Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "'Cuz He's Black" by Javon Johnson



So I’m driving down the street with my 4 year old nephew.
He, knocking back a juice box, me, a Snapple.

Today, y’all, we are doing manly shit.

I love watching the way his mind works;

He asks a million questions.

“Uncle, why is the sky blue?”

“Uncle, how do cars go?”

“Uncle, why don’t dogs talk?”

“Uncle, uncle, uncle.”

He asks, “Uncle, uncle, uncle.”

He asks, “Uncle, uncle, uncle.”

As if his voice box is a warped record and I try my best to answer every question, I do.

I say, “It’s because the way the sun lights up the outer space.”

“It’s because engines make the wheels go.”

“It’s because their minds aren’t quite like ours.”

I say, “Yes. No. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. I don’t know. Who knows? Maybe.”

We laugh.


He smiles, looks out the window, spots a cop car, drops his seat, and says, “Oh man, uncle. 5-0, we gotta hide.”

I’ll be honest, I’m not happy with the way we raise our black boys.

Don’t like the fact that he learned to hide from the cops well before he knew how to read.

Angrier that his survival depends more on his ability to deal with authorities than it does his own literacy.

“Get up!” I yell at him.

“In this car, in this family, we are not afraid of the law!”

I wonder if he can hear the uncertainty in my voice.

Is today the day he learns that uncle is willing to lie to him?

That I’m more human than I am hero?

We both know the truth is far more complex than ‘do not hide’.

Both know too many black boys who disappeared, names lost.

Know too many Trayvon Martin’s, Oscar Grant’s, and Abner Louima’s.

Know too many Sean Bell’s and Amadou Diallo’s.

Know too well that we are the hard-boiled son’s of Emmett Till,

Still, we both know it’s not about whether or not the shooter is racist.

It’s about how poor black boys are treated as problems well before we’re treated as people.

Black boys, in this country, cannot afford to play cops and robbers if we’re always considered the latter;

Don’t have the luxuries of playing war if we’re already in one.

Where I’m from, seeing cop cars drive down the street feels a lot like low-flying planes in New York City.

Where I’m from, routine traffic stops are more like minefields, any wrong move could very well mean your life.

And how do I look my nephew in his appled face and tell him to be strong when we both know black boys who are murdered every day simply for standing up for themselves?


I take him by the hand.

I say, “Be strong.”

I tell him. I say, “Be smart.”

“Be kind and polite.”

“Know your laws.”

“Be aware of how quickly your hand moves to pocket for wallet or ID.”

“Be more aware of how quickly an officer's hand moves to holster for gun.”

“Be black. Be a boy. Have fun.”

Cause this world will force you to become a man far more quickly than you’ll ever have to need to.

He lets go of my hand.

“But uncle,” he asks.

“Uncle, what happens if the cop is really mean?”

And it scares me to know that he, like so many other black boys, is getting ready for a war I can’t prepare him for.



by Javon Johnson




For more information on poet, Javon Johnson, see:


http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/javon-Johnson

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Your Voice in the Chemo Room" by Max Ritvo



There is a white stone cliff over a dropping slope
sliced along with bare trees.


In the center of the cliff is a round dry fountain

of polished stone. By seizing my whole body up


as I clench my hand I am able to open

the fountain into a drain, revealing below it


the sky, the trees, a brown and uncertain ground.

This is how my heart works, you see?


This is how love works? Have some sympathy

for the great spasms with which I must open


myself to love and close again, and open.

And if I leapt into the fountain, there is just no


telling: I might sever myself clean, or crack

the gold bloom of my head, and I don’t know


onto what uncertain ground I might fold like a sack.



by Max Ritvo



For more information about poet, Max Ritvo, see:



Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Tuesday Poem: "Listen Mr Oxford don" by John Agard



Me not no Oxford don
me a simple immigrant
from Clapham Common
I didn’t graduate
I immigrate

But listen Mr Oxford don
I’m a man on de run
and a man on de run
is a dangerous one

I ent have no gun
I ent have no knife
but mugging de Queen’s English
is the story of my life

I dont need no axe
to split up yu syntax
I dont need no hammer
to mash up yu grammar

I warning you Mr Oxford don
I’m a wanted man
and a wanted man
is a dangerous one

Dem accuse me of assault
on de Oxford dictionary
imagine a concise peaceful man like me
dem want me serve time

for inciting rhyme to riot
but I rekking it quiet
down here in Clapham Common

I’m not a violent man Mr Oxford don
I only armed wit mih human breath
but human breath
is a dangerous weapon

So mek dem send one big word after me
I ent serving no jail sentence
I slashing suffix in self defence
I bashing future wit present tense
and if necessary

I making de Queen’s English accessory to my offence

by John Agard

Photo Credit: Copyright: Jay Blessed 

For more information about poet, John Agard, see: