Twenty Dollars At The Door

Until we commit ourselves to ensuring that the underclass is given justice and opportunity, we will continue to perpetuate the anger and violence that tears at the soul of this nation.
Martin Luther King, April, 1968


legacy of civil rights

drowns in a glass of 


during MLK weekend.

Its final gasp 

of air muffled

by gyrating ass cheeks 

clapping to the rhythm of

neo-plantation lullabies.

Ten dollars in advance,

twenty dollars at the door;

the real cost: bits of one's soul

and slivers of ancestral DNA steadily

devolving into a nightmare

nobody believes is happening,

but is unfolding right before

our eyes.

I guess that's why so many folks have become

accustomed to looking away.

© 2014 abruvanamedsly

MLK Flyer


Meant To

I loved words
more than the woman
who inspired me to write them.**

the tragic beauty
of every letter like
a sunset with no horizon;
each line becoming an
immortalized effigy
of us
our happiness
our uncertainties
our dreams.

Ink strokes mirrored
the universe in her eyes
and the thumping quasar
beneath her breast.

So obsessed
with written memories,
I squandered opportunities
to truly decipher the intricacies
her flesh
her aroma
her smile.

I'm unapologetic
for capturing our moments,
but am genuinely sorry
because in reality,

I really meant to love her more.

© 2014 abruvanamedsly

** This stanza is a quote by the Old Man character from the movie The Words.

Blood Pen


Branching Out

Today over at dVerse, the prompt revolves around trees...this is my contribution to the Arboretum of tree stories over at the pub...

Trees hold magic,

sturdy ancient magic.

At an early age, the oak 

across the street from my home

cast a spell on me.

It was tall as my imagination

and had limbs that reached the cosmos;

I would often climb it, settling on a

solid bough whose bend resembled

a launch seat.

Many an afternoon,

me and this enchanted timber

explored secret universes,

never to be seen again until

dinner time.

© 2014 abruvanamedsly

Floating Tree
Click image to learn more about the photo


Objects Are Closer Than They Appear

Over at dVerse, the prompt was to go to your favorite window, door or outside view and snap a photo, then take said photo and write a poem about it. This is a picture from a couple of days ago that I put a few words to...

Objects are closer than they appear,

taunting with menace and spate,

especially the ones instilling fear,

gaining speed as you try to escape.

Taunting with menace and spate,

grey shadows swallow the sun,

gaining speed as you try to escape,

torrents of sorrow soon to come.

Grey shadows swallow the sun,

especially the ones instilling fear,

torrents of sorrow soon to come,

objects are closer than they appear.

© 2014 abruvanamedsly


Being Six Again


and mischief oozed

from every pore when I was six;

playing in dirt was heaven,

touching fire was a temptation

and hearing no was a dare.

Being naked was comfortable,

gross body sounds an orchestra

and my belly button,

a secret treasure trove.

There was wonder

in most things around me,

especially girls;

some boys this age

thought of them as icky,

not me.

I stayed throwing mud

and my heart at this one girl

I liked because I couldn't

find the words to tell her

how she made the

butterflies in my stomach sigh

as I looked at her and believed,

I was gonna stay six


© 2014 abruvanamedsly