Black Poetry : Goin Home

Discussion in 'Black Poetry - Get Your Flow On!' started by csojourner, Jun 20, 2006.

  1. csojourner

    csojourner Member MEMBER

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    This is for Colored Boys Who Considers Suicide When the Ways of This World Were Not Enough.

    Goin Home


    As a child I often envisioned my own funeral. I would be laid out
    like some rich white woman, in a stunning casket, surrounded by
    pleasing flowers and poisonous people. Clocks would stop and
    stores would close in my honor. Colored folks would press their clothes
    and prepare tons of food for the service. White folks would dress in
    Chanel and Ralph Lauren. Flags would waver at half-mast and buildings
    would be veiled in black bunting. Traffic would be backed up for miles
    and miles, with highway reader boards flashing, "Funeral procession in progress: slow-moving traffic next 3000 miles."

    The procession would wind through the neighborhoods of all my
    enemies. My tormentors would be standing shoulder-to-shoulder,
    parade-rest. They would all cry hollow tears—tears that would
    sting their flesh, just as their words, actions and inaction's had
    stung my whole being. Some would come seeking a glimpse of the one
    they had persecuted. Others would come seeking absolution, but
    none would be dispensed that day. The confessional was closed—this was
    a day of mourning.

    A sign outside the church would read, "The decedent kindly
    requests that all ladies of birth and choice don hats." If some ladies had
    forgotten their hats or didn't own one, the ladies relief and
    women's auxiliary societies would make sure there were plenty to
    go around.

    Yes, hats big-big hats. The kind of hats that let folks know you
    command respect and most importantly waited all week to wear it. I
    hope that in Heaven boys like me get to wear hats.

    The music would be simple—nothing grand or ostentatious—that's
    what caskets are for. Of course I would have written my own eulogy. It
    would read, "This place just ain't safe for a dark-skinned sissy
    like myself, so I've gone home to glory to reign with my Lord—see
    you if you get there."

    The front pews would be reserved for the hired chorus of criers
    who would wail, wail like they did at Golgotha. The sound would be
    deafening. They would wail:

    So loud that it would drown out the voices of all the Black folks
    who'd told me I was not black enough because my parents were
    white.

    So loud that it would drown out the voices of all the White folks
    who'd told me that there were ******* and blacks; magnanimously
    reassuring me that I was the latter.

    So loud that it would drown out the voices of everyone who'd told
    me I was going to hell for kissing boys, and the silence of those
    who'd neglected to tell me I didn't have to kiss every boy who
    wanted to kiss me.

    So loud it would drown out the voice of everyone who had labeled
    me gifted, articulate or entertaining, all the while neglecting to
    see my frozen tears.

    Yes, this would be a day for wailing—at least for the hired
    chorus of criers. My wailing is done; I'm on my way home. And when
    I get there, I'm going to walk right up to the pearly gates were
    I'll be met by God Almighty himself. And I know just what he is
    going to say "Welcome home, my child; I hadn't expected to call you
    home this soon, but it just wasn't safe for you down there anymore." I'll reply, "You're telling me. But hey did you see my funeral?
    Now that was fierce.
     
  2. abstract219

    abstract219 ...standing on the shoulders of giants MEMBER

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    cso....this is a amazing write....very descriptive, very witty. And humorous. I love the ending.
    i find you to be a entertaining and well-thought out writer.....your topic matter is always engaging, sometimes bitter, but you are always well spoken.

    great voice, great write.
     
  3. $$RICH$$

    $$RICH$$ Lyon King Admin. STAFF

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    awesome scribe had lots of humor and i agree very witty
    flow on poet
     
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