Tim Zac Hollingsworth: Favorites

Oct 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

sans meter

Oct 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Seranaea Jones

-

" You have no real sense of meter,
your rhyming is non-existent
and you spell like a brat,
following no rules"

Rules?

i didnt know i had to follow
any rules, 'cept the ones in my
head that represent limitation

"Well, you need to read up
on some of the more classic
"recognized" poets—
Learn the Proper Etiquette !"

Dood,

i have read more than a few lines
of that finer moem-age poem-age,
and if you want to write about why
roses are red on fine sheets of poet paper
with a fountain pen in the fashion of Kipling—

Cool;

i will more likely write about how well Violet blew
over the top of a half empty jug of bourbon with
a ball point pen that skips more or less
in the style of Bukowski—

and then someone can say that
we had both written poems
about Colorful Flowers...

© 2020
.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4_bHiOpfeU

#humor #style #oscar #felix

Oct 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Transience

Oct 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Sophia Marie Rose

Transience

I hope I do not fade away
like the stars at dawn.
A footprint
left on the desert sand;
a dream that is lost to memory.

#transience #stars #dream #memory

Oct 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

storm,sea,shore

Oct 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Aparna

storm,sea,shore

rummaging through oceans
stirring storms
spiralling
wind
currents
spinning aequoreal
threads into cerulean fabric
hemmed with
alabaster
lace
crashing
in leaps n' bounds
washing over crystal grains

inexplicable surges of
swirling thoughts

｡･ﾟ･(ﾉ∀`)･ﾟ･｡｡･ﾟ･(ﾉ∀`)･ﾟ･｡

#sea #storm #shore #water #blue #sand

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Give Him Honor Only

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Edward

Give Him Honor Only

The Good Lord is to be Praise always.
Lift up your voice and Worship him.
For he is the the only one to Fear here.
He holds each of our lives in his hands.
He could end each of our lives at anytime.
So whatever you do give him honor too.
There is none other that deserve our Praise.
So shout when you sing to him in worship.

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Longhand

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Neville Johnson

Longhand

I used to write her name in longhand
Nearly every day
My first love
But it didn’t stay
Ooh it hurt
Long ago, yesterday

I don’t write her name anymore
I rarely think of her
In gauzy reflection
I remember the good times

I won’t recapture the feelings
Of this erstwhile lad
Just ruminate and reminisce
I’m no longer sad

Long ago and far away
I once loved that girl
But life moves on
And so have we
No longer in each other’s world

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

" black rose "

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Ryan Joseph

" black rose "

She was like a black rose,
such beauty in sadness.

by: S.M. Pastore

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

I used to write

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

ConnectHook

I used to write

I used to write
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is about race-grievances
and identity-mongering,
speaking with a country drawl
unveiling a *******-*** flag
or letting the words pound like metal
into the brains of brothers
who will never understand
and vote for Trump.
But, I’ve spent my life as a white boy
a part oriental, straight-haired,
thin-lipped,
small-***** White boy
and the poem will surely come out right
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone misinterpreting.

If I could be a gun-owning patriot
with concealed carry,
someone’s Ken doll and Clint Eastwood,
I’d be poetry in motion
without shooting a round
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were militant, I could be peaceful and mad
instead of an evil, pouting confederate general
a *******, passed over
crumbled and passed over,
a *******
crumbled in the bushes.

My father tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be black like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my skin-lightener.
She didn’t tell me I was racist
(so my face wouldn’t swell up).

White boys cannot afford to
have delusions of Afrocentrism,
not drumming, singing off-key,
dry and rigid White boys.

And even though in Amerikkka
I was mistaken for someone’s professor or landlord
or policeman down south,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my hair straight,
proud,
ever to care
that those people who denigrate
the popular brand of diversity
don’t feel me,
it still shatters.

Looking through a window, it shatters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone dark gets that
“he ain’t no NBA star” expression
it shatters.

But it’s not so sad now.
I can cry about it,
Shoot hoops and write poems
about all those lay-ups,
my age and shading.
I’m through waiting for hope and change,
the 80’s didn’t throw me a bone
and as many years as I’ve been
White like Ivory
White like the clouds
I have seen in the water
and the sights of my brothers
that ugly is the man in light
who withers with hating.

An adjusted rewrite.
Homage to Bill de Blasio's wife, poetess and mental-health rights reformer Chirlane McCray

I used to think
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is being everything you can be
in one moment,
speaking with lightning protest
unveiling a fiery intellect
or letting the words drift feather-soft
into the ears of strangers
who will suddenly understand
my beautiful and tortured soul.
But, I’ve spent my life as a Black girl
a *****-headed, no-haired,
fat-lipped,
big-bottomed Black girl
and the poem will surely come out wrong
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone looking at me.

If I could be a cream-colored lovely
with gypsy curls,
someone’s pecan dream and sweet sensation,
I’d be poetry in motion
without saying a word
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were beautiful, I could be angry and cute
instead of an evil, pouting mammy *****
a ****** woman, passed over
conquested and passed over,
a ****** woman
to do it to in the bushes.

My mother tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be light like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my color.
She didn’t tell me I was pretty
(so my head wouldn’t swell up).

Black girls cannot afford to
have illusions of grandeur,
not ***-kicking, too-loud-laughing,
mean and loose Black girls.

And even though in Afrika
I was mistaken for someone’s fine sister or cousin
or neighbor down the way,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my head down,
ashamed,
never to care
that those people who celebrate
the popular brand of beauty
don’t see me,
it still matters.

Looking for a job, it matters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone light gets that
“she ain’t nothin come home with me” expression
it matters.

But it’s not so bad now.
I can laugh about it,
trade stories and write poems
about all those put-downs,
my rage and hiding.
I’m through waiting for minds to change,
the 60’s didn’t put me on a throne
and as many years as I’ve been
Black like ebony
Black like the night
I have seen in the mirror
and the eyes of my sisters
that pretty is the woman in darkness
who flowers with loving.

©1983 Chirlane McCray

#billdeblasio

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Psalm;Love Way;The Best Way.

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Adeoye Favour I

Psalm;Love Way;The Best Way.

I may speak the language of heaven,
And have interpretations to every tongue,
I may give my wealth,all my accumulated assets to the poor,
I might even give my life, burning myself at stake,
I might have the voice of angels, all the components of orchestra in one body,
I might understand all mysteries,
operates in all the dimensions of the spirit, have access to all the portals of heaven unknown to man,
But there isn't an iota of love in me,
then am a clanging cymbal, that makes much noise and bound to fail,
Because,all things will fade, prophesies,revelations,gifts,graces,
Even Heaven and Earth will pass,
But love will never fail.It shall endure and remain forever.
©The Psalmist
© Adeoye Favour I.
# Poem
# Psalms
<<PSALTER>>

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Green Light

Feb 2020 Tim Zac Hollingsworth

Emma Cooper

Green Light

The girl you loved disappeared last night.
She stepped off the curb and vanished.
Following pulsing pavement,
reaching towards a green light
like Gatsby across the water,
she slipped away somewhere between streets.
Got tangled up in a stranger’s sheets.

Went home without her,
weighing less.
She used to lay awake and think of you
singing Barry White in the shower
and calling her baby,
but not since last night.
She became a fog
that glistened like snow in streetlamps
or a molten metal rain.
Slowly, she gathered herself into a backbone,
and cemented to my spine.

We crawled out of the pools
of your quicksand irises,
and walked away.
You called her name as we crossed the bar,
but when I turned around
you did not recognize me.