Planted Black Prose

When Donkeys and Horses Get Voices When an old workhorse will no longer cower before or acquiesce to an evil and cruel master no matter how much that master bullies, berates, beats, brutalizes, threatens, terrorizes, and assaults that old horse, look out. That may very well be a sign that old workhorse was never the cruel master's to master. The true master, the master of both the abused and the abuser is returning and judgement against the wicked, that imposter, fraud, crook, that coward of a human has begun. And yet, all is not lost for the wicked. The real master will give a voice to that old workhorse, a voice to say, “enough”, a voice to say "repent"! Will the wicked relent from their wicked schemes? In time we shall see. Moral of the story, when donkeys and horses find their voices, ancient masters must tune their ears to listen, to hear, renounce their wicked past, and move in the direction towards what is right. All who have ears, let them hear.  This thought is i

  FLORAL ARRANGEMENTS. Cut for me darling a single red rose.  Dip it in sorrow, bring to my nose.  Wrap it in suffr’ing paint it with tears. Dry it in silence for 30 plus years. Pluck for me darling a pocket of posies.  Strip them of petals and lay them with roses. Snap them in pieces and bury with ashes.  Dye them with raindrops and burn them in batches  Plant now my darling a bed of gardenias. Plant for me tulips, daisies, hydrangeas. Feed them with passion and drench them with love. Guard them from john crows circling above. by: Planted Black Prose

WON’T YOU SMILE?  I like it when the muscles right above your chin, creep a creepy crawl and stretch into a grin. When baby flexions flex and pack a bag of mirth, voyaging to those dual orbs and in that place give birth; to children round the rim, in whom I take delight. Your humble acquiescence belies no hint of fright.  Darling, won’t you smile?  Your smile is a protection from blights that blight your soul, an ingenious deflection, balm to make you whole. What goodness you inherit when masking all your trials? Chin chin, head back, now ferret out a smile.  Friend, won’t you smile?  Only in your joy I promise I’m invested. I ask this all for your own sake, my innocence untested. My anger grows by increments, imperatives defied. My patience slowly ebbing when you refuse to smile. What know you of choices? I know what’s best for you. Controlling all the voices, you’ll do what I say to. You the stain on pristine station, wagons rolling west; the darkened spot besmirching fences, pickete

WHEN THE WORD EXHAUSTING JUST DOESN'T FEEL RIGHT, I GET PEN AND PAPER AND BEGIN TO WRITE.  BLACK TAR ELEGY Tap tap tap. Keys move—now they’re still. Drizzling words, hollow, haggard, and shrill. Crestfallen, woe-begotten, it’s that time again, when paper and pen write—goodbye—to yet another black friend.  Black tar babies born to black mothers, beaten and chained by friendly white “brothers”. To quell the pain, anguish, and sorrow, I’ll tell my tar babies the tale of tomorrow. For now a fake Yoel our stories overheard, and wrote our tar babies with his monstrous words.  Black tar babies come into time and space. The minute they enter that’s when you give chase. Lock them in cages and mine them for powers. Parrot their phrases and subtract their hours.  The giant bald eagle Narcissus, his name. Cursed now to worship at his own altar of shame. Hollow his heart and violent his collar, murdering tar babies for the almighty dollar.  And yet it is you, my dying black friend. You were the

  GOOD ANCESTOR These lips are theirs, They tell me live.  This strong black nose,  Powerful, massive. This angled jaw, Cuts like knife.  If no you,  For me no life.  I wish I could,  Just see your face.  Offer thanks  For this their race.  I wonder what their word would be,  Could their eyes today see me? To aft or bow would they go? And perish in that sea below?  Or would their seed be cause enough,  for peace in a Jesus from Lübek?  The carrion call of treacherous ocean Or future cries of offsprings’ devotion?  These the broken ones,  Baptized in blood,  Are good ancestors Watching above. by: Planted Black Prose

Shut up, quiet you fool! You’re losing cool.  Will not be quiet, must riot!  😡   😠  mad as, fuming that the veil gets (sweeping statement) all this attention for drawing attention to erstwhile dimensions of OUR collective pain (jealous?). They really like it, don’t they? Its the pits. I’m sad, but I guess its true, and, being true now what to do? Continue doing what has been done, two hundred times two plus one (guilt, the guilt of doing nothing)? Willed to our descendants, your continued coronation? What can veils speak of runaway brides’ frustrations? Rambling rambling flows their words, tumbling tumbling into verbs. (scuffs) The irony of shining light on cruel tales of one’s own might. The fabled wolf of storybooks came to life and overtook the ill-begotten silent lamb, a bumbling pirate of penzance. Oh the guilt of being roped in, lapping up this cup (of sin). From platformed tables fell the crumbs and like a fool, I ate it up (the sin within). I am implicated. Oh calamity! I can