Archive for poetry

young, white suburbanite (from “The Village”)

Posted in poetry, political commentary, social commentary, The Village with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 26, 2012 by blackstarr

on any given friday night,

a young white suburbanite,

cruises in his beamer,

into the city, bose blastin’ fiddy.

he sports the latest, greatest, hippest, dopest, phattest rags

that his daddy’s silver spoon could buy,

but that silver spoon is the very reason why.

he protests the riches that they don’t deserve,

lashes out at his very own private federal reserve.

*

he’s looking for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder,

music getting louder.

young white suburbanite,

in the middle of the night,

loses himself in another man’s culture.

not understanding the subtleties of cp time,

he hits the club way too soon,

stands around with beer in hand,

realizes that the night was not so well-planned.

but he’s fly and hip and dope and –

and thinks he’s ahead of his time,

but the reality is that he simply

got there way ahead of time.

*

the music swirls within his head,

and the sistas think it’s so dred

that he’s holding his own,

while out of his element.

but to his detriment,

the beer pulls him to the dancefloor.

now, whitebread ain’t so fly no more.

and we think “ooh, that’s gotta hurt!”

beer has him moving to the beats,

the sight has us fallin’ out our seats.

*
“yo – young white suburbanite!

some fly sista would like ta get witcha”,

but homeboy’s homeboy has had

one too many rollin’ rocks.

young white suburbanite

struggles with all his might

to get his homeboy standing upright.

now, homeboy’s homeboy wants to fight.

young white suburbanite

came to the city,

blastin’ fiddy,

lookin’ for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder.

*

whitebread

got that gangsta beat going ‘round in his head.

cruisin’ in his jet-black beamer.

he’s just trying to understand

why we always catch it from the man.

tries to understand what that’s like,

he beats a path to every open mike,

struggles to get a feel for what it’s like.

a fruitless pursuit and he can’t see why

he can never feel the pain like you and i.

he innocently protests and lets out a sigh –

“it wasn’t me and i refuse to carry that lie”.

it’s neither out of compassion,

nor because it’s popular fashion,

but, instead, because the guilt of the fathers

prey upon the innocence of the sons.

*

on any given friday night,

deep within the urban blight,

from dusk until daylight.

lookin’ for some

black flava,

brown suga’,

white powder.

out of the gloomy mist and into the light,

comes an urban legend . . . a young white suburbanite.

*

copyright  2008  blackstarr

*

freerealm@gmail.com

*

(photos were obtained from across the internet.  if they belong to you and you wish them to be taken down, i will gladly comply)

Cant C Me

Posted in music, Old School Flava, poetry, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 28, 2010 by blackstarr

There probably has not been a more loyal fan of Tupac Shakur than yours truly.  First, though, a few “despites” –

despite the fact that I hate the “N” word and the “B” word, and

despite the fact that I am not an advocate of either profanity or violence, and

despite the fact that I am anti-drug abuse, I have always been in awe of Tupac and his musical genius.

Perhaps the one song that makes him stand out from the crowd more than any other song is “Can’t C Me”., from the CD “All Eyez On Me”.  The entire song is the epitome of his musical genius, but, let’s forget the entire song – the opening verse is the ultimate in word manipulation and lyrical sculpting.  In the event that you aren’t familiar with the song, you can click >HERE<  for the lyrics.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although there are probably many depths to his genius, I believe that his greatest assets were threefold – lyrics, music, and the ability to spit words out as easily as you and I breathe air.  He had a peculiar penchant for re-using lyrics from previously recorded songs.  Other artists have done this before him, but the way in which he did it and the meaning that his re-used lyrics brought to the songs took on a life of its own.

I cited this song from his collection because it is my favorite rap song ever, but, his repertoire was seemingly endless when it came to great lyrics, music, and spitting.  A few that come to mind which, in my humble opinion, that come close to the greatness of “Can’t C Me” are “Hit “Em Up”, “Death Around The Corner” and he even did a few love songs that were worth mentioning, which included “Can You Get Away?”.

There you have it – my short and sweet tribute to Tupac.  You owe it to yourself to check out this song .  You can find it on Youtube, of course.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t get it to load here.  In the event that you want to save time, here’s a link to the song from Playlist.com:  Can’t C Me.  Perhaps you’ll be as impressed I have been all these years.

Afeni, wherever you are, thank you.  Peace.

 

copyright  2010  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Photos from The Huffington Post, and The Judiciary Report.

until she reveals her face (part 2 of 8, from “A Tincture Of Tellurium”)

Posted in just for the bull of it, Love, poetry, relationships with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2010 by blackstarr

I live a sequestered life, for I fathom no reason

to give my precious love to one who is not the one.

She who is the one

has inscribed her being upon the walls of my soul.

Her eminence is forbearing:

imitation

would be an absurdity;

her authenticity

will be unmistakable;

when she appears, I will know.

She will have so rare a beauty that it will astound me.

She will come to me, emanating a trace of evil.

She will administer my fatal injection of ecstasy.

So, I wait, enduring my life in solitude

until she reveals her face to me.

When the night comes,

I close my eyes,

and, I feel her presence.

She is liquid persuasion.

In times of silence,

I perk my ears,

and, she speaks to me,

having the resonant voice of romance.

When i envision my future,

the intricacies of her beauty are fully displayed,

and, my zeal increases, as my ecstasy will not be long delayed.

I live my life sequestered, as if saving it

for some anointed one.

Is no one worthy but she?

Would not love . . . even mere interaction with others

be but dissipation, knowing what the future holds?

I dare not gamble.

surely she is toxic, absorbed in evil,

but, I will patiently endure my life in solitude

until she reveals her face to me.

**************************************************************************************

copyright  1997  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Poison (part 1 of 8, from “A Tincture Of Tellurium”)

Posted in Dreamscape, Love, poetry, prose, relationships, satire and sarcasm, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2010 by blackstarr

Tellurium . . . she was its human portrayal.

born in the year of fifty two,

passivity consummately overdue.

When she revealed herself to me, this sensuous Aphrodite

was a delightful one-hundred-twenty-eight pounds,

sister to the four winds, free-spirited, untamable.

Tell them that she is as exotic as neon, but, is, in no way, as innocuous.

Her beauty will be astonishing, a rare sight, to be sure.

But, let them be warned that she is

at the same time . . . toxiferous . . . noxious,

a tincture of tellurium.

Her voice was euphonic, yet, like a Grecian siren,

it was full-scale seduction,

and, imminent destruction.

She came to me as the eidolon,

that dream of perfection found, which never comes to be.

And, in the end, she became

. . . my injection,

. . . my addiction,

my reason for self-annihilation.

She was liquid xenon, flowing and unresponsive,

and, nearly as unattainable, her free heart unrestrainable.

My actions brought no reactions.

My words of affection were

. . . weightless molecules,

. . . soundless thoughts,

lost to the wind.

She was a secret code, an indecipherable mystery.

Here was the essence of the arcane,

perched upon a cryptographic plane.

Her eyes pulled me in, and,

her touch replenished.

Her kiss drained me of life itself.

She remained . . . ensconced, . . . unsolved,

even cloaked in a veil of non-divulgence.

Tellurium . . . but a faint trace is certain obliteration.

for to grasp the exotic, to taste of the erotic,

obliteration would have been a welcome relief.

So I grasped, I tasted, and, hastened my own undoing.

She was . . . astonishing . . . a rarity, she was a tincture of tellurium.

***************

copyright  1997  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

***************

photos from across the web

emergency (re-posted for those who lost their lives)

Posted in music, poetry, political commentary, politics, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2010 by blackstarr

on 911 to the one,

we looked down the barrel

of a loaded gun.

i thought this might be

w w three,

no more me.

on 911 to the one,

aloofness became undone.

it finally hit home,

four shots straight to the dome:

two fatal shots, in nyc,

in pa, a flesh wound meant for dc,

in dc, one lay critical . . .

nothin’ personal . . .

strictly political.

on 911 to the one

we thought the lasers were locked on stun.

we got sucker-punched, erbody out to lunch.

we dropped to our knees and began to choke,

and our opponent disappeared

in a cloud of fire and smoke.

on 911 to the one there came a loaded gun,

with hollow tips, that brought us to our knees.

we screamed “oh my!!”,

released a sigh, wondered why,

and then we all began to cry.

on 911 to the one,

not a cloud, yet no sun.

we wallowed in the shadow of the enemies’ gun.

first came sorrow,

then our thoughts about tomorrow.

in less than twenty-four,

they had a name, so they claim,

and yet, they hesitated just the same.


on 911 to the two

will there be a me and you?

will they be caught with their knickers down,

to never even hear the sound?

will they continue to assume

that no real danger looms,

that we’re all simply sayers of doom?

perhaps it’s not too wise

to criticize those with watchful eyes,

whose jets no longer leave the skies,

while battleships dot our oceansides.

perhaps they’re locked and loaded,

mimicking C4: waiting to be exploded.

but on 911 to the one

we faced a loaded gun.

terror paid a visit to our home

with four shots straight to the dome.

we fell victim to a loaded gun

on 911 to the one.

copyright   2001  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Bulletproof by Raheem Devaughn

photos from across the web

a renaissance for the new millennium

Posted in poetry, political commentary, politics, Quotables, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 4, 2010 by blackstarr

here is
a renaissance
for a new millennium;
now is a time for literary finesse.
ours is a time
for new paths to be blazed,
the time for palpable ideas
to be raised.

we contemplate the
future that lies
with our next generation,
we question the choices
of our past,
we criticize the errors
that have brought us to
this place of turmoil.
a renaissance,
a new millennium,
a consciousness of grand proportion.

we press pen to paper
and social awareness is revived.
we debate
the topics to which
blind eyes had once been turned.
we answer the questions
of ages gone by,
and set the tone for those who
sit in silence, teeming with anticipation.
our renaissance.
our millennium.
our consciousness of grand proportion.

sharpen the blade
of intellectuality
and let its acuteness
and accuracy
run us through
until truth’s blood
flows freely from our minds.
then, let the wounds of incivility
be healed by the power of commonalities.

now is the time of literary finesse.
there are new paths to be blazed,
and fathomable ideas that need to be raised.
a renaissance.
a new millennium.
a consciousness of grand proportion.
i dare say
“a renaissance
for the new millennium . . .
a consciousness of grand proportion”.

copyright 2008 blackstarr
freerealm@gmail.com

Brand New Day by Tim Myers (ft. Lindsey Ray)

Images in this post are from various locations on the web.  If any belong to you and you have an objection, please e-mail me and I will remove them.

young white sburbanite (excerpt from “the village”)

Posted in humor, music, poetry, politics, prose, racial discrimination, satire and sarcasm, social commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 27, 2010 by blackstarr

on any given friday night,

a young white suburbanite,

cruises in his beamer,

into the city, bose blastin’ fiddy.

he sports the latest, greatest, hippest, dopest, phattest rags

that his daddy’s silver spoon could buy,

but that silver spoon is the very reason why.

he protests the riches that they don’t deserve,

lashes out at his very own private federal reserve.


he’s looking for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder,

music getting louder.

young white suburbanite,

in the middle of the night,

loses himself in another man’s culture.

not understanding the subtleties of cp time,

he hits the club way too soon,

stands around with beer in hand,

realizes that the night was not so well-planned.

but he’s fly and hip and dope and –

and thinks he’s ahead of his time,

but the reality is that he simply

got there way ahead of time.

the music swirls within his head,

and the sistas think it’s so dred

that he’s holding his own,

while out of his element.

but to his detriment,

the beer pulls him to the dancefloor.

now, whitebread ain’t so fly no more.

and we think “ooh, that’s gotta hurt!”

beer has him moving to the beats,

the sight has us fallin’ out our seats.

“yo – young white suburbanite!

some fly sista would like ta get witcha”,

but homeboy’s homeboy has had

one too many rollin’ rocks.

young white suburbanite

struggles with all his might

to get his homeboy standing upright.

now, homeboy’s homeboy wants to fight.

young white suburbanite

came to the city,

blastin’ fiddy,

lookin’ for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder.

whitebread

got that gangsta beat going ‘round in his head.

cruisin’ in his jet-black beamer.

he’s just trying to understand

why we always catch it from the man.

tries to understand what that’s like,

he beats a path to every open mike,

struggles to get a feel for what it’s like.

a fruitless pursuit and he can’t see why

he can never feel the pain like you and i.

he innocently protests and lets out a sigh –

“it wasn’t me and i refuse to carry that lie”.

it’s neither out of compassion,

nor because it’s popular fashion,

but, instead, because the guilt of the fathers

prey upon the innocence of the sons.

**********

on any given friday night,

deep within the urban blight,

from dusk until daylight.

lookin’ for some

black flava,

brown suga’,

white powder.

out of the gloomy mist and into the light,

comes an urban legend . . . a young white suburbanite.

copyright  2008  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Lose Yourself by Eminem

Images: silver spoon (metalmuseum.org), Rolling Rock beer (hoppsy.com), Flava (myrunkspace.com), Bey caricature (pinoypix.com), Philadelphia skyline (wordfromtheweb.com)