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| Photograph by Miss Kiane Thomas |
This evening I am proud to present the poems of Miss Kiane, one of the stars of the D.C. Poetry Project. "Grass Don't Grow in the Ghetto" and "In Route to Metro" are both strong, powerful additions to the Mourning and Memory contest. I am also proud to present Lloyd Wolf's photograph from his D.C. Shrines blog. When I was looking for images to accompany Miss Kiane's poems, I knew that I had to ask Mr. Wolf for permission to post this photograph here.
You may read more about the circumstances of the murder that this shrine memorializes here: http://dcshrines.blogspot.com/2012/12/selina-brown-1700-block-of-minnesota.html
And now here are Miss Kiane's poems!
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| Photograph courtesy © Lloyd Wolf / http://dcshrines.blogspot. |
And now here are Miss Kiane's poems!
Grass Don’t Grow in
the Ghetto
Glass glistens where grass is supposed to grow.
Gruesome
grooves pierce the ground jutting upward
Like black
fists punching stale air.
Sharp
petaled flowers memorialize
Dreams,
wishes and whispers of hope
And for the
life of me I can’t figure out why grass don’t grow in the ghetto.
Gaping glok
gashes sets his face aglow
In the
afterglow of a grappling with the Po Po.
Gory
glimpses of faded glory is merely
A glimmer in
his flittering eyes.
Groping for
remnants of his vitality,
It slips
through his fingers
His mother
curses the fingers
That pulled
the trigger.
THEY SHOT MY
SON! Mowed down like blades of green grass
Growing
toward a glaring sun. MY SON!
His spirit pierces
white clouds, thrust upward
Like a black
fist punching stale air.
Still can’t
figure out why grass don’t grow in the ghetto.
His homies
pour libations
“1 sip for
you….10 gulps for me”
Believing
that the blood stained tree roots next to the yellow tape and chalked silhouette
Would serve
as his esophagus and deliver liquid resurrection power
But before
he could rise from the dead,
His homies
would wash away urban poetry
With hawk
spits and hot piss
Leaving
nothing behind but
Shattered
liquor bottles and the stench of dreams deferred.
Still wondering
why grass don’t grow in the ghetto?
Our
sprinkler system spews putrid defeat
We fertilize
our seeds with
Maggot-filled
cow chips and
Avaricious
dung
AKA a bunch
of real stinky SHIT.
We eat our
young and throw up our old.
Killing our
future while immortalizing our past.
We excuse
hate when the hater is the hunter
And a little
black boy is the bate.
Grass CAN’T
grow in the ghetto as long as
The grass
stays greener on the other side.
As long as
economical, medical and educational divides
Are wider
than the spance between my eyes.
Glass will
continue to glisten where grass is supposed to grow
Until our so
called social services become true human services
Until our
equality is no longer a no go
But
something we do know going forward
Until our
narcissistic greed ceases to be our ladder
And the
lives of black boys and girls really do matter
In the
meantime, we’ll politic, pontificate and perseverate
The problems
that plague the brown people
Ignoring the
glass that glistens where grass is supposed to grow
Acting like
we can’t figure out
Why grass
don’t grow in the ghetto.
Dinahsta
“Miss Kiane” Thomas
January 26,
2015
In Route To Metro
8:38 am on a
Monday morning,
Work heels
scratch the pavement
While $200
Jordans leave elaborate imprints on the dusty sidelines.
School aged
children are dragged to their nearby DCPS babysitters
Eager but
legs too short to keep up
They wobble
when they walk,
Book bags
flapping on their tiny backs
Like prized burdens
8:41 am on a
Monday Morning
A nonworking
local king
Stands on
his littered throne with 2 Pitts on either side
On one side
a male who, despite his disposability,
Sits in
loyal submission
On the other
side a female whose tits are no longer pink with youth
But now a
tarnished grey
Camouflaged by the dirt she lays in
8:47 am on a
Monday Morning
The local
king passes the baton from lips to fingertips
And without
an ounce of paternal respect, he expels his poisonous oxygen
Just as
young Shaniya and her baby brother Davon walk by
Fortunately
for them the Scent of Fresh Weed in the
Morning
Was their
mother’s favorite fragrance
So the musty
sweet aroma did not disgust their nose hairs
It only dulled their brain cells
8:54 am on a
Monday Morning
A friendly
hola is exchanged with the
Papi who
picks up the piles of ghetto potpourri.
I smile and
say good morning every morning to the blunt passing, rear end revealing and
foul mouth sharing brotha
I smile and
say good morning every morning to the painted pant wearing, verbal brick
throwing and no esteem having sistah
I smile and
say good morning every morning
And honestly
my intentions are more than just to be friendly
Something
inside of me
Wants to
show that we are not just ghetto kings and queens
Who decorate
their thrones with
Grey goose
bottles, UTZ sour cream and onion potato chip bags, used condoms and blunt wrappers
Something
inside of me believes that my good mornings tell them
We can do
better than this.
We are
better than this.
You are
better than this.
Somehow I am
convinced that my good mornings hold more than manners taught to me as a child,
but possesses the ability to reframe the perception of a race.
I am
convinced that my good mornings are like intravenous injections of inspiration
and courage.
I am
persuaded that my good mornings bridge the gap of an intra-cultural divide
My good
mornings are changing the world!
Until that
good morning when he said to me
You look sexy, Mommy
Until that
good morning she whispered Bitch as she thought of me
Then it
dawned on me; it may take more than a good morning to reverse the ramifications
of the Fall
That this pendulum
of social pandemonium was missing the power of a wrecking ball
And it was
possible that my good mornings weren’t changing the world at all
It was
possible that I was blinded by my optimistic gall
8:59 am on a
Monday morning
I disappear
into the ground, pay my fare and wait.
Dinahsta “Miss Kiane” Thomas
I am going to return to jazz for my music this evening. The first piece that comes to mind is Miles Davis' "On the Corner."
Here is his "Frelon Brun" from Filles des Kilimanjaro: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMQIxw0xwgc
I'll finish with his "Right Off" from his tribute to Jack Johnson: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEBKksupBVA
Catfish's comment at the end of his poem about the price of a mother's dead son's heart is at once ironic and sardonic. I salute you, Sir!
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