Poetry Splash



by Andrea Clinton

Where are all the flowers, they used to be at my door.

Guys don’t do that sort of thing any more. 

Where are all the flowers, been a long time coming,

guys too busy being selfish and hum-drumming.

Will I ever get my yellow roses, so pretty, one of a kind;

I think flowers are the furthest thing from a man’s mind. 

Where’s my dang roses? On sale they’ll stay;

cause there’s more growing, than men are giving away. 

No more roses? Then chivalry is dead;

because men aren’t giving their loving, and hardly ever wed.

Don’t wonder why we’re independent and do for ourselves,

we only ask for flowers, you act like we asked for your wealth.

“Give us our blasted Roses!”



by Andrea Clinton

Women who disrespect themselves,

Men regard them like an emergency piss

in an alley.


From the, Life Sucks, poetry series:


Life sucks and then we die

Should stick a needle in your eye

And watch the blood drip to your thigh

For things you said that I despise

And all your comments & white lies

That otherwise would hypnotize

A mind that’s weak & colonized

And so meek it merely cries

And grows weary until it dies


Raisin in the sun, it fries

Pause for shame
Pause for shame

My mind was strong, believed no lies

I’m sure you saw it in my eyes

It’s why me, you despised

Locked in closet, ’til I’d abide

Part of you hoped I died

But I went on, teary-eyed

Through hardships & lots of sighs

Said I was ghetto, black bird in pie

But I survived, out wit’ ya eye

Got 4 degrees and don’t get high

While ya kid’s lost, me oh my

***Crack Era was a beast wasn’t it***

I am

mad you were old and probably died

Stuck with grief, now I despise





by Countee Cullen

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, ‘Nigger.’

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That’s all that I remember.


Poem for Black History Month

Nobody Knows The South
like I know the south
the wet and grimy
Soul of the Mississippi South…
Nobody knows The South
like I know the south
honeysuckle smells in fresh
country air…
juice of purple fruits everywhere
regular folk whispering
tunes of dixieland…
Sweltering heat
cotton fields,
lakes, rivers, streams
4 rooms of a shotgun house,
Pillared white house on the hill…
A full mesh of turnip greens
catfish & crowder peas
Little girls playing hopscotch in hand-me-down dresses
church on Sundays
praying to a white jesus…
Another day passes & still
Nobody knows…

4 thoughts on “Poetry Splash

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