I’ve got a feeling
everyone knows I had a hard year
but they don’t know
I missed the train
yet still managed
to see my son shine.
I’ve got a feeling
that keeps me
on my toes and in throe
but I still missed the train.
I am not alone.
Everybody had a wet dream.
Everybody had a good time.
Everybody had a hard year.
Everybody saw my son shine.
Everyone had a hard year.
Everyone laid our Prince down
and pulled their purple out
but not everyone put Drumpf down.
Flora and Fauna
I wanted to bless my eyes this morning
with flora and fauna
so I came in from the cold
of a dream full of unrelenting rain
and opened my eyes to what is customarily
my second sighting of the day:
My ideological father
shot down in the Audubon ballroom
where the only bird observed in motion
was the misappropriated eagle
until the phoenix rose
from the ash of a murderous minstrel show
and transformed into a panther
which prowled
oakland to wounded knee
philadelphia to palestine
roaring revolution
until every generation
generated an evolution
of the message
thought to be dead forever
by those who are as white as the bones
of the myriad numbers of people
whose deaths they are accountable for.
© 2006 Tichaona M.Chinyelu
open-mouthed sky
speaking over water
lightning punctuation
sun cowers in corner
while zeus corrects poseidon
Six artists including Chimamanda Adichie, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o and Kerry James Marshall offer different takes on the – often problematic – portrayal of black people: “We live in a material world, in which the things we see shape our expectations.”
Source: 6 Artists on Black Identity
Sisters mine, beloveds
those bones are not my child.
I am a woman at point zero;
unburnable.
The wind done gone
into a dark alliance
forged from the devil’s pulpit.
Daughters of the Sun, Women of the Moon
a mercy, please.
Let’s make dust tracks
and leave the dilemma of this ghost
to those who live in a city so grand..
Those bones are not my child.
Word of mouth spread
among the not-so-little women
with no technical difficulties.
The blues people, midwives
to a people’s history,
who believed horses
make a landscape look more beautiful,
shed petals of blood
as they walked on fire
to grieve
in a land without thunder.
Sister Mine by Nalo Hopkinson
Beloved and A Mercy by Toni Morrison
Those Bones are not my Child by Toni Cade Bambara
Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi
Unburnable by Marie-Elena John
The Wind Done Gone by Alice Randall
Dark Alliance by Gary Webb
From the Devil’s Pulpit by John Agard
Daughters of the Sun, Women of the Moon, ed. Ann Wallace
Dust Tracks on a Road by Zora Neale Hurston
Dilemma of a Ghost by Ama Ata Aidoo
A City So Grand by Stephen Puleo
Word of Mouth: Poems Featured on NPR’s All Things Considered
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Technical Difficulties by June Jordan
Blues People by Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones)
Midwives by Chris Bohjalian
A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn
Horses Make a Landscape Look More Beautiful by Alice Walker
Petals of Blood by Ngugi wa Thiong’o
Walking on Fire: Haitian Women’s Stories of Survival and Resistance, ed. Beverly Bell
Land without Thunder by Grace Ogot
Every year when April approaches, I find myself getting all skittery about it because since I found out about it, I have never been able to write a poem for every single day of the month. But I keep trying. The poet in me demands it. So here I am again, April 1st starting the game all over again.
This is my first piece of the month:
An Architect’s Tale
A dream
held since childhood
to see a building form
from flat paper
to a structure
that houses workers
and the engine
that pushes them.
I set to out wonder the Sphinx.
Cloaked in meekness
low-heeled shoes
and glasses
(clara, not clark, kent)
I battered battalion-like rungs
to get a building
that was mine
all mine.
But the wind and its cohorts
levelled the dream, the building
in a matter of minutes
and sent me, (clara, not clark kent)
scurrying to an ancient cave
where the only thing to build
was a fire.
I built that fire
until it consumed everything
including me.
glass separates selves — this her! this Other! an
off-kilter smile pasted on comes quickly undonethe corners peel on a clothed mouth. looks
hungry for something, some just-swallowed bitter.
Read the entire poem here: monachopsis – Contemporary Verse 2 (CV2)
3 of my poems were selected for publication by The Moxie Bee! Head on over there, check them out, leave some feedback!
TMC
i.
discordant
never/
polyrhythmic
like life
we were/
in the beginning/
many feet make many sounds
we took the tree
and made it talk/
a jungle of sounds
we produced
everyone for miles around
heard it
gravitated towards it
then strangers came
chanting like gregor
tolling the bell
like igor
creating a cacophony
a frankenstein sound
that we ran from/
the reverberation of our feet
and the clamor of our pursuers
disturbed the serenity of the forest
forever
ii.
our feet were forced
to wade in the water
and the god the strangers proclaimed
didn’t trouble the waters
enough
we moaned
a sound as new to us
as the clang of metal when we shifted
as the strangely accented voices
ordering us to stop the dirges
but we couldn’t stop
even after the ship docked
even after survival dictated
that we scale down our humanity.
Out of our misery grew the gospel.
Excerpted from my first book, In the Whirlwind.
©2006 Tichaona Munhamo Chinyelu
Tichaona Chinyelu 
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