My wings would be a mosaic
made of black mothers’ pride
They’d be boomboxes for justice
Amplifying the riot in our souls
They’d be instruments
Of destruction
Burning monuments to make room for equal testaments
They’d evolve into the freedom to live unaccosted and to die avenged
They’d be bullet proof
and resistant to hate
They’d span from the Middle Passage to Miami
They’d lift our heavy hearts
and their downward thrust
Would scatter the white ashes
of false supremacy
~Rahk
I just want to go for a swiiiimmmm
After a bath in the sun
Mango Wheat Orange Moon
Wide palms praising the One
Who knows the count of the sand
& cowrote my Mama’s Gun
Booming Bluetooth speaker
Conversating on . . . & on
As the sweat drop-glistens
Orange Moon drops gone
Seashells beneath brown feet
Seagulls eyeing my phone
Wooooosh, a flirty breeze
Guides us to the shore
Woooooo this ocean’s crisp
Won’t be sweating no more
A tight hug to the sea
Ain’t no stress to report
Oh wait, ’tis the season for Covid
& The Cost of Living’s the resort
~Rahk.
Shout out to my art ma [in my head] Erykah Badu.
1.
You say you love me
(For the Bible tells you so)
You say you love me
(For you are a child of God)
You insist you love me
But your love hits like hurled stones
But your love stabs sole of foot
It’s hard to walk
It hurts to walk
When your love vehemently rejects my shared need to breathe
2.
Such a peculiar love to offer sour fruit to starving children
Then stand repulsed, willfully withholding aid, when their bodies inevitably protest
How have you not choked on all the dust your love collects?
~Rahk.
Tell yourself. Tell yourself
That giving up is an option,
But not for someone as unicorn as you
So spread those effervescent wings
Let their sparkle brush bold colors across the sky
And the people will shout aurora
As you pass by
On hooves of crayola clouds
Tell yourself that you are a marvel
That what your flesh cannot mend
Your spirit must renew
For you are a marvel
And no storm can triumph over your will
For you silence thunder with your smile
And tickle lightning with your lashes
Your holy locs congress the wind
Tell yourself that you are God’s
That you belong to the love that begat your sense of self
Gather yourself, gather yourself
And stand on that makeshift stage within
Face your phobia of public speech
Speak your truth across that mic
And stir the selves you’ve gathered
Until their fragrance speaks as the holy spirit
Then tell yourself to be okay
With not being okay sometimes
Because at all times, life demands integrity
To thine own self be true
To thine own self be true
And then there’s no mirror that can haunt you
And then there’s no slander that can slay your legacy
And then there’s no reason to doubt
That you are no prisoner
Though your wrists may be rubbed raw
That you are no martyr
Though you have died one hundred gruesome deaths
That you are no villain
Though you wear a patriotic badge of civil disobedience
Tell yourself
Tell yourself
That freedom is not a gift to be given
But a revelation that freedom is and always has been yours
And at any time
As a free agent
You can choose revolution
And rewrite the constitution of your independence.
Tell yourself, tell yourself
That you are a new testament of faith
That douses tortured crosses
With the antisemetic tears of arsonists
For every devil weeps
When its hate is stilled
By the hopes you tell yourself
For every devil burns unholy and red
When its blasphemy does not lower your head in deference to any man’s hate
To glare it in the eyes as a colleague of hate
Tell yourself its not too late
Tell yourself its not too late
To breathe
~Rahk
Revised for clarity in November 5, 2021.
Revised for clarity on November 9, 2020.
I am that I am,
But so are they.
Still they hate.
But are they the devil?
They do turn red
With so much new blood
Staining their hands
Even as they vote.
They are that they are.
But so am I.
Am I forgiveness
At the same time that they
Are knee crushing necks?
Am I forgiveness
At the same time that they
Are propelling arsenal at unarmed citizens?
Are they forgiven
At the same time that they
Are standing back and standing by
While more of us live maimed, or die?
~Rahk.
What can a man know of God
If he knows nothing of repentance?
What can a man know of repentance
If he knows nothing of a woman’s right to choose?
What can a man know of a woman’s right
If he does not witness softness as kin?
If he does not witness softness in men
If he does not witness often within
that strength of spirit overtakes strength of arms
Even chosen kings are not above writing Psalms
~Rahk.
Looking back
the questions I had
were more a proclamation
of autonomous
maleness
More affirmative
than outcries of “Punk!”
More nurturing than
“Hold it in. You bet’ not cry”
when you withstand hit after hit
when your body
is a faucet and an
unsuspecting wall
built to withstand hit after hit
My questions were less interrogative
than sexual inquiries
and voyeuristic requests
to witness bedroom theatrics
Less deviant than conquest
Not as fearful as religion
Inconsequential to pink polos
and Mariah Carey in headphones
Innocence does not master sports
nor does it demand a wide stride
or pants that give in to gravity
Self-awareness counts
the notches in chastity belts
Looking forward
the answer is far more curious
than wandering eyes –
Here be the island
which nurtures life
I’ll build here
with questions shifting my shore
~Rahk.
u paused
frozen, but still whirring
and complaining
like a DVD
u are no machine
yet u let life control u
remotely
stop
Rahk.
The parts of self we smother
To keep silent
So that we are not falsely accused
Of over-reaction
So that we are not falsely accused
Of being
“Soft”
So that we are not falsely accused
Of (un)professionalism
Of protest
So that we are not falsely accused
Of inserting an “I” where “I” does not belong
As if I, as if we, don’t belong in front of feelings
As if I, as if we, don’t feel
The phantom knee on my, on our, necks
The parts of self that hold tight to our chest
That clench almost painfully behind closed lips
The parts that resent us for pressing the pillow exactly where other parts asked the pillow to be pressed
The parts that never run out of breath, that don’t submit to the attempt to suppress, even when breath falters
The parts that care nothing of status quo and take sustenance from passive resistance
The parts that cry out, that raise up, that stand proud, that hold firm
The parts that find air to breathe despite the knee
Those parts understand
They understand that sytemic silence is not survival
But acceptance
~Rahk.
They taught me that poems shakespeare into sonnets.
Piercing the present so William keeps living on
’cause we study his writing as if no other
art has been written. Shakespeare is dead but they still
won’t kill him. Or let him die. Worshipping his words,
they grant him eternal life. The skin of his voice,
a representation of White. He lives so free
on American soil. Immigrants in our art.
No wall was ever proposed for dead citizens
smuggled into the nation by the well-to-do.
I’m reforming the sonnet. Shakespeare needs rest, too.
He speaks no more. Writes even less ’bout much ado.
Silencing dead voices- my “taming of the shrew”.
Silencing dead voices- my “taming of the shrew”.
Go to Baptism Lake
Sit on the water, take a seat
Dip your feet
That hand on your scarred back
Is an inquisitive wind
That coolness is the sin of your obedience washing away
That warmth is praise for your skin
That sunlight is not a whip
That bird song is not an alarm
That splash might be a tear
But that’s okay, it’s okay
Rest does not require strong arms
~Rahk.
1. Maaan, you must be crazy
To think that I’m going to hold it all in
To reflect your blurry image of masculinity
You ain’t no mirror of mine
Light does not bounce between us
When I stand naked
Before a modest vanity
2. It makes no sense for rock to float
It makes no sense for water to dig graves
It makes no sense to know you are vast yet refuse to acknowledge your sky
Don’t hold it in, not when ocean water presses its skin against sunrise
I won’t hold it in, not when rushing water wears solid rock like old garments
3. Why should I hold it in?
Bruh, for whom would I be saving face?
I know who I am
I know Jesus wept
Why can’t you? Why can’t I?
Are we not vast? Are we not sky?
Maaan, gone and cry
~Rahk
Some thoughts thrive on discretion
Some thoughts slip by undetected
Some thoughts don’t care to know their own strength
While others struggle to breathe past the knee
And still certain knees apply more pressure
For their thoughts never drift to consequence
For their privilege undermines certain life
For their privilege denies a certain right
For their privilege relies on the presumed purity of white
Some thoughts claim to not see color, preferring selective sight
~Rahk
You are less empty than you pretend
You are no cup air drying on the counter
You are no tablet, factory reset successful
You are not the first page in the sketchbook of an undiscovered artist
You are far less empty than you pretend
You are:
A crescent moon peaking from your whole self,
The beginning of a hidden forest,
The living scripture spoken by God
punctuated by revelations.
You are full and splashing over the hard edges of the Hoover Dam
unable to be contained
by concrete, steel, and man’s intentions
~Rahk
A Badu song
Mothered my manhood
Told me
Boys can cry like yeyo
Told me
Boys, too, miss planes when dragging too many bags
Told me
God’s image is mine to claim as I am
Told me
Buildings crumble so why should one bear my name
Told me my name is a Black mother’s prayer
Answered in faith, with sound mind
Told me man’s strength is not greater than womb,
but born of it
in God’s time.
~Rahk
Rahk's Water 