Dark as thoughts of the
Bonded on chain gangs.
Breath breaks the night of
the starless sky. It
Is harsh to claim it
But folks feel the skin.
They called it a tar
Pit for the blessed ones.
Women patched things to
Keep the men all tight.
They called it the big
Jungle. Hopping out
Of the place to shine.
Individuals
Made community.
Without the one, there
Is no other. The
shade pushes the brain.
Called colored, the life
Of those with ink skin
Remember blood red.
The color on shade
Is the wound made
From ships that floated
From distant shores that
Show variations.
About the Creator
Skyler Saunders
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Smartystan
Chanda sent home money every two weeks. In a small village in India, she deposited money into the bank account of her aunt and uncle who sent her to live in America. The place seemed so remote, almost cut off from the rest of the country. There, a festival took place where participants hurled cow eliminations at each other. The muddy, mucky sense of it had been known for centuries. Locals tied it to an ancient god who they believed restored people’s health with the cow plops. During the festival, thick patties passed through the air and smushed into the bodies and faces of those rollicking around in the filth.
By Skyler SaundersExclusive • 4 days ago
Five—One Grounding
Five—Locked in a perpetual battle against my failing senses and reason, I fight to survive, to get through; I am afraid of... nothingandeverythingallatonce—...—my mouth is dry, and my muscles seize up... what can I see? I can see the birdcage and birds; I can see the watercolour my beautiful wife painted many years ago and unlocked her journey into art; I can see the empty mug of tea as it sits perilously on the arm of the sofa; how many is that now? Three down, two to go; I can also see a jackdaw on the roof of our neighbour's house across the road and a bookcase of potential—Five things you can see.
By Paul Stewart6 days ago in Poets
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