poetry samples
funny
People tell me I’m funny And, honey—you know I am.
People tell me I’m funny In spurts of seemingly frivolous laughter, they declare it to the world:
“You crack me up” “Tyler, why are you so funny?” One girl even told my sister: “Gabrielle, I love your brother. He is so funny.”
People tell me I’m funny And, honey—you know I am.
People also call me sassy, but I don’t know why. That’s a lie. I actually do.
People tell me I’m funny. That I’m hilarious. That I’m fuck-ing-hi-la-ri-ous.
People don’t realize how I became so funny A quiet kid is never heard. They don’t know the history. A brown kid is never heard. It doesn’t even cross their minds to wonder. A shy kid is never heard.
Well…A shy, brown, quiet kid is never heard.
Now, I hate a story monologue just as much as the rest, but how come I never had people listen to me until I made them laugh, chuckle, giggle, tremor from their insides, or smile?
How come when my imagination and insight inititate my intelligence to form speech to communicate an idea, as soon as I am finished speaking: the next white boy raises his hand…
“Yes, Matthew, you have something to say?” “Well I was just gonna say…”
He perfectly plagiarizes my idea, rewording it—the dove that I released into the air, the garden that I planted, the bed that I made.
(Please don’t think that this has not happened in the
classes that you are in. Whether you see it or not.)
He catches that dove, he tramples that garden, and he pees in the bed to say exactly what I just said as if it were his own.
“Matthew. Wow. Good reading, I’m so proud of you.”
And you know it’s not Matthew’s fault. It’s not the teacher’s fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not our fault.
We did not ask to be brought up in a society that tells us white people are more important than brown people. And that when people of color speak, they are not. worth. listening. to.
Except when they are making you laugh.
People tell me I’m funny And, honey—you know I am.
I am funny because I am coping with not being heard. With existing in a world that refuses to listen to me when I talk, when imagination and insight initiate my intelligence to form speech to communicate an idea…
But I am heard when I tell you something funny Yet your cackles do not come without a cost And if you see me as only funny, you do not see me at all. Yes, I love being funny and I love making people laugh, but I am much more than funny
And when I raise my hand because I think I have something of value to contribute:
Please.
Listen to me.
Listen to me. Listen to me.
white imagination
I’ve tried to cultivate a mind That thinks and breathes scenes colorful. In plays and books of any kind I wish them free. Unlimit-full.
Yes, I can see an apple, Delicious, juicy, red. And I can see the viscous gold Of honey on wheat bread.
The yellow of the daffodils And ink that is coal dark. The greedy green of dollar bills The orange fire spark.
Mark.
Mary had a little lamb,
…say it with me.
Mary had a little lamb, Whose fleece was white as snow And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go.
Oh.
Yes, Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow and when I start to picture them a frustration starts to grow.
For when my brain hears Mary, It leaps to skin so fair. To freckles and eyes cobalt. blonde ringlets in her hair.
Unfair.
How came I to this image? This tiny pale blank girl? Remnant of past paradigms? From rulers of this world?
…
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. Was she white as hell too?
Undue. Undo.
…
Though I resist with all my might I read of people, a default white. Is this my fault? Can it be? Why can’t I make Mary look like me?
please.