tag:koolb.biz,2005:/blogs/poets-in-h-town?p=3Poets in H-Town2021-12-29T19:36:32-06:00Kool B's Wordville 1330falsetag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/68547052021-12-29T19:36:32-06:002023-10-16T09:52:57-05:00I Should Probably Leave<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/15f12bedbf26abdae9ce7fba186ac7f5f73b9704/original/yonko-kilasi-637686-unsplash.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>She sings to soundless shadows </p>
<p>. . prays with a broken halo </p>
<p>I should probably leave </p>
<p>but a buried love song plays in my dizzy head </p>
<p> . . . a running needle fallows the grove </p>
<p>Beauty</p>
<p>only skin deep </p>
<p>. . . plays tricks on me in the sunlight </p>
<p>She’s crazy about lucid dreams </p>
<p>. . . listens carefully to the pitch of rain </p>
<p>. . . open to persuasion </p>
<p>I should probably leave </p>
<p>but her tender miracles need wings to fly </p>
<p>She sings to soundless shadows </p>
<p>. . . prays with a broken halo </p>
<p>. . . purple pilot in the sky </p>
<p>walking on a delicate moon </p>
<p>Shea butter baby kisses me blind </p>
<p>a thousand times </p>
<p>like Sunday morning black keys </p>
<p>. . . belladonna sunrise </p>
<p>I come up for air </p>
<p>as she rivers her precious colors </p>
<p>. . . painting my paper truth </p>
<p>without confines </p>
<p>. . . open to persuasion </p>
<p>. . . walking on a delicate moon </p>
<p>she sings to soundless shadows </p>
<p>. . . prays with a broken halo </p>
<p>I should probably leave </p>
<p>but her tender miracles need wings to fly</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67974922021-11-03T15:41:17-05:002022-04-11T18:08:17-05:00The Perfect Butterfly<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/6f42a8d2be17196688fb9a26accfd6144afdc0bf/original/6b58e8c4-e344-4f6b-9ddd-26152af94009.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>She ‘s the perfect butterfly </p>
<p>You should see her when she takes to the sparkling sky </p>
<p>Nothing holds her back </p>
<p>I’ve seen the whole world try </p>
<p>but candid flowers can not lie </p>
<p>They die for her rapturous touch </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A bush of believing wind </p>
<p>. . . pollen from a spin in flutter </p>
<p>. . . wings as soft as grandma’s left out butter </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I melt as warm as sunsets </p>
<p>. . . wander through thoughts like a children’s moon </p>
<p>Maybe a spoon of stainless sugar will bring me back </p>
<p>like a poem relaxing near a picket fence </p>
<p>. . . making sense of it all </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They die for her rapturous touch </p>
<p>She’s the perfect butterfly </p>
<p>You should see her when she takes to the sparkling sky </p>
<p>Nothing holds her back </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Maybe it’s just my swaying imagination </p>
<p>running away with me </p>
<p>. . . cleverly telling me something I should already know </p>
<p>“ Only fools fall in love” </p>
<p>and there “The wise dare not go” </p>
<p>Words can paint a pretty picture </p>
<p>but heartbreak can melt the snow </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Show me the yellow daisies in bloom </p>
<p>Play me a russet tune that croons of life </p>
<p>Let powdered memories forget what is soon to come </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s the perfect butterfly </p>
<p>Candid flowers will not lie </p>
<p>You should see her take to the sparkling sky </p>
<p>Nothing holds her back </p>
<p>I’ve seen the whole world try </p>
<p>They die for her rapturous touch</p>
<p> </p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67590722021-09-27T16:07:57-05:002021-12-29T14:20:40-06:00Kalvin Coolie<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/30964f11c45a5de8c90778b713af9961c80e41d5/original/cheng-feng-j6atq83sbho-unsplash.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Hail to its concrete face </p>
<p>Houston city streets keep their devouring pace </p>
<p>a racing matrix of mass destruction </p>
<p>you do the mathematics </p>
<p>it's a spiral staircase of deduction, </p>
<p>a swarm of flies flirting with a garbage pile, </p>
<p>rubbish set to rot near a curb </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A malodorous child emerges </p>
<p>Kalvin Coolie is not your average troubadour </p>
<p>. . . a coffee house poet that pours to the brim, </p>
<p>all at once, </p>
<p>at every table </p>
<p>He 's able to entice an audience with psychic chase </p>
<p>bait and switch </p>
<p>Itch and scratch your head for a little sense </p>
<p>maybe his poems could stand as reason </p>
<p>. . . ears will be the judge of that </p>
<p>parchment vice </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hail to its concrete face </p>
<p>Houston city streets keep their devouring pace </p>
<p>a racing matrix of mass destruction </p>
<p>Kalvin Coolie is not your average troubadour </p>
<p> </p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67590402021-09-27T15:33:47-05:002021-11-30T13:27:14-06:00Whisper Nothing<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/9635c115a2aec488bd633146953e9ca8ea4a008e/original/janko-ferlic-446229-unsplash.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>Whisper nothing </p>
<p>like desert cities </p>
<p>laid back under majestic midnight </p>
<p>in shadowed sensations </p>
<p>hot chocolate raindrops scorching my heart, </p>
<p>loose in laughter, unchained in my ear </p>
<p>like a whirl of wind </p>
<p>It turns my soul indigo </p>
<p>like sunset's purple </p>
<p>Men adore you </p>
<p>Whisper nothing </p>
<p>Your quiet writing says it all </p>
<p>. . . and it's easy to read my thoughts </p>
<p>like paper print </p>
<p>there's no braille to touch </p>
<p>like a whirl of wind, </p>
<p>loose in laughter, </p>
<p>unchained in my ear </p>
<p>Men adore you </p>
<p>Whisper nothing</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67590142021-09-27T15:11:31-05:002022-04-11T18:17:12-05:00Fabiola's Pain <p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/a8b14ec6b468f8b1b66bb35607441a36dc860282/original/laura-vinck-427554.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Fabiola burned every blue sweater </p>
<p>thinking it would erase the fabricated pain </p>
<p>that was her gift to wear </p>
<p>woven plastic twisting into drunken flames </p>
<p>folded paper curled and crinkled </p>
<p>Her sunken spirit wrinkled </p>
<p>in yellowed blush and then subsequently black </p>
<p>Ashes into ashes </p>
<p>Dust into dust </p>
<p>We all fall down </p>
<p>look what she had found searching </p>
<p>Wet lipstick on his Khaki jacket, </p>
<p>pucker prints, </p>
<p>orange in her scarlet apartment, </p>
<p>pacing the hardwood floors </p>
<p>She turned pink when he knocked </p>
<p>She opened the door he'd walked through countless times, </p>
<p> laughed in a long moment of insanity, </p>
<p>rambled a Creole slur in contempt, </p>
<p>freckled-faced</p>
<p>burned by match sticks </p>
<p>She left a hole in his story with her weapon </p>
<p>It lied motionless without grief, </p>
<p>ghostly and insipid </p>
<p>Her last kiss had no regret </p>
<p>Fabiola burned every blue sweater </p>
<p>thinking it would erase the fabricated pain </p>
<p>that was her gift to wear</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67388742021-09-07T14:16:09-05:002021-09-07T14:16:09-05:00Jewels From the Hidden Geography <p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/7c39381d160820d5bffe6000da59a552f3e3d877/original/duet-redux-elegant-b.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Jewels from the hidden geography, </p>
<p>description of a human surface, </p>
<p>Low-pitched inclinations, immediate reality, </p>
<p>. . . discharging prattle… </p>
<p>My second attention unearths more of me, </p>
<p>endless episodes of exploding emotions, </p>
<p>. . . too many to count, catch, or to query. </p>
<p>My potential for action still lost in thought. </p>
<p>Every ulterior motive lays wide open. </p>
<p>I supply the paper rapidly! </p>
<p>Here, the one is the same as the many. </p>
<p>A few seconds seem like hours, </p>
<p>. . . hours like a single moment in time. </p>
<p>Breath soars misprints! </p>
<p>Scribble jets off spent recollections, pure intuition, </p>
<p>exaggerations for your enjoyment. </p>
<p>. . . jewels from the hidden geography! </p>
<p>Here, a few seconds seem like hours, </p>
<p>. . . hours like a single minute. </p>
<p>At the rate I’m writing, who knows what’s next! </p>
<p>. . . endless episodes of exploding emotions! </p>
<p>. . . too many to count, catch, or to query! </p>
<p>My second attention unearths more of me, </p>
<p>descriptions of a human surface, </p>
<p>. . . immediate reality! </p>
<p>. . . jewels from the hidden geography!</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67325422021-08-31T21:39:08-05:002022-04-11T18:27:01-05:00The Wild Side<p><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/3173b6ee0663f24e56d99b0d30d1eb28df2f854c/original/i2jdnmdmyv8-hisu-lee.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>She was upside down </p>
<p>like a misused postage stamp </p>
<p>stuck to a life she couldn’t believe </p>
<p>I was breathing inside out </p>
<p>by a firehouse </p>
<p>trapped by an page too hard to read </p>
<p> </p>
<p>With moonlight eyes </p>
<p>she said hello </p>
<p>and walked, unhurried, across the sky </p>
<p>The night was young </p>
<p>The sun’s asleep </p>
<p>I could not say goodbye </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Happy was a smoky place </p>
<p>where men lost their shirts </p>
<p>Women dance all night long </p>
<p>just to lose their skirts </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I said, “Baby, let’s take a walk on the wild side </p>
<p>. . . I can walk under ladders </p>
<p>. . . don’t need no bracelet </p>
<p>. . . no four-leaf clover </p>
<p>. . . just as long as you are here with me.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That was then </p>
<p>This is now </p>
<p>Somehow we found our peace </p>
<p>The joker laughed </p>
<p>. . . played his cards </p>
<p>and waited on the thief </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We showed our hand </p>
<p>The dealer panned </p>
<p>and swallowed in disbelief </p>
<p>I felt the wind from his grin </p>
<p>His teeth flashed paper-thin </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the band played on </p>
<p>. . . a simple song </p>
<p>Lucky headed for the door </p>
<p>She took my hand without a plan </p>
<p>and finished her last pour </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She said, “Baby, let’s take a walk on the wild side . . . </p>
<p>I can walk under ladders </p>
<p>. . . don’t need no bracelet </p>
<p>. . . no four-leaf clover </p>
<p>. . . just as long as you are here with me.</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67271872021-08-25T18:38:50-05:002021-12-02T16:39:45-06:00While Waiting Limited Edition Poetry Hanging Language series 01 <p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/41e278319c812ff5f1fc8e344cf80de89589d494/original/unsplash-dt4hx-qw0aw.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>She has eyes </p>
<p>like those of tameless lions </p>
<p>brown reflections of dark souls sleeping </p>
<p>They take me like dreams. </p>
<p>She’s laughing </p>
<p>lids are tightening, and lashes touch </p>
<p>Her eyes disappear </p>
<p>and reappear, out-loud, </p>
<p>returning water from a tightening tummy </p>
<p>She looks out again </p>
<p>I begin to sketch her deeper into a poem </p>
<p>Open orbs close once more </p>
<p>inspiring the masterpiece further </p>
<p>Her round cheeks posing a smile for my flowing ink pen </p>
<p>When the page turns, she blinks </p>
<p>My beating heart stops </p>
<p>Her eyes are bare again </p>
<p>like those of tameless lions </p>
<p>brown reflections of dark souls sleeping </p>
<p>They take me like dreams</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67227112021-08-20T15:36:10-05:002022-04-11T18:29:41-05:00Prayer Before Sunrise <p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/c9c9a597387919e4a197f67d51edadbcf439e878/original/pexels-photo-38926.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Prayer before sunrise </p>
<p>visualizing vivid pictures of perfect scriptures reflecting my times </p>
<p>Drifting lyrics and holy spirits advancing through the limitless abyss </p>
<p>I kiss my lover no sooner than she awakes </p>
<p>break my rest with action </p>
<p>A brisk shower </p>
<p>close shave </p>
<p>a glass of exciting orange juice </p>
<p>madd exercise and deep breathing </p>
<p>Listing to myself in the calm down </p>
<p>the green tea is boiling </p>
<p>paper moon, sparkling stars, and strategic satellites </p>
<p>fighting is east of the muddy Nile </p>
<p>Murder is west of the moving Mississippi River </p>
<p>I pray for the day the demons are contained and subdued </p>
<p>Blue cloth for your beauty </p>
<p>Fluttering moth and flickering flame </p>
<p>Give us rain, oh great majesty </p>
<p>Give us rain </p>
<p>I repeat it so many times it starts to echo </p>
<p>A prayer before sunrise</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67227092021-08-20T15:31:07-05:002022-04-11T18:37:28-05:00There is No One Like You<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/72f86300fb9925172dcd2019cff9debe6dd06506/original/oladimeji-odunsi-wu3yqve2gnc-unsplash.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>There's no one </p>
<p>like you </p>
<p>I've searched every single page </p>
<p>for two </p>
<p>Imagined myself with a crayon </p>
<p>neon blue </p>
<p>A shade so perfect </p>
<p> it rivaled the moon </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A play on looks in your glance </p>
<p>A quick book full of speechless romance </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Talk like fire </p>
<p>A thousand words without asking questions </p>
<p>When conditions are right, </p>
<p>lightning strikes without guessing </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's no one like you </p>
<p>I've searched every single page </p>
<p>for two </p>
<p>Imagined myself with a crayon </p>
<p> neon blue </p>
<p> A shade so perfect</p>
<p>it rivaled the moon</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/67128182021-08-10T21:48:35-05:002022-04-11T18:42:39-05:00The Iron Steed: For Bike Riders<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/8081907bc58f301a862f95bf8dc9e55361afbf2b/original/dsc05999.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>It is zen </p>
<p> A meditation of mind </p>
<p>. . . grounding buoyancy </p>
<p>Once up on the wordless saddle </p>
<p>the cunning road is what it is, </p>
<p>uneven, </p>
<p>cracked, curved, buckled, wily, and crooked </p>
<p>. . . snakelike </p>
<p>. . . twist littered </p>
<p>and potholed with gravity checks </p>
<p>Spinning wheels take each jolt without judgment </p>
<p>turning like twirling thoughts in single-speed </p>
<p> . . . fixed geared </p>
<p> . . . hard tail free coast </p>
<p>. . . moments of track standing for red lights </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is zen </p>
<p>pedals, crank, and path </p>
<p>. . . exertion </p>
<p>the focus of chi </p>
<p>. . . a taming of nerves through traffic </p>
<p>The cunning road is what it is, </p>
<p>uneven, cracked, curved, buckled, wily, and crooked </p>
<p>a regulation of attention </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cycling is a lucid pleasure </p>
<p>It purifies the heart </p>
<p>. . . like dancing </p>
<p>an exercise of balance </p>
<p>. . . grounding buoyancy </p>
<p>. . . mindfulness </p>
<p>It is Zen</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66891652021-07-15T16:46:32-05:002022-04-11T18:45:19-05:00In Thought of You<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/3312dd2a30767d9953f6fc8e0320f4973687bb37/original/max-bender-510413.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Rain splashed the traffic; </p>
<p>a sea of braking red lights, </p>
<p>Evening had come and gone; </p>
<p>the night song was playing a concerto in E minor. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I was in thought of you, </p>
<p>waiting on a gust of wind, </p>
<p>yet nothing such was in the air </p>
<p>nor was it in my pen. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>What reason should I have to bend a promise </p>
<p>but for grains of salt </p>
<p>and sea of braking red lights. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I was in thought of you. </p>
<p>Evening had come and gone. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rain slashed the traffic </p>
<p>The night song was playing a concerto in E minor, </p>
<p>holding her breath,</p>
<p>never looking back, </p>
<p>waiting on a gust of wind, </p>
<p>for she had no friends to worship her. </p>
<p>They had come and gone like grains of salt </p>
<p>They pillared, powdered, and poofed</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66891252021-07-15T16:28:16-05:002022-04-11T18:46:53-05:00No Need to let the Rain In<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/ab2e03eb6a0222706cdbbde25b1bfdb29e4ee594/original/textures-12.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I say it's sunny weather. </p>
<p>You say it's cold outside. </p>
<p>I say the water is fine. </p>
<p>You say the deep blue has lost its shine. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Spin a nickel like a bottle </p>
<p>watch it turn. </p>
<p>Light a candle in the dark… </p>
<p>watch it burn. </p>
<p>Separate the flickers from the flames. </p>
<p>There's no need to let the rain in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You said you bought a one-way ticket. </p>
<p>I say any place is better than here. </p>
<p>You look away like there is no tomorrow. </p>
<p>I step ahead like there was no yesterday. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now, it's all like never in a nowhere place. </p>
<p>We're on busy signals, again. </p>
<p>One more call won't really matter. </p>
<p>My heart's been stolen by the wind. </p>
<p>There’s no need to let the rain in.</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66807312021-07-06T21:54:18-05:002022-04-11T18:49:57-05:00Come Away With Me<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/04f3029b087818e6cd1710658ac4d2c5b54162db/original/s-0lnrvj8nqheptfythryl-img-9925.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Come away with me </p>
<p>high above any nervous weather </p>
<p>and sound of city thunder </p>
<p>where heaven doesn’t fade from the uncertain sky </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’m waiting with my favorite suit on </p>
<p>the one with love poems in every drifting pocket </p>
<p>. . . Two are in the form of letters never mailed </p>
<p>They don’t want to come uninvited </p>
<p>. . . out of the blue </p>
<p>and be returned to sender . . . a bittersweet </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Come away with me </p>
<p>high above any nervous weather </p>
<p>where fickle wind doesn’t complain </p>
<p>and the naive sun laughs at the befuddled rain </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I belong to you </p>
<p>like avid moonlight on a devoted river </p>
<p>. . . far beyond the twain </p>
<p>where constellations bloom </p>
<p>just below a soaring dream </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Come away with me </p>
<p>I’m waiting with my favorite suit on </p>
<p>. . the one with love poems in every drifting pocket </p>
<p>where chattering flowers grow </p>
<p>. . . daisies from a diary of whim </p>
<p>. . . a garden of delights written too soon </p>
<p>. . . out of the blue </p>
<p>I belong to you like avid moonlight on a devoted river </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Come away with me . . . </p>
<p> </p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66724142021-06-27T22:52:59-05:002021-09-07T19:05:56-05:00A Temple of Familiars: A Mini-Chat With Kool B.<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/e54debf7392d61081cf8c7b627ddb05ff0fe2d32/original/unsplash-pbawlwstof4.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>The poem is available at every moment; open to the active gaze, resting in the sounds that vibrate the focused ear, awaiting with excitement as one touches or tastes upon the physical elements that are at hand. Even smells reveal their truths, without question, to poets undertaking the exploration of living. All occurrences have potential influence over the act of musing. This is evident when sifting through the wide array of compositions written by the many who would dare to exercise this practice of creative language use; the writer Kool B says. He goes on to point out that the emotional environment that arises during this experience is a manifestation of the human soul proving as it strives to make meaning or sense of the world that surrounds it. The struggle to articulate the myriad of arousals that are derived from navigating this earthly expanse is the challenge that all bards face. Choosing the appropriate syntax, or word placement, to capture the voyage on paper is where the difficulty seeps in at times. Especially if the writer is trying to express that journey to a reader or listener. To take them along, meaning and perception of the rendered language are key factors in the connection between “guide” and “follower.” B asserts that his application of poetry mechanics focuses on maintaining a familiar construct of script that aids in unifying the poem with its audience. He believes that the path which connects audience to writer, the two being worlds apart, at times, is forged by synchronized understanding. A meaningful / relevant poem is one that all can traverse without getting lost in a forest of metaphors and analogies that fence them out and away from its substance . There must be a general ease that must be afforded to the reader if they are to return to a page of creative language. People love temples of their familiars; Kool B concludes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wordville Staff Writer: Bingo Lee</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66616552021-06-16T19:25:11-05:002021-09-07T19:08:21-05:00A Plate Goes Empty<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/22c8beba9235e19b5bd5680853a2294a804cf7e2/original/epk-sombre-2.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>A copper spoon </p>
<p>that would have been polished silver </p>
<p>slips from a mouth as wide as a watermelon smile </p>
<p>revealing the imagination of a negro child </p>
<p>that invents in pencil, pen and crayon black </p>
<p>like a score from Porgy and Bess </p>
<p>held together by a language that only the outcast speaks </p>
<p>bazaar like segregation on paper </p>
<p> as bleached as falling snow </p>
<p>He knows his ivory canvas Is a delight of privilege </p>
<p>stained with coal and pitch </p>
<p>A plate goes empty </p>
<p>exposing its livid hunger </p>
<p>haunting a reflection </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A copper spoon </p>
<p>that would have been polished silver </p>
<p>scrapes against a set chicken-bone teeth </p>
<p>. . . slides from between a pair of thick paper- bag lips </p>
<p>His sweeping eyes </p>
<p>staring into a T. D. Rice cartoon </p>
<p>A delight of privilege </p>
<p>that invents in pencil, pen, and crayon black </p>
<p>bazaar like segregation in heaven </p>
<p>springing from the graveyards of Dixie </p>
<p>where the spook of Jim Crow shades </p>
<p>stained with coal and pitch </p>
<p>a score from Porgy and Bess </p>
<p>held together by a language that only the outcast speaks </p>
<p>A plate goes empty</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66371162021-05-21T21:54:38-05:002022-04-11T19:07:03-05:00In a Moment Near You <p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/eb64e32d2b19071f5aec2d78df16ac771efa6fce/original/pexels-photo-umbrellas-art-flying.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>My wires keep a rapid pace </p>
<p>They separate your face from a crowded space </p>
<p>A looking mirror breaks </p>
<p>as salacious sounds escape</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My heart awakes in a moment near you </p>
<p>. . . holding a Cinderella shoe </p>
<p>yet the festive night is through </p>
<p>There’s nothing left to do but be alone </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If only there was a waiting telephone </p>
<p>ready with an answer to a ring </p>
<p>. . . a girlish voice in sing </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It must be my childish dream to push your swing </p>
<p>high into moonlight beams</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This affection is an awkward green</p>
<p>. . . blooms with vibrant colors </p>
<p>my last lover had not seen</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the passenger’s side </p>
<p>It feels like a Cadillac ride </p>
<p>. . . sunroof top </p>
<p>. . . foot on the peddle </p>
<p>. . . racing and settling beyond all the traffic </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My wires keep a rapid pace </p>
<p>They separate your face from a crowded space </p>
<p>A looking mirror breaks </p>
<p>as salacious sounds escape </p>
<p>My heart awakes in a moment near you.</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66350502021-05-19T21:49:54-05:002022-04-11T19:12:27-05:00Fish and Dragonflies<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/a3f5e3942f0809d8285ac8355466e9f08440c3ea/original/xs-rbpxytgu.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJjb250ZW50LnNpdGV6b29nbGUuY29tIn0=/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>A black-top, farm-to-market, road window breeze. </p>
<p>An old friend, sunrise, eases through the objecting screen.</p>
<p>Dawn beams softly off her morning eyes. </p>
<p>Dew sleeping, on her lazy yard, </p>
<p>still cool from twilight, </p>
<p>wet under a set of bare feet,</p>
<p>bare to the knees, </p>
<p>walking into a forest of pine trees, </p>
<p>striding alone to hurry back before breakfast</p>
<p>when the anxious kitchen writes a poem </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Careful are the pots not to clang, cling, or clatter</p>
<p>Silence matters at such an hour </p>
<p>when orange tea is poured </p>
<p>and good ears are needed to listen. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The heavy table is familiar like dish and spoon</p>
<p>It's the empty sheets of sweating paper </p>
<p>that are so strange </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She could've written a novel by now, </p>
<p>but now the river is bathing her with mind adrift ... </p>
<p>... fish and dragonflies. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sunday's perfect dress awaits inside a short closet</p>
<p>. It matches her fabriced skin ... fish and dragonflies. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She appears in the clearing</p>
<p>footing porchward </p>
<p>where shade gathers to perch until evening</p>
<p>when shadows stretch upward onto walls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She is complete </p>
<p>... oven-toasted peach marmalade parading her sweet self</p>
<p>with the lure of tomorrow in her eyes</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66227362021-05-05T20:54:23-05:002022-04-11T19:16:48-05:00Brownie is a Hold of Breath<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/c47094953ad0f2f6f1b5c676fdf408c0d0b733a4/original/andrey-zvyagintsev-dvabjw5nyti-unsplash.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Brownie is a hold of breath </p>
<p>So beautiful in drift </p>
<p>ripping stationary </p>
<p>Elegance permits her temper </p>
<p>a swing jazz tempo in bop </p>
<p>One had to really listen </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She skipped punctuations, vowel sounds, and </p>
<p>Inflated onomatopoeias </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Like the drummer splashing his symbols in flirt of rhythm </p>
<p>she comes back to her senses </p>
<p>The bridge returns in syncopation </p>
<p>Brownie holds her breath </p>
<p>so beautiful in drift </p>
<p>She performs in a stream of window light </p>
<p>Downtown never sleeps </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her mind is restless </p>
<p>Sips of water keep her voice from cracking </p>
<p>and showing the melancholy of torn paper </p>
<p> </p>
<p>One had to really listen </p>
<p>Elegance permitted her temper </p>
<p>Brownie is a hold of breath</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66227282021-05-05T20:35:21-05:002022-04-11T19:20:34-05:00Unnoticed<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/2e8b62bccf03a45c495479954546f500557d52c9/original/6oai5bfmj-q.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>A poem unnoticed </p>
<p>is as a colored child </p>
<p>sleeping in the dead of night, </p>
<p>awakened by polished dreams of terror </p>
<p>and shadow’s light, </p>
<p>a dim despair </p>
<p>discarded to the emptiness of time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There, it isn’t provocative, </p>
<p>weighed down and drowned in a river of thoughts, </p>
<p>made murky by one’s novel ink </p>
<p>so pressed to cotton </p>
<p>you can’t see the bottom. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A poem unnoticed </p>
<p>is as a colored child </p>
<p>lost without attention </p>
<p>… quiet from neglect. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Only paper shows its kindness, </p>
<p>a weary blue shade of simple language </p>
<p>trapped in solitude, </p>
<p>never to be disturbed, </p>
<p>a lazy play of sound </p>
<p>like Monday’s muse in B flat, </p>
<p>an oven non-the-less. </p>
<p>It must sequester every margin of respect. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A poem unnoticed is as a colored child </p>
<p>sleeping in the dead of night</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66197632021-05-02T17:45:14-05:002021-09-07T19:08:56-05:00I Shall Rise<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/ec31cf278207681d9af2678794d2d2a47d1a6ed5/original/unsplash-bsmkli4otiy.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>From copious ash of grave misfortune </p>
<p>I shall rise again and again </p>
<p>Despite the deceitful hearts of men </p>
<p>my candid nerves shall not be lost </p>
<p>nor set to waver by their lurid contempt </p>
<p>When jealousy triumphs </p>
<p>and her indifference scorns </p>
<p>I will quiet the clamor of my fitted soul </p>
<p>There is a noble victory in peace </p>
<p>It is a radiant covenant that governs all </p>
<p>As dire arrows fly without regret </p>
<p>and greed consumes my daily bread in disregard </p>
<p>this bare resolve shall grow in strength </p>
<p>I shall be of good courage </p>
<p>When fear attempts to steal my unmasked thoughts </p>
<p>bravery will shield them from theft </p>
<p>The sword of faith shall provide them way </p>
<p>Despite the deceitful hearts of men </p>
<p>I shall rise again and again </p>
<p>from copious ash of grave misfortune </p>
<p>When jealousy triumph and her indifference scorns </p>
<p>my candid nerves shall not be lost </p>
<p>I will quiet the clamor of my fitted soul </p>
<p>I shall rise</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66147342021-04-26T22:19:06-05:002021-09-07T19:12:14-05:00There is No One Like You<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/6bce769a2a9fd0ad728596512238d53b63edc97d/original/8f81bc87-6288-4efa-9d9f-59f3c1e3dedf.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>There's no one </p>
<p>like you </p>
<p>I've searched every single page </p>
<p>for two </p>
<p>Imagined myself with a crayon </p>
<p>neon blue </p>
<p>A shade so perfect </p>
<p> it rivaled the moon </p>
<p>A play on looks in your glance </p>
<p>A quick book full of speechless romance </p>
<p>Talk like fire </p>
<p>A thousand words without asking questions </p>
<p>When conditions are right, </p>
<p>lightning strikes without guessing </p>
<p>There's no one like you </p>
<p>I've searched every single page </p>
<p>for two </p>
<p>Imagined myself with a crayon </p>
<p> neon blue </p>
<p> A shade so perfect it rivaled the moon</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66145752021-04-26T19:48:12-05:002021-09-07T19:12:38-05:00Love Jones<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/72f86300fb9925172dcd2019cff9debe6dd06506/original/oladimeji-odunsi-wu3yqve2gnc-unsplash.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />He was a lit wick </p>
<p> at each end, </p>
<p>... lost a few screws each time the wind blew. </p>
<p>... wore a steel-toe military combat boot </p>
<p> on his wrong foot! </p>
<p>... said it was agent orange ... </p>
<p> water torture ... </p>
<p> Vietnam made him sink! </p>
<p>She was on an open book, </p>
<p>rare print; </p>
<p>the kind you couldn't put down. </p>
<p>Both sought after high ground. </p>
<p>... Found themselves shelved between stones </p>
<p>in a chard space. </p>
<p>Nothing could erase their childhood. </p>
<p>It swallowed every chapter, </p>
<p> just behind the plot, </p>
<p>laughing innocently </p>
<p> at the wheel </p>
<p>while pages turn </p>
<p>too fast to make any sense </p>
<p>like his chaos, </p>
<p>she was brash and loyal; </p>
<p>... swayed a little off-center, </p>
<p>and he was a lit wick at each end. </p>
<p>... lost a few screws each time the wind blew </p>
<p> He had the perfect vice. </p>
<p>she poured him over ice. </p>
<p>He couldn't sleep at night. </p>
<p>She made it alright.</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66145602021-04-26T19:21:00-05:002021-09-07T19:13:04-05:00Club Lights Dim<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/0888b3410e569cd14949fec6c22d3c4aa07667ce/original/live-13.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Club lights dim </p>
<p>People in the back gradually disappear </p>
<p>momentarily </p>
<p>in the trim </p>
<p>a flood of red, grim and sinister, rays saturate the stage </p>
<p>Ruby shoes </p>
<p>Crimson Tuesday </p>
<p>scarlet sweaters </p>
<p>and </p>
<p>a </p>
<p>Marxist sound-man adjusting volumes and distortions </p>
<p>Welcome </p>
<p>as </p>
<p>I begin to invite the public into my private life </p>
<p>Night air fill with suspense </p>
<p>Dancers help to tighten the syncopation </p>
<p>Sharp blue introduced onto brown skin surface </p>
<p>Reflection turns somewhat purple </p>
<p>wonder does it burn </p>
<p>like bad medicine </p>
<p>as rapid as blaze itself </p>
<p>Long exhales of cerebral meditations </p>
<p>Kinetic energy </p>
<p>setting up climax </p>
<p>psychic combustion </p>
<p>Plot oxidation </p>
<p>Narrative voice crumbles into conclusion </p>
<p>Crowded by virtuous characters </p>
<p>and </p>
<p>auditory fluctuations </p>
<p>ears wonder what they've missed </p>
<p>Pure confabulation </p>
<p>unadulterated ending twist </p>
<p>Like virgin Persian rugs </p>
<p>never stepped on before </p>
<p>tickling imagination </p>
<p>Just and hullabaloos </p>
<p>Club lights dim </p>
<p>people in the back gradually disappear </p>
<p>momentarily </p>
<p>in the trim</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/66145572021-04-26T19:04:46-05:002021-09-07T19:04:56-05:00A Poem a Houston Woman<p><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/ef73dde6bd9afd7e8deaeecd6ce59e4af54df616/original/04424a9f-11eb-44e3-9057-1f9095cf1c24.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Her dark brickwork eyes spoke Houston </p>
<p>Without question </p>
<p>Undeniably coffee brown </p>
<p>She stopped traffic like loaded rush hour rain </p>
<p>. . . Stood out like the pregnant skyline </p>
<p>scraping the ashen clouds </p>
<p>She needed no attention </p>
<p>Her ginger skin magnetized </p>
<p>like soft black cotton </p>
<p>melting just like candy, sweet, at every taste </p>
<p>Her dark immutable eyes spoke Houston </p>
<p>. . . slow muffled walks along the bayous </p>
<p>An easy southern touch . . . </p>
<p>. . . ivory pearls around her neck </p>
<p>. . . cramped denim jeans . . . leather belt about her waist . . . </p>
<p> . . . summertime in her narrow voice </p>
<p>She worshiped hurricanes </p>
<p>. . . poured out her thoughts like concrete </p>
<p>. . . paths in every direction </p>
<p>The cascade shaped her </p>
<p>She loved humid nights </p>
<p>Her dark brickwork eyes spoke Houston</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/65795332021-03-19T20:43:11-05:002021-11-30T13:38:02-06:00Quiet like a Book<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/0308dcc474041dc4df83764b9691d475600e4db8/original/afe17c8d-fdae-479f-b357-b240c2438474.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Quiet Like a Book #45</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Quiet like a book </p>
<p>She holds a turn of pages </p>
<p>closed and waiting to open </p>
<p>on their own </p>
<p>They need a hand to ease the bind <br> </p>
<p>Ruby doesn’t read romance </p>
<p>She’s a writer </p>
<p>Her poems are enough </p>
<p>Each one bares a kiss-and-tell </p>
<p>well painted and fingernail polished in lipstick red </p>
<p>He was married to her handwriting </p>
<p>for better … for worse <br> </p>
<p>She’s a writer </p>
<p>quiet like a book </p>
<p>poised and complicated </p>
<p>Ruby has no interested in tuning pages </p>
<p>She sleeps alone with a pen that bleeds on her pillow </p>
<p>quiet like a book </p>
<p>Her poems are enough </p>
<p>She’s a writer.</p>
<p> </p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/65185572021-01-11T20:26:51-06:002021-01-11T23:05:04-06:00Willie and Savanna Jones<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/5d44a4d7ca5ea9b2c530ff02427a0c59bbbc1801/original/matheus-ferrero-hxp0ke2xeqi-unsplash.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> <br><br><br>She wore her lipstick red without regret<br><br>Heaven was a simple place where quiet was kept<br><br>Savanna slept near a set of tatty railroad tracks,<br><br>each ran parallel . . . to and fro,<br><br>as if they knew in advance witch direction they should go,<br><br>but she never heard them say<br><br>So, mislaid trains whistled by in her dreams<br><br>waking only darkness with their pointed beams<br><br>Willie’s boyish jeans would be washed by Sunday</p>
<p><br>That was when his dusty hat returned to eat dinner<br><br>She wore her lipstick red without regret<br><br>He drove countless miles to see her in a flimsy cotton sundress<br><br>Heaven was a simple place where quiet was kept,<br><br>So,<br><br>They whispered their pressing affection like warm secrets<br><br>touching toes under the table<br><br>He left his vigilant shoes at the door<br><br>Willie’s loaded walk polished the bashful floors<br><br>His reflection sparkled in her readied eyes near a set of tatty railroad tracks<br><br>Each running parallel . . . to and fro<br><br>as if they knew in advance witch direction they should go,<br><br>but she never heard them say<br><br>So,<br>mislaid trains whistled by in her dreams<br><br>Willie’s boyish jeans would be washed by Sunday,<br><br>for Savanna wore her lipstick red without regret<br> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Copyright 2021 Alvin Le Blanc, III . . . Kool B . . . Wordville Publishing</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/64496772020-10-05T16:00:45-05:002021-11-30T13:54:30-06:00Black Shakespeare<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:null;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/cae3e3e08ba99b1469c1b23b966abd43e96e02d8/original/dsc5488.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Black Shakespeare </span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:null;">Somewhere <br>underneath <br>a forgotten rainbow <br>a colored boy sighs <br>fresh out of tries <br>crosswise <br>with the weight of postulating worlds <br>pearling in his wide-eyed gaze <br>betangled by an amusing maze of letters <br>coffee stained sweater <br>sky falling all around him <br>nerves provoked <br>changing texture <br>as he writes <br>in pencil <br>scratching <br>well-fashioned cursive <br>mismatching signals <br>frozen to a moment of secrets <br>Black Shakespeare <br>takes in every impression <br>under the Emerald City lights <br>somewhere <br>underneath <br>a forgotten rainbow <br>residing in his wide-eyed gaze </span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:null;">calculating canons of mathematic delights <br>three, six, nine, <br>stressed unstressed worded lines <br>intertwined pentameter <br>Finger snapping insights <br>he scores <br>changing texture <br>Perhaps it's pariah <br>clairvoyance <br>and its slow-motion affect <br>that projects off the skyline <br>amplifying his color <br>saturating brilliance <br>sky falling all around him <br>crystallite chameleon <br>Black Shakespeare <br>takes in every impression <br>under the Emerald City lights</span></h2>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/63926922020-07-24T22:51:42-05:002021-09-07T19:10:54-05:00Buried in a Lost Poem<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/ecc3913155131f97266ac406b118740f835031aa/original/dsc01011.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Truth buried shallow </p>
<p>in a lost poem </p>
<p>. . . born in a speed trap city </p>
<p>. . . grew up in a one-horse town. </p>
<p>All he knew was hasty paper. </p>
<p>It blew in the agile wind like thrown litter on a lay of callous highway </p>
<p>near an empty drive-in movie screen </p>
<p>that could be seen from an open window facing west </p>
<p>looking sheepishly out onto a back porch </p>
<p>Nixon Bennington was from there </p>
<p>. . . where everyone moves away eventually. </p>
<p>He would leave unfinished poems at an intersection </p>
<p>. . . where no mail carrier passed. </p>
<p>All he knew was hasty paper. </p>
<p>Truth, shallow, buried in a poem. </p>
<p>It blew in the wind like litter across a lay of callous highway</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/63925682020-07-24T19:43:52-05:002021-05-21T19:37:22-05:00Lucky Has Her blushing T-shirt On<p>Luck Has Her Blushing T-shirt On </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lucky has her blushing T-shirt on </p>
<p>. . . seven doting stars in the night skies </p>
<p> One plunges from the corner of my eye </p>
<p>Lucky has her buoyant moon in orbit </p>
<p>A baffling galaxy twinkles when she smiles </p>
<p> It makes me weightless </p>
<p>Lucky has blushing her T-shirt on</p>
<p>. . . wine on her peculiar lips </p>
<p>Life is with whom she dances </p>
<p> A sign unto herself </p>
<p>Lucky has her blushing her T-shirt on</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/63717662020-06-30T18:48:55-05:002021-08-17T16:56:36-05:00Let's Burn a few Books! Are you Down?<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/33f07d10f7cf38534f0f8f316f1ce0ff8f02ffec/original/zaprire.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Let us burn a few Books! Are you down? </p>
<p>Maybe we should burn some of the books too. You know . . . the books we had to read in primary and secondary school. The ones they, white educators, used to indoctrinate us into our social positions as transplanted African students of color. The books that taught us that their culture was to marvel at without question. The ones that gave them a super sense of superiority, and taught them to look at any one of African legacy as inferior. The books that left out the truth. The ones rewritten to capture the barbaric imagination of some and stifle the resilient imagination of others. The ones that taught us to be Uncle Toms, Sale-outs, Bo-jangles, passers, posers, imposters, pimps, pushers, and most of all white in our social psychology. After all, we did not want to be left out of the great privilege they shared in as they paraded around the globe trying to bind the will of every culture counter to theirs. Maybe we should set aflame the Shakespeare, the Twain, the Harper Lee, Frost, Zane Grey, and, yes, F. Scott Fitzgerald. The ones that kept us in the margins. The ones that signaled what acceptable blackness was. The ones that made mockery of men who looked like me. The ones that gave us confounding and discombobulated speech. Ones that made women of my color house cleaners, mammies, Jiggabos, and witches of ill repute. We should not forget Mein Kampt, both volumes, Willie Lynch’s The Making of a Slave, and Gone with the Wind. The books of higher learning should be under fire too. Ones like Crania Americana, The Bell Curve, Inquiries into Human Faculty and its Development, Diseases and Peculiarities of the Negro Race, Preface to the Origin of Species, and Troublesome Inheritance: Gene, Race and Human history. These books have worked as agents to retard the perspectives that people, who do not share my color, take of my kind and me. I could go on with the list of writings that should be taken to the incinerator and ashed, but I will save you the agony of that long list. I shall turn my attention to why such an action is needed. </p>
<p>As someone who is trained, by letters, in the field of sociology, I know and understand the science of socialization, I understand the American experience, and I understand the phenomena of cultural domination and its affects and effects. European colonization targeted Africans, and other groups of people, who had darker skin color, with suppression and resocialization to make them subordinate and adhere to an ill-spirited economic and social oppression that was exploitative and, most of all, dehumanizing. At present, we see videos of police chocking black men to death, we see White civilians shooting innocent black men in the streets, we see white supremacists go into black churches and open fire, and we see the bullying of African American children who attend schools that are predominantly populated by Caucasian students. These happenings are, in part, caused by the uninclusive literature of the European. Their constant reinforcement of a god that judges everyone else but them, coupled with their lie of manifest destiny, causes their arrogant denial of the collective wrong doing they engage in that dates back to antiquity. This self-righteousness that the American Europeans imposes on anyone that dares to call into question their barbaric conquests of others or the dubious deeds of their forefathers and mothers is, by all accounts, grotesque. In this self-righteousness, they have made icons of men, like the framers of their constitution, that considered my ancestor three fifths of a person and shackled them . . . those men that put on white sheets, burned crosses, and hung pregnant African women from trees . . . those men who passed Jim Crow laws and the women that supported them . . . and the segregationist who later became the conditional liberals and conservative right wing of American political parties. They were always in the classrooms spreading their philosophies of superiority and why their god does not hold them responsible for the havoc they have made on the earth. The reading that one is exposed to, through subjugation, in their halls of knowledge is a subjective decoding of subversive conditioning which holds up the social stratification apparatus that limits the social mobility of those individual who are not versed in whiteness. A student’s centrality must reinforce their Anglo-Saxon norms and values. If a pupil cannot answer questions from the Eurocentric viewpoint, his advancement through scholastics will be hindered. You know, it is like the question of who discovered America. If you want to get the grade or the job, you say Chris, when you know he, at best, explored it. This discovery myth is a joke. Their history will tell you that they discovered all the trees and rivers of North America as though the indigenous people had no understanding of the world around them. Conquest bolstered a mistruth and more lies were told. Whites will have you believe that they are responsible for civilizing humanity. Their literature is the example they hold up. From history to mathematics, from fiction to biographies, and from science to art their discriminating efforts are passed on to their generations who give protection to a racist legacy that does harm to all that encounters it. </p>
<p>At end, I would like to find and gather all the literature in league with the enemies of African humanity and set it to blaze. I would like to disrupt its circulation, interfere with its consumption, and prevent its intent from surfacing in reality. I would like other writers to join me in this cause. Books are part of the battlefield too! Let’s burn a few books! Are you down? </p>
<p>Kool B </p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/62974972020-04-28T17:30:50-05:002021-08-17T16:57:03-05:00A Poem for April . . . What of Broken Places? <p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/7cad8520cd138658d618ac74401bd80cb853d1c4/original/dsc04433.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">What of a broken place, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">ceaseless actions of muted despair, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">. . . soundless in a crack’s somber crevice, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">shattered starless like windows struck by light </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">reflecting from a murky mirror’s throw of shine </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">floating on summer’s torrid air? </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">What of a broken place, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">where shreds of slinky pages go missing, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">desperate for nails and hammer, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">abandon under gaze . . . brushed off! </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">What tried companion shall it know? </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Will it listen to the doubtless future . . . twice plastic, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">fragile like off-colored pandemonium, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> salty secondhand poems, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">and paucity swatting at dinner flies made of razors </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Does it regain balance, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">maneuver uneven without limits </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">slanted between the offbeat lines </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">What of a broken place, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">intoxicated by blight, </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">bragging of neglect </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">How hard could that be? </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> Alvin Le Blanc, III Copyright2020 Wordville Poetry: Kool B</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/62687442020-04-01T16:40:14-05:002021-08-20T12:05:14-05:00Return of the natural Poet<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/5c30b375a4d0304dc16c45becc043b69f67038d0/original/dsc5057.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />The Return of a Natural Poet </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Often in the literary world, there are times when the production of commercial works seep beyond the boundaries of authentic endeavors. The accomplishments of skilled writers go unnoticed by readers at large and are overshadowed by a wave of half-crafted or shamelessly imitated artistic expressions. The public’s attention is shifted toward manufactured fool’s gold for the brief excitement that swindling brings. This is true of poetry nowadays. The antique genre that has hailed some of the greatest manifestations of human wit known to any society on this planet is known today as a bargain-basement form that cut-rate writers use to keep their egos fed. Poetry has lost its economy and sits shoddy on the shelves of bookstores, libraries, and hipster coffee houses. This is due in part to the pool of marginal-weekend-commonplace writers that have reduced the arena into a game of thrones. Thrones that have very little real majesty in the real world of stately readers. Those who would spend their modest time in the humble pursuit of quiet probing, hoping to discover a poet that speaks to the depths of their essences. Kool B is such a writer. Fashioned from the nature of his thoughtful disposition, he’s an artist that transcends the customary image of modern wordsmiths. His angle of vision and narrative voice is unmatched by many. He writes from a space that has little to do with personal appetite and more to do with paradoxism. He aims to express counter-time, as it relates to the metrics of his pieces, and to introduce a counter-sense into the language that his works are constructed from. B argues that Houston’s writing scene is controlled and manipulate by a small group of individuals that force talent to submit to their idea of what a decent verse should be. The publication of imprudent, brazen, or cheeky work is frowned upon. “If you are not from one of the local university’s writing programs, or in some way tied to it, you are bound to struggle to get space.” He asserts passionately. The poem-phenomenon, for him, is a mute protest against the social-political reality of the genre. B suggests that poetry has a lucrative path; it’s just that the wrong people have their hands on it, like a lot of worthy things . . . with Judgement as their tool of power . . . unlocking doors for the “talkers” and counterfeits. It is through this lens that kool B’s social disappearing acts can be understood. He doesn’t like the trickery. He says the masses should return to natural poets. Those like him who are never careless with the word or a line. Those that can unravel mysteries and intent . . . paint a picture of the world as it is . . . show us how meaning and non-meaning can co-exist in harmony with one another. “All is possible when it comes to poetry,” he points out, “even the impossible.” This truth can be heard in the recordings that are a part of the “Wordville” canon. Kool B has a clever way of utilizing music to enhance his work and get it off the paper, out of the books. The tunes cover themes that whirl around love, suffering, heroism, deception, coming of age, power and corruption, Individual vs society, survival, judgment, and identity. They come from the countless challenges that have arisen over his long writing career. The upside downness of love, poverty, and racial tension penetrate the sound to give an emotional contact that overwhelms the listener. The symbolism tucked away in each delivery shows how he feels about the world around him . . . flexing between light and dark metaphors . . . it is quite clear that his passions are governed by a power that makes his brand of poetry exceptional. Rarely will we ever see such impeccable syntax plotted in a way that articulates the dominance of such a gifted writer. We are truly blessed to witness one of the best that has ever do</span>ne it. Naturally he poets! Kool B . . . Houston’s own.</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/62070202020-02-06T15:35:29-06:002021-12-29T14:29:50-06:00Hello...<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/ce48e1435c6defff9e3edda3871ae7ea469ae6bb/original/dsc5260.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Hello </p>
<p> Like deep blue ocean </p>
<p>as far as a stretch of eyes can see, </p>
<p>Like swaying daisies in a field of laughing memories, </p>
<p>Like your whisper ringing 'round my open head, </p>
<p>I can't forget the first time you said </p>
<p>hello. </p>
<p>It keeps sending me. </p>
<p> You must've come from another world </p>
<p>to rescue me. </p>
<p>Purple lights, red lights, green lights, </p>
<p>...pulsating energy. </p>
<p>You must've heard </p>
<p>when I called out for some company. </p>
<p>...paced about a poem </p>
<p> penned so desperately. </p>
<p>You must've known </p>
<p>I was dreaming on a southbound. </p>
<p>...clinging to the ringing sound of your </p>
<p>hello. </p>
<p>It keeps sending me.</p>
<p>It keeps sending me.</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/60997752020-01-14T15:04:58-06:002021-10-11T05:55:15-05:00Self-reflection of a Writer<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/93201c497f9fa847310c4b8c8cf8bc908e476189/original/l-paper-toss-me.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Self-reflection of a Writer: A Mini Conversation With Kool B.</p>
<p>By Wordville Staff Writer Bingo Lee</p>
<p><strong><em>What make you so prolific B?</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>B says, </em></strong>"As a prolific writer, I find the challenge of maintaining a constant output of material daunting at times. It is not the accolades of the audience that propels me to work on such a feat. (He smile wide) It is a voice on the inside that is constantly pushing me to write. It stalks me all hours of the day and in the wee hours of the night. It compels me to journal, write poems, make to-do-lists, document the activities of my classes, work on novels, or jot down words that capture my mood or feelings. (Sighing) The urge to contemplate a sentence or a line of connected letters is very powerful in me. Processing thoughts through writing them down opens a channel of clarity that would otherwise be lost to me.( Taking a sip from his drink) A Journal makes my life events more concrete and less dreamlike. A to-do-list makes my daily activities less random. ( Breaking into laughter) They provide me with more history of myself. Writing poems takes the dullness away from the mundane features of what it means to experience a happening. Articulating my observation to students opens my teaching peripherals so that I can train them with more awareness He bites into a burger and chews). (Wipes his lips) Novel writing helps me to get out of my own self-conditioning. It forces me to take on a myriad of perspectives that I would not normally bother to consider. The Voices in my head want out. The paper is the best vehicle to use. My friends are not the kind of people that can be used as sounding boards. Literary art is not their turn on. I hate to say it, but most of them shy away from conversations that could nourish me as a writer. Thus, I feed off empty notebooks.(Laughs again) I fill them with some of the most peculiar and unexpected ramblings. That is part of the prolificness. The continued effort to document the person that is “me”, the environment that I experience life in, and the relationships of the two is nourishment. All require mindful dedication. Writing sharpens me as a life force, and that is where my excitement sparks. As water from the sky, my creativity, is part of a greater cycle that I flow in and out of." (Takes another drinks from his glass) </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/a30e8d3983b8590f06e827ac53ecd1fe7f4154b4/original/kool-b-add-photo.gif/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/60053822019-12-12T16:40:39-06:002021-09-15T19:21:01-05:00Amorous Mood<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/33d0da9495557e11482bfd65930512ecc6032f50/original/dsc02872.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I’m in an amorous mood <br>A feverish heart with nothing to prove <br>A slice of crimson moon is near and full <br>Fervent stars are in promise of twinkle <br>The childish night has nothing to loose <br>I’m in an amorous mood <br>Butterflies in a muted jar <br>Dreaming behind the curtain’s dim <br>Flirting on the lax glass for a push of easy wind <br>They want to fly for you if it's the last thing they do <br>I’m in an amorous mood <br>Desire burns every word I choose <br>Feelings move like jolted clouds <br>Scares floating slowly <br>I’m in an amorous mood</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/60053792019-12-12T16:33:46-06:002021-11-30T14:02:57-06:00Why I Don't Sound Like the Others<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/fefebd90f6105fcea9e5981b2dc6e4d591118f67/original/dsc5000.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The poet that pursues the interest of his own mind can’t go wrong. <br>though it may appear that he or she is out of step with the world and other writers around them, this course of action has the best payoff for the trustworthy poet. When one looks at writers who have etched their literary contributions into the memory of history, one can’t help but notice that they each took the same ominous route: “The road less traveled.” It must be true that one’s own honest interest is the propelling force of prodigious awakenings or what is better known as enlightenment. The art of writing is in itself a vast discovery process. Surely, there are those that choose to chase the admiration of the public. They write to please the sensibilities of those who are tuned to fads, trends, or to bubbled hick-ups of expressions. These writers/ poets become immensely popular for some time, and later they are swept away by the next poet who can pen the next copious color change. It reminds me of the city of Oz in The Wiz. Richard Pryor would call out a color and the entire city of New York would change to that hue. Conditioned minds look for familiar patterns of presentations; they look for agreeing psycho-waves. If poets copy a dominant format or articulate what is agreed upon by crowd culture, then they are celebrated as talented or capable of great perception. Maybe that is sufficient for entertaining the misguided masses, but mindful writers resist this ploy of smoke and mirrors. The advancing poet, like good songwriters, finds that feelings and thoughts are to be explored for something more than just the surface elements. The gift of a good poem is that it resonates deep inside the reader or listener. This only happens when the writer is exploring his or herself, or the environment, deeply. This depth can be in thought, word choice, or dramatic action. In this way, uniqueness is found. Exceptionalism is discovered… Brilliance is recognized. <br>Time will judge all poets. History will only remember the ones who endured the struggled of writing a poem that could connect with anyone, anywhere, at any time. A poet that pursues the interest of his own mind can’t go wrong.</p>Kool B's Wordville 1330tag:koolb.biz,2005:Post/59919202019-12-04T17:23:19-06:002019-12-04T17:25:52-06:00Looking for great poems to read<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#f1c40f;"><span class="font_large"><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/306203/f31fd1d7d09b7fb125280c08edcffe55ab2ffddf/original/me-in-flash.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Read More Kool B at: www.poetrypoem.com/wordville</strong></span></span></h2>Kool B's Wordville 1330