Spoken Word

Spoken Word

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Revolutionary Spirit

We sit and dangle 
crossed legs, 
like loose wires,
in coffee houses, 
fueled by espresso,
surges of power,
as we reload
our vocal chords
our throats parched,
we remain
electrically grounded,
Urged to march,
as the world usurps our energy,
we must come unplugged 
to the podium
fully charged and ready,
to unleash our capacitor
from its power source
for revolution.
Speak our determination
Into existence
Extinquish any resistance,
exploit our injury
Use these frayed wires 
to set a fire
from our core,
stop trying to pacify,
the pacifist
setting our sensors
to ignore
tip toeing around
land mines 
to avoid the explosives 
that they've set
we should unleash the 
expletives and give
as good as we get
Lift our heads,
and raise our signs above
Knowing full well
we can't legislate love,
but we can decrease
the number who fell
victim to the hate,
instead we read our fate
in newspaper headlines,
which always end the same
unarmed black man dead
his killers walk of shame,
as his sentence, is read
absolved without blame,
we are left verb less
we are left unspoken
we need to make them nervous,
we need to increase the tension,
we need to become verbose,
we need to remain unbroken,
we listen as she utters the lie,
which we really hope she won't
That all lives matter,
but we see with our own eyes,
that obviously black lives, don't
we nurse this coffee cold,
black, bitter to our lips,
We live our lives in, Why's?
What for's? and what if's?
and post our status in R.I.P.s
Revolutionary spirit never dies!
you can't kill it,
Revolutionary spirit isn't always violent,
but it gathers up it's rounds 
and reloads
it won't be silent
and it's never careful
if it steps on any toes,
Revolutionary lives matter,
and they don't die in vain,
only cumulate into a cloud
and still it reigns!

victori ©

Thursday, June 23, 2016

No kind of Man... by the way Happy Father's Day!

I don't know when
I came to realize 
He was just no kind of a man,
I mean sure he was an adult,
who put his pants on
one leg at a time,
He was a male,
who had reached his prime,
but no kind of a man,
not quite a man,
Still just a boy,
when she met him,
Just pulling a ploy,
To get her,
not really sure.
if he knew what it meant,
to endure,
the early loss of a parent,
but endure he did
it was apparent,
He compensated for his loss
by playing, teasing, tickling, BAILING,
no discipline,
no yelling,
He was no kind of a man,
He made sure the bills 
were paid on time
and brought the money home,
momma said, 
we just got used to,
the back of his head,
she would 
innuendo that 
he was even good
in bed
but his eyes would roam,
where did the man begin?
from the lost of prime,
and the boy end?
the broken home?
the lost of time?
not being apparent,
to your own,
but to someone else's
kid's you shone,
could it be you thought of me
just four years old
ancient history
eyes whose beam,
fought back the night,
eyes too young,
to know your plight,
eyes already wise,
beyond my years,
eyes that had already 
seen too much of 
your fears,
did you think that
leaving me would replace,
the expectation in my face?
with implication?
Even now you're seldom seen,
The next generation,
Did you plot? 
Did you figure?
Did you plan?
That ev'ry male I'd meet
would be a reflection of you,
and no kind of a man?
that look in my eye,
is not one of need
of any earthly thing,
it's not one of greed,
it's not one of hunger,
or of want, but sadly
it's for the essence,
of a love, needed badly,
of a gift I never got from you,
your very presence,

Victori ©

Monday, June 20, 2016

A Song for Ghana

We sprouted fugitive from holes in the ground,
pushed through fertile soil,
like warrior weeds, no seed,
our roots foraged 'til they found
this plot we claim today, 
when asked to change our creed, no need,
it is our loyal way.
Our branches stretch toward sun,
our skin blackened by toil,
we stored water beneath our tongue,
we welcomed the rains,
we followed the rivers course, and with it run,
we chose to follow our right brain,
never revealing our source,
or the place where we begun,
we've always been here, our choice
we are the indigenous one,
our roots vying for this space,
we stand our ground,
no longer on the run,
we douse libations on this place,
our place, under the sun,
as we praise, this sacred ground!

Victori © 

Saturday, June 11, 2016

The question is....

What's the difference?
Between this ol' girl
face full of time,
and this perky young teen,
the difference now is I'm
just a tad bit mean.                                                        
What's the difference?
I've become guarded, and set apart,
getting stronger as I live,
A little wiser, but with the same heart,
just a miser, with the smiles I give.
What's the difference?
Now it takes a lot of shots,
to get the right one,
a lot more pixels, than forget-me-nots,
before I'm done.
The difference is:

A life time,
A life line,
the distance between two points,
my left prime,
my right mind,
the wisdom that time anoints,
the difference between,
a slaughtered lamb,
by the end of my teens,
to a thriving cougar,
that's where I am,
of a different persuasion,
but with the same good heart,
my age is an equation,
the sum of all it's parts,
times five,
carry the one God,
into every situation,
just thankful to be alive!
Victori ~ © 2016