Poetry Exposed: Billie Jean Is Crying NowBillie Jean is crying n...

Poetry Exposed: Billie Jean Is Crying Now

Billie Jean is crying n...: "Billie Jean Is Crying Now Billie Jean is crying now, For the king has breathed his final breath. His beaded clothes, white glove, white soc..."

Billie Jean Is Crying Now

Billie Jean is crying now,
For the king has breathed his final breath.
His beaded clothes, white glove, white socks -
Eccentric dress;
Never was a stage more blessed
Than when Jackson chose to be the best.

Live, we will hear him never more
So much for his final London tour.
We are, a little poorer now;
At whom will late night comics poke
Their wacky setup racist joke?
The pop star that became a quack
His death has left the world in shock.

But Barack has shown that
He should have kept
His nose, his chin, his hair in tact.
Nevertheless, we must all confess:
Thriller will always be the song
By which the young of this world rock.
Michael, we will miss you much
Your greatness no one can ever touch.

© Sheldon D. Channer, June 25, 7.25PM, 2009

visit www.nascentimages.com for imformation on my newly released poetry chapbook.

Million-Footed March on Washington

From across the Atlantic,
like cattle,
came the million-footed march
on Washington…

…before the land made free by Washington.

We came in Ships
that came for sugar;
we came in ships
that came for tobacco;
we came in ships
That traded slaves…

…to the land made free by Washington.

We worked the land,
we worked like cattle,
we worked for scraps…

…on the land made free by Washington.

We built the cities
in which we could not live;
we built the schools
in which we could not set foot;
we built the towers
in which we were imprisoned…

…despite the land being freed by Washington

Then Garvey taught us to think,
Then Malcolm taught us to fight,
Then Martin taught us to dream…

…for the land made free by Washington.

And so we thought;
And so we fought;
And so we dreamed
about
our million-footed march on Washington…
…healing the land made free by Washington.

© Sheldon D. Channer, 2009

Big Bad Black Boy

BIG BAD BLACK BOY

Mi see it!
Clear as rain water on a hot zinc roof
In broad daylight off Half-Way Tree Road.

Muscle with no brain
Musing with no gain
Big Bad Black Boy
Roaming streets looking for toys
All the while business a spoil
Leaving women
To take care of his childhood
Lacking any manhood
Dam good for nothing and no good
But he is my brother…
…Or is he me?

Lovers and prostitutes
Blaspheming, backsliding, nose bleeding
Big Bad Black Boy
Walking down alley ways
Like games played in a gallery of malady
Sordid acts of wanton collusion
Causing naught, if not confusion
Dam good for nothing and no good
But he is my brother…
…Or is he me?

Mopping about his lost dignity
Lacking all integrity
Big Bad Black Boy
Scheming and teaming for my head
Wanting me dead over my bread
Only copper or lead
Will get to his head
Dam good for nothing and no good
But he is my brother …
…Or is he me?

Mindless figurine
On the landscape of humanity
Big Bad Black Boy
Running headlong into vanity
Bling, bling – nose and ears ring
Diamonds and pearls
Forlorn for four centuries
Fantastic plastic domesticated ape
Dam good for nothing and no good
But he is my brother…
…or is he me?

I think he might just be…

******************************
…me

I cannot tell!
I know it
But not very well

From dusk to dawn
Wearing pride about his neck
Big Bad Black Boy
Looking for his check
Having been shipwrecked in a world
Full of goals
But nothing solid to hold
Good for something and full of good
But he is my brother….
…Or is he me

Just needs
A chance to shine
Big Bad Black Boy
From place to place
On an odyssey for race
Facing life one dime after one dime
Having a back bone but needing a spine
Good for something and full of good
But he is my brother…
…or is he me

Leverage for the ages
Despite little or no wages
Big Bad Black Boy
Make changes in stages
Gave us butter and oil from nuts
Jazz and hip-hop from sheer guts
So boldly struts
Good for something and full of good
But he is my brother…
…or is he me

Holding down the fort
Willing wishful wants worthwhile
Big Bad Black Boy
Walking the distance
Winning races and going places
Giving hope to those who vote
Always, always rocks the boat
Good for something and full of good
But he is my brother…
…or is he me?

I think he might just be…

Work in Progress

REFLECTION ON SELF
On the mirrors of my mind
With hands in pockets and images in frames
I see the idea
Too illusive to handle
Too decisive to allow finality
Yet leads to an obvious conclusion:
Yes, it is clearly nothing, if not an illusion.
But still,
I see it casting shadows from the midday sun
Shadows that I've let fall without a care.
Knowing as I do
That where there is no care there exist no fear
That is only fair –
I suppose, but who really knows?
Only they who hide in blackened corners
Or run down lightless hallways.

Images on the mirrors of time
Passing by as if to give one last chance
A challenge-
At least I believe it so.
Looking at structures formed
From the light of many moons
Lost sands shift from bulb to bulb
Hallowed and harried feet
Fixed in a formidable gaze
Moving back and forth through an unholy maze
Time and chance is master!
And now,
Relinquish I must
That which has been procured
For ages life has moved on stages
As we perform to the glory of ourselves,
If not for others
And with each performance
Give a little less of self
But in the keeping of self
We allow for the deception of selves.
Now looking back, I see the idea
And I owe no man but me
An explanation of why I've been
As I have been to me.