thesocialpoet

Yankee

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

Gossip

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

Motions

Mopping

Time

Into

Hourly

Wage

While

He

Sits in his

Office

Planning his next

Vacation

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

First

Or

Last

That

Is

No nicknames

Just a blank

Stare

Of recollection

 

Like Nana before

She passed away

 

His Alzheimers

Is induced by

Arrogance

 

He sees us as replaceable

Deeming his

Weekly wages compensation

For lack of humanization

Lack of friendship

That brotherhood

Bond

Bonded

By

Life

In

The

Trenches

 

Day in

Day out

We sweat for him

Stave off sleep for him

Yet,

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

Treatment

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

 

With

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

We

Are there

 

Aaron Middlepoet Jackson, USA

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