Tuesday, December 16, 2014


I gave you the light that revealed the constant stranger
Turned relic to keep my faith from wandering 
In the land of waning freedom 
Where our daily bread 
Is down to crumbs like the bottom of a toaster 
Because each slice is devoured by the field talk 
Of itchy trigger fingers 
These elitist hands play magic tricks 
And with each puff of smoke 
Another slain nigger disappears into
The magician's hat faster than 
The swipes on a fogged mirror 
After washing away the blood 
Of the innocent and plagued those  
Poetically looking for temple
To express themselves 
In a world that condemns nudity 
Of the spirit so I hide my tears 
And let them rain on my innermost thoughts 
©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
My bread is soaked in the harsh realities of today...how ya like yours? Tell us, for Poetics @dVerse

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Monday, November 24, 2014

Dreams of Limpopo

Baobab create gaps in the sky for light
to shine on a palate expanded by love
among the bushes that grew tongues
only a select few weren't afraid to pick
instead of wild berries
I asked the man, “where is your heart?”
as I waited for an explanation
I daydreamed about the old times
wrestling pigs and killing alligators
with my bare hands
unaware that the heart is to be
connected to the tongue
so a clear understanding
is needed before any emotion
is to leave the body
the silence was like a conversation
among the dead rose petals
thrown at whoever left him so speechless...

As we walked through rivers of
monkey apple pulp and crowds
of women collecting the life juice
as babies grasp the edge of mother's
paiute water basket. Everyone has little
to no pigment in their eyes, so a peek
into their window glistens as the children
drink pulp that harbors more protein
than breast milk like the starving youth
that only exist when I awaken...

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
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Monday, November 3, 2014

The Beauty.

She is the color of Swahili Aphrodite laid
against the night sky—not limited to darkness.

She kisses the sun red
to blend the bloodshed
down to a matter of perspective
so her view of the world isn't so bad.
Her presence brings a tear to the eye
like raindrops that distort your
reflection on the edge of a pond.
She dances off the high of long-winded
debates on heaven and hell's existence
while running her hands over loved
ones whose time has yet to come.

All after washing the dirt
of religion from her socks
one last time in the same
bathwater she used to
cure her loneliness.

©2014 Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
writing from the perspective of the dead for Poetics...

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