In Poetry on July 7, 2015 at 7:30 am

Don’t you see it, it’s in the way that he walks

It’s all about the way he wears his pants.

Don’t you see it, I mean, can’t you tell

His cologne’s got that Hollywood smell.

Don’t you see it, that man’s a Yankee

Place your bet, I’m doubling down.

Don’t you see it, it’s all over his face,

Credit cards to eat up your town.


Don’t you see it, it’s in the way that he talks

It’s all about the way he waves his hands,

Don’t you see it, they’re all going to Hell

Can’t get the crack out of the Liberty Bell.

Don’t you see it, that man’s a Yankee

On a jet, I know he’s a clown

Don’t you see it, it’s all over his face

Credit cards to eat up your town.


Frederick S. Blackmon, USA


In Poetry on June 14, 2015 at 3:26 pm

Gossipers on the corner

Fill their lips with the latest lament,

With tongues brimming

Yet never sinning against themselves.

So eloquently they speak of others

In the city’s gutters,

Instinctively passing over mirrors

As they pillage and contaminate

The reputations of those most hated.

A scandalous whisper floats unaided.

Despite being loathed as taboo,

Nearly everyone flirts with the idea of “Who Saw Who.”

Perhaps they too, have been victimized

At once, also lamented and despised,

Yet once they reached the street corner

Forgot what was wise,

By not shutting their ears to these novelty spies.

Why preach, when all can participate in idle ways?

In truth, we all speak ill

Directed at our neighbor for a momentary thrill.

It’s a game. It’s a joke.

Well, isn’t it anyway?

A bit of innocent fun to waste away the day.


Frederick S. Blackmon, USA

Minimum Wage

In Poetry on May 28, 2015 at 9:08 am

40 hours a week

Sweat filled









Sits in his


Planning his next


His daughter’s

Luxury car present

At graduation


40 hours a week

Spent paying

His mortgage

His car payment


Yet, he doesn’t even

Know our names






No nicknames

Just a blank


Of recollection


Like Nana before

She passed away


His Alzheimers

Is induced by



He sees us as replaceable

Deeming his

Weekly wages compensation

For lack of humanization

Lack of friendship

That brotherhood









Day in

Day out

We sweat for him

Stave off sleep for him


He doesn’t even know our names

Doesn’t know why we can’t find a better job.


He calls me guy

Her hun

Him pal

Her bud


Thinks our

$7.50 an hour is not slave labor

In his estimation

The Cubans should be happy with their


Because they chose to come here

And fulfill his dream

In his estimation

My ancestral middle passage

Passed between

My parents

In the middle of the night

Nothing more



Our eyes

We scream

Give us our respect

Before our paychecks

Treat us like people

Location of birth

Did not make us any less

The flesh of the flesh

The blood of the blood

Of economic dreams


We know HIS name

He made sure of that

As he wields his green light saber

Killing earthly vapors


He likes me because I speak English

They like me because I teach them English

My best student is the Ecuadorian mother of eight


240 dollars a week won’t allow her to emancipate while he

Elongates his bank

I know the names of her children

Pedro, Tito

Raquel, Ramon

Juanita, Rosa

Carmen and Esperanza

I know their names and I have not met them

I know them because I care


All the while

He doesn’t know our names

He doesn’t even know


Are there


Aaron Middlepoet Jackson, USA


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 109 other followers