Good Trouble

– For John Lewis
This piece was inspired by John Lewis. I started it in early January while watching a program about him. There’s a refrain that I removed but plan to include it as I revise the poem. I wanted to share at least one of my own pieces this month so here it is. As always, I hope you enjoy. 

Picture courtesy of
For some, 

The price paid for


Was blood, sweat and family.

It was water hoses, German shepherd attacks, lynchings, beatings and bombs.

Burned crosses, denial of rights, spit, nighsticks, and below human standards.

Between Reconstruction and Jim Crow 

Liberation was like 

The soil of Africa

Burning inside but too far away to grasp.

For The American Negro

Liberty wasn’t represented by a statue 

It demanded dedication, bodies mutilated, burned and buried in earthen dams or rivers

You couldn’t cry freedom

And expect it to hurry to your side.

You couldn’t get it without Harriet, Anna, Ida, and Angela

Or Marcus, W.E.B, Medgar and Malcolm.

Good trouble paved the way for the freedoms we take for granted today. 


Orifflame- Jessie Redmond Fauset

For me, women like Sojourner Truth(who’s quoted here) and Harriet Tubman are like warrior queens. These women who wanted freedom so much that they actually put in real work to obtain it. And to ensure that others had it and knew of its importance. When this poem hit my inbox, I just sat with it reading it repeatedly. There is something here that makes all of the slave narratives that I’ve read and taught a bit more personal. It is a mother’s loss, the cataloging of slavery’s effect on women and children and this month when so many mothers lost their children it made me remember how that feeling never truly leaves you.

The featured image is an actual picture of the Bagamoyo ruins in Tanzania. Thanks Nic!


 “I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old

               mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at

               the stars and groan, and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes

               you groan so?’ And she would say, ‘I am groaning to think of

               my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don’t

               know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at

               the stars!’” —Sojourner Truth



I think I see her sitting bowed and black,
Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars,
Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet
Still looking at the stars.

Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons,
Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars,
Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set,
Still visioning the stars!

Dirt-Kwame Dawes

Poetry is such a personal thing and this month, in particular, makes me realize just how much. During February I try to post pieces that speak to the varied experiences of black people throughout the diaspora and this poem struck a chord with me because of an image that I’d recently seen of an old sharecropper house. Not that only black people were sharecroppers but this poem reminded me of the the picture and I decided to share them both.

Enjoy! And follow planterboy on Instagram for more great images.

I got one part of it. Sell them watermelons and get me another part. Get Bernice to sell that piano and I’ll have the third part.
—August Wilson

We who gave, owned nothing,
learned the value of dirt, how
a man or a woman can stand
among the unruly growth,
look far into its limits,
a place of stone and entanglements,
and suddenly understand
the meaning of a name, a deed,
a currency of personhood.
Here, where we have labored
for another man’s gain, if it is fine
to own dirt and stone, it is
fine to have a plot where
a body may be planted to rot.
We who have built only
that which others have owned
learn the ritual of trees,
the rites of fruit picked
and eaten, the pleasures
of ownership. We who
have fled with sword
at our backs know the things
they have stolen from us, and we
will walk naked and filthy
into the open field knowing
only that this piece of dirt,
this expanse of nothing,
is the earnest of our faith
in the idea of tomorrow.
We will sell our bones
for a piece of dirt,
we will build new tribes
and plant new seeds
and bury our bones in our dirt.


Knoxville, Tennessee-Nikki Giovanni

nikki giovanni

I always like summer
you can eat fresh corn
From daddy’s garden
And okra
And greens
And cabbage
And lots of
And buttermilk
And homemade ice-cream
At the church picnic
And listen to
Gospel music
At the church
And go to the mountains with
Your grandmother
And go barefooted
And be warm
All the time
Not only when you go to bed
And sleep 



Buying New Poetry

One of my big life goals is to create a significant poetry section on my bookshelves. As a lover of poetry, I was shocked when I recently realized that the only poetry books on my shelves are those that were required from various classes; if you don’t count the William Wordsworth volume that I managed to snag from a used bookstore. My winter reading list features several poetry volumes but I have made little inroads on that. However, I did make a recent poetry purchase. It was Black Girl Magic by Mahogany L. Browne. I love it so much that I want to purchase another copy to donate to my local library.

Although it’s technically only one poem, it is really amazingly powerful and I strongly suggest reading it.

I’m going to share a small list of books that I plan to get in the next four months or so. I’m hoping that because I plan to buy these from Amazon that it will make them start recommending more books for me. A few of these are books from a few of my favorite poets and some come highly recommended.

milk and honey -rupi kaur

Don’t Call Us Dead-Danez Smith

The Essential Rumi-Rumi

Night Sky with Exit Wounds-Ocean Vuong

This Is My Beloved- Walter Benton

I’ve Been a Woman: New and Selected Poems- Sonia Sanchez

The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni: 1968-1998- Nikki Giovanni

The Complete Poetry- Maya Angelou

Electric Arches- Eve Ewing

(and I must have) The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton 1965-2010


Please feel free to share any recommendation for poetry books. I am serious about growing my collection and reading more poetry.



Here It Is-Alice Walker

Alice Walker is such a prolific novelist and essayist, much like Toni Morrison, that I often forget that she writes poetry. As I’ve said before, in my opinion, Walker is the ultimate multi-hyphenate and I love and admire that. Someone shared this piece with me yesterday and I immediately knew that I wanted to post it here. I think that the beauty of someone who loves words and is talented in their use is that they are able to paint such beautiful, evocative pictures that it translates no matter what they write.  Please enjoy the poem and the awesome pic that accompanies it which features Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, June Jordan and the late Rosalind Cash.



Here it is
the beauty that scares you
-so you believe-
to death.
For he is certainly gorgeous
and he is certainly where whiteness
to your disbelief
has not wandered off
to die.
No. It is there, tawny skin, gray eyes,
a Malcolm-esque jaw. His loyal parents
may Goddess bless them
sitting proud and happy and no doubt
at what they have done.
For he is black too. And obviously
with a soul
made of everything.
Try to think bigger than you ever have
or had courage enough to do:
that blackness is not where whiteness
wanders off to die: but that it is
like the dark matter
between stars and galaxies in
the Universe
that ultimately
holds it all




a note on the body- Danez Smith

Hi! I am quite a few blog posts behind in my anticipated schedule for this month. I think I may have missed at least one post last week and one earlier this week. In the rush of finishing up the semester, ordering Christmas gifts, grading, and celebrating both my grandmother’s birthday and mine I have fallen behind here. I do not like when that happens.

I have several goals now that the semester has ended for one school and I am only teaching one class over the winter break. I will be sharing those next week when I plan to get back on track with posting. In the meantime, please enjoy this poem by Danez Smith.




your body still your body
your arms still wing
your mouth still a gun
          you tragic, misfiring bird
you have all you need to be a hero
don’t save the world, save yourself
you worship too much & you worship too much
when prayer doesn’t work:      dance, fly, fire
this is your hardest scene
when you think the whole sad thing might end
but you live      oh, you live
everyday you wake you raise the dead
          everything you do is a miracle