The Color of My Skin
I may bring to your attention
this posted affirmation
through the color of my skin:
that I am what I am.
Prejudice is an art form
I cannot share
nor add to my portfolio;
I am the color you think I am,
or must be,
as you are the paint
freckled by heartlessness
or heat from your scaled mind.
Flowers in your garden
are more beautiful
when they capture the
radiance of the heavens,
just like the rainbow.
So let me be me,
as I let you be you;
together in time
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poem by Leonard Dabydeen
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When Happiness Is Illusive
When happiness is illusive
it is like a lingering dream
funny sometimes
to see you cry with a smile
with tears of joy
taking their own directional path
and meandering in happiness
on face and flesh
the tears being born out of a womb
where the story was told
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poem by Leonard Dabydeen
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He Cannot Sleep
He cannot sleep
with eyes wide open
he does not see enough light
through this blinding darkness
he feels the recession thundering
like an enormous quake
on a Richter scale
with unfathomable
logarithmic upheaval
as joblessness
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poem by Leonard Dabydeen
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The Art of Deception
It’s not a game
like any other game
where a golf ball travels the distance
and being putted into a hole
it is only a small white ball
being lured into a hole
dark and full of deception
have you ever wondered
why the ball is never black?
the hands that hold the putter
take a firm grip in a certain art form
there is positional assurance
before teeing
and these very hands
network with the mind
in continuance they play
vicariously with the heart
and when the world
is minding its own course
and waiting for another PGA tournament,
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poem by Leonard Dabydeen
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Retirement Sometimes Comes...
On a cold winter night
she sits by the fire-place
nesting her frail frame
on grandma’s rocking chair
listening to the burning wood
the crackling sound of embers
tickle her ears like a lover’s tongue
her brooding eyes focus in deep study
she is reading Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code
unmindful of Angel taking a nap
by the lamp post
with her cute manicured paw
balancing her milky face
empty of purr and punishment
ears twitching like a disturbed twig
on a potted plant
in a moment of broken silence
my padded feet screeched across
the oak-finished wooden floor
proximity of distance where she sat
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poem by Leonard Dabydeen
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