Birthstone Lover

We share the month of March. I want
to make love to my birthstone. Ghostly
reflection of my masculine self. Your eyes
are like pools of aquamarine. Turquoise
tears pour from your irises into my mouth,
cool my throat when you lie on top of me.
Love or lust — I drown in the mist of you.

—Nortina


frapalymo#frapalymo (the German version of NaPoWriMo) is hosted by FrauPaulchen and translated from German into English by Bee at Just Fooling Around With Bee. Today’s prompt is: “ turquoise.”

#BlaPoWriMo: Self-Portrait (poem)

All brown children color
their faces. First families
shades of yellow, red, black.
Self-portraits traced with edges
of brown crayons; they know
their identities long before
they are taught race.

What color is my skin?
A resounding tale of fallen shackles,
of long tenancies on distant
masters’ lawns, of coal-painted
faces dancing on stage, of misplaced
ballots and grandfather clauses,
of front row seats on public transit,
of Black Power and Panthers,
of raised fists and Afro puffs,
of Black berries sweeter than sugar,
purple juice on their puckered lips.

Why do we color?
African lineage documented in
mixing shades of nude on pallets,
wielding artistic instruments—
colored pencils, crayons, markers.
With every brushstroke
They match their complexions;
Tiny realists never white-washing,
erasing their existence.
We are here.

Little brown children, present
yourselves as unabashed
workings of self-identity.
Do not cover your skin
for a fearful colorless society;
coat it in a deeper mahogany.

—Nortina


Black Poetry Writing Month: Will you join the challenge? This is a revision of a poem written last year. Click here to read the original version.

No Holds Barred Poetry Writing Challenge: Day 1

I haven’t written a poem in quite some time—a few months maybe? Lately, the poems I’ve shared here have been a bit old. I’m trying to get back into the swing of things—make this blog all about my writing. I’ve been suffering from a nasty case of writer’s block when it comes to poetry (see here). So, starting today, I’m going to try to give you guys a new and original poem every day. Some may be long; others may be short. It all depends on how inspired I am and how much I can overcome this writer’s block. No more recycled poems from me, ladies and gentlemen. This is the real deal, no holds barred, poetry writing slam! Here we go! Oh, and I’m a bit rusty, so excuse me if this first poem well . . . er . . . kind of sucks.

 
Self-Portrait
All brown children color their drawings.
Mothers, fathers, siblings
shades of yellow, red, black.
Self portraits traced with edges of brown crayons;
they know their identities long before
they are taught about race
 
What color is my skin?
they ask.
Unique like no other
different, beautiful;
blacker than the berry,
sweet as the juice.
They document it—
mix different shades of nude on their pallets
wielding artistic instruments—
colored pencils, crayons, markers.
They match their complexions without flaw.
Tiny realists, they are—
never white-washing
erasing their existence from history
We are here.
 
Little brown children see color
they know theirs
and are not afraid to show the world.

—Nortina