts, long presses and short taps, perhaps they were Morse code to the universe, calling out for a new pair.

From the miles I have walked, the only thing I would wish upon anyone is the beauty of acquaintances providing rest from the intense heat.

Having made many strides, in recent times I found a formidable adversary that challenged me to dance down treacle-filled streets with concrete blocks strapped to my feet.

Even with two shoes as two sides to a story, my truth in all of this was that I had to Get Out. Clearings that energised me to walk a certain way were blocked or simply no longer existed.

I’d been here about 14 years ago yet I’d forgotten what the storm felt like. I forgot the scar caused by the lightning, I forgot the days of darkness and how I would have to keep my eyes open, fighting with the same fingertips I was holding onto my sanity with.

Every now and then my eyes would mistake a candle for the sun, yeah… I’d been here before. How many more strides could I get through?

Ask a friend, ask an adversary?

She sipped tea like Miss Piggy proved Kermit was cheating.

Stirred it now and then to keep me in a hopeless place.

My records laid before her showed my performance was ace

12-and-a-half years a slave, I took my calls and beatings.

When Liberty shook her bell I ran away, to freedom

The universe stopped re-healing my shoes and sent me several new pairs. The equilibrium has changed, I drive instead of walk, I have new scenery to take in and understand.

Even though lightning left a deeper scar from the second strike, I know that the path I am on is one that is made for me.

New shoes, my strides, in the words of Nas….”Whose world is this?”

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Filed under Non Poetic Blogs

Light A Candle

Image

They want my mete
Fried liver and cake
I got none so they take
clothes from my back and eat
Tis the one they make
I’m beat
My egg
Hard boiled refuses to crackkk
Sharks want my blood
My stake is under attack
I’m in the black
Cooked by the market
Well in the read
Just not rare enough for black
They see me so they saw me
Can’t slice me so they knife me
With legalities
The poor me pours me
Rich in spirit
Rum applauds me
Brandy brands me intoxicating
Yet they set the flame again
Stand still watching me burn
My brain turns
My two hands open to heaven
Shadrach Meshach and Abednego
My eye, the third
Looks for the fourth man
I am
Staring Nebuchadnezzar in the eye
Waiting for mine to dry because I
Am not at home in the fire
Acid tears spit from my soul
My cheeks corrode in desperation
My skeleton eats itself for inspiration
Love will find away
Blessings wiith my name
This is just a test
Wait and be patient
Are like cassettes to an Mp3 player
Sooth sayers could use sayings
To sooth the decaying
So often I feel too used to praying
Like God wants me to tell him
But I feel vain
Telling him the same again and again
Logic would call me insane
If faith was a straight jacket lock me away
Bills after bills and no money to pay
I write not sing so I don’t blow the roof away
I stay schemin and breathin
Running on steam
I’m boiling my dreams so I can drink the reality
Of Mortal combat
One hit fatality
Resurrect and gain clarity
All I want is parity
Charity I’m giving well
Hoping Karma does the same
Don’t feel me blow me
I just don’t want to sound vane
Feels like I moved mountains with my faith
To see quicksand again
Light and candle for my dark
My heart’s like ripped page to a flame
I pour vinegar in deep wounds so you can taste of my pain
Suffering violence in silence
Don’t mean my mode changed
I’ve just caught something dark without throwing shade

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Filed under Just Living

B.A.Nning Order

Still by my skin tone I should have a sports team or a ring tone

Yet for years I was skin and bone because I walked to work unable to afford the bus home

But I am not your broke ass negro

When it comes to relations I’ve been alone

Disowned by my own

Made to feel a sell out because I didn’t buy into narrow minded sing-a-longs

I like chocolate vanilla and cinnamon

But I am not your broke ass negro

The walls are speaking I feel them breathing

My life leaves some grieving about underachievement

I’ve had to patch and weave things to survive and feed me

They snipe and lead me like a big cat to the Zambezi

Try to drown me in comparison, liken me to Audley Harrison

But I am not, your broke ass negro

I am not your broke ass negro I am that brother fighting to live

Not your gym class hero, just a lover dying to give

My equities zero but I’m nouveau riche

Just capitalist minds won’t measure me on the populist list

Yet I seek to better me

Some just want a better me, while others try to feather me

Tickle my ego, stick in the needle be infused with my substance as here we go

Get off on my supply and leave me to die,

A reluctant broke ass negro

If I was broke I’d be dead but my heart is still beating

I’ve taken some beating but this egg will be an omelette when it’s done heating

See along the way I’ve had to go to some wild places and gain some flavours

I’ve had to up my skill level, change some behaviours

I’m aware of my flaws I want to be loved for my plus points

Instead of being derided for being an urban myth, a great man that never wasr

Don’t take this as unsubstantiated moans cause

I’ve learned to be patient but I wont tolerate the

Lack of respect for the struggles I face the, position in my race

In my lane I keep the pace

I’m not working at your favourite pizza place

I’m not sitting on my backside with 4 kids by 3 women playing Xbox

I’m not hustling my number none hit at the train station with the immortal question

Yo blood, do you like hip hop

I respect the hustle and I don’t feel a hero

But I’ve got 2 degrees with the strength to keep knocking on the door of a career so don’t you dare label me a broke ass negro

Don’t say it with your eyes, with your heart, with any of your body language

I want to be able to do more than treat myself to a subway sandwich

See I’ve planned my years around career progression

Avoided holidays like science homework then we’ve hit recession

Hit the rocks of stress but never sunk into depression

So to the guys with relatives who say when folk ask what you do – don’t tell them

To the guys that work hard and don’t get the recognition they deserve I hope you have or find someone that makes you happy and helps you be your best

To the guys that regardless of how hard life hits them they get up strengthened

Hear my expression and adopt or lengthen

I am not your broken negro

You need to mend your ego, give it an abortion

I refuse to be a broken man, I strive for bigger portions

For I AM ME

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Filed under Race

Diary

7 December 2009

He cut a disconsolate figure, proud black felt like a silhouette,

He’d once stood like a minaret, dressed minds like vinaigrette, yet he got tossed like salad and got smoked like a cigarette

Everybody called him Nicorette, his hope came and stayed in patches

He never lost his fire to inspire, in spite of job matches that didn’t see him as a catch

His

Mind never dropped the ball

Head was a whirlpool of hard falls, and big walls

Glass ceilings and doors, familial wars and sores from the pores opened up through feelings of being poor.

December 8, 2009

Felt like every time he tried to work the magic his electricity attracted energies that made him static not ecstatic

He wanted to be ex static using his laboured fruits to gain current, stay current, never need to be a feign lover, always a main lover, man you had love for

Big Brother, future husband, the brightened son that eclipsed the moon and made her beautiful

Inside he stayed truthful like the ocean knowing she will never be a dry mass

He took another class to be class, never cut class as while steadily defining his shape

He was blooming late photosynthesis took place at sunset,

The power of his flower was not enough he needed a run & gun threat

Less heart more head, of logic he was the balanced vet in the game

Politics was a sweet science like boxing yet he fought at range

His jabs hit veins but rarely drew blood,

He was an artist that couldn’t always harness his true love

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Filed under Just Living