Inclusive
I use to think of it as inclusive.
Those with appearances,
Of a similar and familiar physicalness...
Immedicately identifying,
One's own ethnicness!
And everyone I knew,
I thought...
Chose to be inclusive too.
Until I was told...
I have a wide nose,
Hair that napped.
And I spoke with an obvious,
Ethnic dialect!
And...
I thought 'How strange.
How ridiculous it is!
To have someone wearing a flowing wig.
A nose wider than mine...
And 'blue' contacts.
With painted fingernails paid,
Before feeding unfed kids.'
And...
The men wore suits and ties.
Appearing much 'affected' too!
Inclusively denying a heritage...
Until they felt they had to,
Fess up to that too!
'Did you see him,
Wearing his hair in those awful dreads.
Trying to get specific attention.
To prove a pride connected to an African descent.
When 'we' represent...
A progressive intelligence!
I am so glad his appearance near us was brief! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
They Look Like Us
What is going on over there?
'We have everything under control.
And those we have deemed suspicious,
Are currently being closely monitored.
And so far...
Our suspicions are being heightened,
By their unusual activities.'
What ACTIVITIES?
'Well...
In the past couple of hours,
We have spotted a number of them gathering together,
To bump fists with a greeting of one another,
With hugs and warm embraces.'
Would they be wearing dreads?
'Yes.'
Would they be strutting as if they were certain,
Of their identities.
And appearing proud of themselves?
'Yes. Yes.
How did you know that? '
These are the people who advocated protecting everyone,
By signs of terrorist movements in the area.
Who have you spotted that might fit that description?
'Well...
No one really.
Only the regular folks.
You know...
The ones wearing suits and ties.
And several other people walking around,
Carrying loaded backpacks held firmly in place...
By belts and ropes that are snuggly strapped.
Some are wearing berets on their heads.
And dressed in camouflage.
While holding tightly onto what appears musical intruments,
In long leather cases.'
And...
You find nothing suspicious about 'that' at all?
'No. Not really.
They look like us.
And we chose not to offend them.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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In Need of Love
Maybe I have to tell you,
My eyes are brown.
My nose is wide.
And my hair is kinky too.
Maybe I just don't show,
My feelings deep.
Or those things inside of me,
You will never know.
And no!
It is not okay you walk away.
In belief I am just an object.
There!
But too invisible to see.
And no!
It is not okay my feelings are ignored.
As if I should not have them.
And you have more.
Maybe I have to tell you,
My eyes are brown.
Skin black as viewed
With a wide nose and kinky hair too.
Although you may walk away,
Believing to dismiss me is okay.
As if I am an object invisible to see.
And not in need of love.
But I am!
And I suspect...
You have no idea what love means.
If it is not drenched in peroxide.
Or has contacts in blue.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Jealousy
She wore braids in her hair
every single day.
Not because she wanted to.
It was her mother's way.
She braided them so tightly.
She thought her head would break.
Sometimes just the thought of them
would make her poor head ache.
'Why can't I have my hair
flowing down my back?
Her mother's frown would let her know
to try some other tact..
'Mother can we cut it
just above my shoulder? '
the answer that was given was
'Not until you're older.'
And so she wore her hair like this.
She never wore it down.
When at night she unbraided it
she looked just like a clown.
She knew she would cut it
the very next day
right in front of her mother
to see what she would say.
Her mother watched and sat down
and had a cup of tea.
Her mother simply said
'Now you're more beautiful than me.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face
Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.
Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.
Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.
Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.
Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!
poem by Jack Prelutsky
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What Other Place Is More Mixed Up
Black is the color of my skin.
Well...
Not really 'black' black.
But kinda mocha.
You see,
My mother had been referred to as 'high yella'
And my father dark complected.
My sisters and I have this brownish tone.
My hair?
Nappy.
Well...
Not 'nappy' in the conventional sense.
You see,
I have dreads.
They look like braids.
But they are not.
My race?
Gee,
Let's see.
I remember when I was a 'kid'
I was then a Negro.
Then there was that dreaded 'N' word.
Then I became Black.
And 'proud' of course.
To be mistaken as an American Indian,
West Indian, Puerto Rican, Mexican...
And even Italian!
YES.
Because of my last name.
Well...what 'is' you?
Then I had an uncle,
Who thought he had to correct all of our dictions.
'Speak clearly! Enunciate.'
I would hate to visit my cousins.
'Is your father at home?
I hope not! '
Then there was a period when I was told,
'You think you white?
Trying to talk proper! '
Today?
I think more about getting my bills paid.
Or the ones I do pay.
I can not concern myself with race.
There are white folks wearing their hair in dreads.
Hair 'nappier' than mine!
Close your eyes and listen to today's music.
Is that Eminem? Justin Timberlake? Robin Thicke?
They sound better than some blacks that do it!
Madonna ain't no Beyoncé.
But neither is Patti a Gladys Knight or Chaka
Or Sarah Vaughn.
And that list can go on and on.
And Frank? Sinatra! Elvis, the Pelvis!
You know what?
With all this talk about color and race...
What other place is more mixed up than America?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Did I Really See That?
A woman on our bed wearing my gown with ma woman
Sleeping on my side of the bed?
Am I replaced?
So quick?
I thought we were going to talk
About it
Try to work it out
I cancelled all my plans
In a manner to surprise you
I didn't like the way things went
The other day
And now I get home
To find this?
A woman on our bed
Wearing my gown with ma woman on ma side of da bed
Am I replaced?
Just like that?
I thought what we had meant
Something to you
I thought we had a connection
I thought fate had brought us
Together
I thought our future
Was written somewhere
In heaven
Most of all I thought the feeling
Was mutual
For 5years I was relaxed
Thinking I'm in the right place
Where my soul belongs
Wasn't looking
Wasn't searching
Was content
And now I find
A woman on our bed wearing my gown with ma woman
On my side of the bed
Am I replaced?
Already!
I had always been loyal
You cheated more than I could remember
And I kept forgiving n forgetting
I kept loving you like you
Never wronged me
I Kept on trusting you
but to you all that was just a blur
I bet you thought I was fool
I bet you thought I'd never leave you
I bet you thought you were ma life
That's why you cheated
That's why you lied
That's why now I find
A woman on our bed wearing my gown with ma woman
On my side of the bed
Am I replaced?
I know you are
I have ran out of tears
I cried for so long*difedile*
I have ran out of Forgiveness
I forgiven you more than the
Bibble Says I should
I have ran out of space for you
The place I used to keep you is shuttered
And I have ran out of love for you
What I thought was mine
Is now ours
What I thought I owned
It turned out
We own
What I thought was true to me
It was all a lie
A woman on our bed
Wearing my gown
With my woman
On my side of the bed
She can stay
I'll leave..
poem by Diopelo King
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Tale of Freedom
Mourning own ashes,
Sorrowing over freedom,
Long-awaited and wholly missed,
The shooting star did seek
Redemption of existence;
To redeem the tale of freedom,
Much remembered, long-awaited.
To the fallen star spoke thus
The configured multitude,
The fixed stars of high heavens;
Reeking of self-pity.
The stars spoke thus:
O Shooting star, burnt and bygone,
Star-dust you quit,
Oblivious of bonded freedom.
Boundless freedom you chose,
A fallacy though at length to be.
To the fallen star spoke thus
The configured multitude,
The fixed stars of high heavens:
O Shooting star, burnt and bygone,
Wide wilderness you chose,
Only to stagger,
Unaware of the glory of a footway;
Destination it fetches,
Foreshadowing it all along;
Freedom it holds,
As bonded to goal.
But boundless freedom you chose,
A fallacy though at length to be.
To the fallen star spoke thus
The configured multitude,
The fixed stars of high heavens:
O Shooting star, burnt and bygone,
In star-dust you did see not,
A composition often illegible,
An inclusive poetry,
Not without you.
So, exclusive freedom you chose,
A fallacy though at length to be;
When life was to abound
In freedom inclusive,
Bonded and destined,
Bonded to configuration prospective,
Destined to creation unforeseen.
poem by Bhanu Padmo
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Hair Styles I Remember
There are hairstyles I remember wearing
oh so long ago.
My father had a fit with most of them
told me, 'go comb that mess out before you go! '
I'd rat it up with the small toothed end of comb
so the base would hold it up.
Then took a brush to smooth it some
and then I sprayed it so it stuck!
The wind could blow its hardest
but my hair withstood its gail!
When anyone would touch my do
they said it felt as hard as nails!
There was one do called the, Bee Hive
It was hallowed out in the center.
Some gilrs would hide their smokes in there
and have a puff or two after schools dinner.
Then there was the bouffant flip
it was the smallest flip you'd ever seen.
Your head looked like this big balloon
with a small hat rim of hair flipping up, was keen!
Then the Pixie and the Bob
boxed off hair cut for cool guys
long hair for the slobs!
Then the Beatles made their hair debut
my father hated them.
Everyone wore the Nauru jackets
and their pant legs tight and slim!
Then Farra Faucet, that's a funny name
but her hairstyle look, was in the hair book hall of fame!
Not too many new looks I see now a days
just long or short, no curls, no waves.
No teasing of hair, no spray or thick gels
But highlights for sure, all look swell.
I'm glad those days are over with
took forever for you to get ready.
Now it's just blow and go, and sprits or two
and your off on a date with your steady!
poem by Linda Winchell
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No... I Can Not Believe It
You've got my nose opened wide.
Wider than the sea,
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
You've got my nose opened wide.
So wide people see.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
Wherever I go...
I know that this shows.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
I know it is exposed,
That you opened my nose!
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
I walk on tip-toes,
With my eyes half closed.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
No...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
I walk on tip-toes,
With an opened nose.
And...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
And with my eyes closed too?
No...
I can not believe I let you do this to me.
No...
I can not believe it that you did this to me.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Direct and Indirectly
Direct and indirectly...
God has blessed me!
Not to have a child to have lived.
And I am today pleased with that.
And I am being extremely positive.
No one on this Earth,
Would tell me how to raise my kids.
Or suggest that I read,
How someone else believes...
That should be done!
I would spare that rod.
And use one thick belt!
If my child spoke back to me...
A behind would be whipped.
Burning hot!
Preventing him or her to sit!
'Go to your room! '
Would not come from my lips.
'Get out of my house...! '
And that would be it!
911?
They could call it if they wish.
And that child of mine should call...
They better disappear.
Or they will never again exist!
I am not going to be disrespected,
By someone I support!
Or be cussed out in public.
Like I hear some children,
To their parents exhort.
I don't think so!
'Excuse me...
May I use your PA system for a moment?
Thank you!
ATTENTION! ATTENTION!
There is a child needing immediate medical assistance.
Will someone please call the police and an ambulance!
I will be in either produce or Aisle 17.
I have shopping to finish.
I thank you for your patience! '
My children will be disciplined.
Respectful of others.
And not a selfish bone will they have in their bodies.
Free they will be of lies and deceit.
I will not be busting my ass...
To weed my flowers of crabgrass.
And God knew!
~But 'why' would you break your son's nose,
Mister Pertillar? ~
*You see those braces on his teeth?
They cost me a fortune.
His nose will heal and I will probably go to jail.
Far less expensive of a price to pay.
But this 'kid' is in his 20's.
And 'he'...
Not 'you'
Reminds me 24/7...
How long 2 minutes of pleasure can aggravate.'
**You told me it was 4 hours! **
*Do you see what I'm saying?
Even with a broken nose,
His mouth is still open! *
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tom's Little Dog
Tom told his dog called Tim to beg,
And up at once he sat,
His two clear amber eyes fixed fast,
His haunches on his mat.Tom poised a lump of sugar on
His nose; then, "Trust!" says he;
Stiff as a guardsman sat his Tim;
Never a hair stirred he.
"Paid for!" says Tom; and in a trice
Up jerked that moist black nose;
A snap of teeth, a crunch, a munch,
And down the sugar goes!
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Born From the Blood of the Gael
I learned my history of Ireland
From my father every Friday night,
When he would arrive home from Madigan’s bar
Reciting in song and verse of Ireland’s fight.
He talked of Robert Emmett
And sang of the brave Wolfe Tone,
He spoke with pride of Padraig Pearse
Of James Connolly, he would recite a poem.
It was not the Guinness that fuelled his passion,
For his heritage, he would never part.
And he told me, that I, a son of the Diaspora
Was an Irish bhoy at heart.
He said that Brother Walfrid should be canonized a saint
For his vision and his dream.
For he brought faith and pride to the Glasgow Irish
With men proudly wearing the emerald green.
A second-class citizen is how he had felt all his life
For being a Catholic of Irish descent.
And it burned his soul, the discrimination and bigotry,
That had encountered his up bringing in a Glasgow tenement.
He spoke of the shipyards; he had worked down by the Clyde,
Harassed for his faith, labeled a papist and Fenian.
His solace he found, in Our Lord and the Virgin Mary,
How he sometimes wished, he had the strength of Cúchulainn.
Our heritage and culture, he said, shall last forever
For we are born from the blood of the Gael,
And the next time that you walk into Parkhead,
Those rebel songs of old, sing, shout and yell.
Daniel McDonagh June’2008
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Dreads
It's not a statement of defiance,
I wear my hair in dreads.
It's who I am...
And I'm proud to show them.
Naturally...
On my head!
I use to keep my hair short and faded...
Conservative in conformity!
To fit into a 'conscious' acceptance...
An unspoken, visual uniformity.
Believing to appear like everyone else...
Would bestow upon me,
A certain respected sense of self.
Having no clue it was 'me' I pursued!
It took me a while to realize,
From myself I ran and fled!
Then when I 'woke' up clear with understanding...
I still had concealed a truthfulness not revealed.
My hair is 'nappy'!
And when not cut,
It dreads!
Curling into 'naps'.
And feeling comfortable on my head.
How sweet the awakening...
To a wholesomeness fed!
Not to dred but to wear in pride.
It's not a statement of defiance,
I wear my hair in dreads.
It's who I am...
And I'm proud to show them.
Naturally...
On my head!
Dreadlocked.
And now that I feel,
My best of self can be expressed...
I see so many who are trapped in masquerades.
Doing their best to project...
What they feel someone else,
Will accept without protest!
And I am so happy I can live my life...
With a peace of mind I find at rest!
Knowing a simple thing like 'dreads'...
Exposes a complete identity I keep.
And makes me feel at my very best yet!
Instead.
Forgetting the 'me' who I thought I knew...
And having not one regret!
Not within my heart I thread.
Note:
Dedicated to those dreadlock wearers
who feel the gloriousness of being who they are!
And a deep kindred with 'Jah' The Supreme!
A strengthening of 'spirit' develops when one
becomes...'dread-headed'!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Father Of A Boy Named Sue
(Okay now years ago I wrote a song called A Boy Named Sue and that was okay
And everything except then I started to think about it and I thought
It is unfair I am looking at the whole thing from the poor kid's point of view
And as I get more older and more fatherly
I begin to look at things from an old man's point of view
So I decided to give the old man equal time okay here we go)
Yeah I lef' home when the kid was three and it sure felt good to be fancy free
Tho I knew it wasn't quite the fatherly thing to do
But that kid kept screamin' and throwin' up and pissin' in his pants til I had enough
So just for revenge I went and named him Sue
Yeah it was Gatlinberg in mid July I was gettin' drunk but gettin' by
Gettin' old and goin' from bad to worse
When thru the door with an awful scream comes the ugliest queen I've ever seen
He says my name is Sue how do you do then he hits me with his purse
Now this ain't the way he tells the tale but he scratched my face with his fingernails
And then he bit my thumb and kicked me with his high-heeled shoe
So I hit him in the nose and he started to cry and he threw some perfume in my eye
And it sure ain't easy fightin' with a boy named Sue
So I hit him in the head with a caned-back chair
And he screamed hey dad you mussed my hair
And he hit me in the navel and knocked out a piece of my lint
He was spittin' blood I was spittin' teeth
And we crashed through the wall and out into the street
A kickin and gougin' in the mud and the blood and the creme de menth
Then out of his garter he pulls a gun I'm about to get shot by my very own son
He's screamin' bout Sigmond Freud and lookin' grim uh
So I thought fast and I told him some stuff
How I named him Sue just to make him tough
And I guess he bought it cuz now I'm livin' with him
Yeah he cooks and sews and cleans up the place he cuts my hair and shaves my face
And irons my shirts better than a daughter could do
And on the nights that I can't score well I can't tell you anymore
Sure is a joy to have a boy named Sue yeah a son is fun
But it's a joy to have a boy named Sue
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Old Mrs Truber
Always be yourself, Mrs Truber said,
Don’t be what you’re not. You sat
And studied her as she sat opposite
Stirring her cup of tea, took in her
Greying hair, her lined features, the
Way her bony fingers held the spoon
That stirred. People try to be like others
And find themselves out of their depth
And drown in the waters of lies and deceit,
She added, bringing her light blue eyes
On you. You began to speak, but the words
Were stuck in your throat. She smiled and
Tapped your hand. We are what we are,
She said, but often we are tempted to become
Actors wearing a different mask, trying to
Be a different person. You nodded slowly
And thought how beautiful she must have
Been once. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke,
And as she brushed her hand through her grey
Hair, you thought you caught a glimpse of her
Youthful self peering out of eyes like a child
Staring from windows in a locked up room.
You sipped your tea and watched as she brought
Her hands together as if in prayer. You closed
Your eyes, but when you opened them again,
The room was empty and she wasn’t there.
poem by Terry Collett
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Wonderful Dreams
Wonder is the brain of dreams, the wearing of wisdom,
The highest praise, a negative positivity, a live wire.
Wondered were they who survived the annual struggle,
Their wonders never finish, never do they conclude into struggle;
Fellowship has an absurd appearance from the wonder
We have witnessed from mouth and nose, foot and hand;
Struggle has never powerfully affected us to wonder,
Rather the marvel of a day is like the astonishment of the year,
What of the month? It cries from patience and toil, but no wonder
Has arrived.
Truth argues us to live in the days of the year to wonder.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Dumbfounding Those With A Nose Disease
There is a solution,
For those who become irritated...
By others who seem not to be able,
To mind their own business.
It is suggested to develop multiple interests,
In diverse areas...
That appear to be completely disconnected,
By the ones infected by this nose disease.
Announce publicly a specific interest,
That will attract nose diseasers to focus on it...
With their creative comments, criticisms, etc.
While those other areas of interests...
Are free to flourish without detection.
Until,
Of course...
An unsuspecting attention is given,
As a flourishing noticed begins.
Dumbfounding those with a nose disease,
With the shutting of their puzzled mouths
These and other antidotes to protect one's business,
As well as one's happiness in communities...
Where an active dipping into other people's business,
Satisfies a cost effective entertainment...
Can be implemented to decrease aggravation.
With thought and aggressive conscious strategy applied.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Native Born
I love it when I am approached by someone,
Who is totally oblivious to my attachment...
To my ethnicity that is affliated with my appearance.
I want to be identified as a Blackman of pride.
And dignity.
There are many who are of African ancestry,
Who are still in debate about that.
I've never been puzzled about the issue.
So whenever I am approached and questioned,
How does it feel to be a Black man living...
With feelings that are isolated?
I have to ensure I respond to that...
With a confirmation someone with a consciousness,
Has indeed asked me that question.
Since it should be obvious,
I have a head full of hair dreadlocked for a reason.
And one of them is not to keep what I feel hidden.
I have already been a 'Negro'.
I am an American.
Native born.
Like my daddy and my momma...
And their daddies and mommas before them.
And...
I am extremely proud of my Indian heritage as well.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Identity
Wearing the wonderful outfit
Speaking one language
Eating habits according to where you belong
Does the culture create a self identity
Kneeling down
Believing in transferred heritage
Accepting the facts and teachings
Is religion that what creates the inner identity
Adapting the different culture and its habits
Seeking for stability and security
Being like a roman in Rome
Flexibility and transformation does it really creates one's self identity
Knowing oneself
Seeing things independently
Accepting ones individualism
Identifying the self - does it makes more sense
Being Kind and compassion
Acceptance of every individual and free thought
Identifying oneself creates the word
Overall being human makes it complete self
poem by Tenzin Whitetara
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There Is One Catch
To vent obscenities,
Seems today to be in vogue.
And just yesterday,
My expressed embitteredness...
Was misinterpreted as racist,
By those now venting...
With the same embitteredness!
But there is one catch.
They have authorized with validation,
Their reasons to be upset.
Because their lives have become affected.
Making what they do appear more inclusive.
And I somehow made my 'vocals' an ethnic 'thing'.
And please,
Keep your liberal stances to yourself.
Few of you are standing on inner city corners,
Being policed or fleeced to fill a quota.
There is nothing like the visions of honesty...
As seen and lived.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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