Pound on My Fist

barber-shop-cut

-Cleave Michaels

 

Pound on my fist 

secret handshake lets me in

Man cave of marvels

dusky heroes praised within                                                              

Booths seat comedians

Some you know and those you don’t

Heated towel, sitting high on the throne

A sight in a mirror, curious prying

Grooming cuts along side, boasting and lying

Flexing jokers shout-out hilarious tales

Shop next store lifted up with the wails

Gentlemen sitting in their best starting scandals

Oh, men Gossip Good-light it up like candles

Entertainment tells the youth, one philosophy

Humming clippers- Still -make no apology

Chest puffed out, feeling manhood bloom

Clean, cream of the crop, backstage control room

 

 

 

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Living The Dream

 

power-and-equality

Courtesy of http://www.womenology.com

 

-Michael Cleaves

Living The Dream

Got up from the Woolworth’s lunch counter, messy with condiments;

Used prints to create a dashiki

Marched all over the southern land, sight-saw strange fruit;

created jazz

Mixed in my education, like a Benetton ad;

uplifted my community

Wore black boots, with black caps, called myself a Panther;

hypnotised a world with Black Power

Unleashed my abundant hair, called myself Beautiful;

introduced a ‘fro

Police stomped my face, sent shepards called German after me;

mainstreamed Rap

Threw my fist in the air like an Olympian, receiving gold;

started profiling

Remembering that dream hasn’t been easy, changing a klan cherished history;

Rap got gangsta’

Beaten even when one couldn’t breathe, now black lives matter;

Confused as to whether we are beginning anew, causes we forgot to remember?

Exposure My Heart

women-from-behind

Photo courtesy of ShutterStock

Exposure

Opened much too soon to a lovely face

that erased me as soon as my utterings were done,

Opened myself to a grace

disinterested in being mine,

Skin so lovely my tongue wanted a taste

of that casing only so deep,

Next time I won’t be beguiled

by style and symmetry,

Next time I love, it will be

passionate poetry,

Exposing my soul to a stranger,

strangled my faith in the next.

By Michael Cleaves