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Columnist: Stacey Tolbert
Randi McCreary
Randi McCreary is a native of Kansas City, MO. Her work has been featured in Essence, Black Praxis Second Edition, The NoMoreSilentCries Anthology, and New YorkReview.org. She is previous contest winner of both the Underground Poet’s Society and Def Poetry Jam Website. She is co-founder of Urban Literation along with Griourard Weddington and continues to live as a writer, poet, and educator.
when the violets
die No one cries when the
violets
die Clouds roll and the heads
turn a way No rain falls- The sky does not part and
bring forth tears For the wind, it's just a
memory Faint and perplexed A pedigree of distant
denial violets require not much
more than water And the occasional
slaughter The purple is pierced/
roots screaming Sun beaming where the
burn is felt Where the flesh is swelt When the violets die The seeds remember When the sepal was
pure/when the nectar did endure The valleys bowed their
grace as a bed for flower child For future travelers of
the nile Sand sisters But now the womb embeds a
blister/ of defeat Before the violets died They smelled so sweet A nose tickling
temptation while The blossom
waits But weather changes/
threatening whether change is good or not In the sweltering heat
the violets get hot The pollen now
fallen….to the dirt. Packed tight. Just a
tease for the bees slipping through The
fingers And when they die there
is a stench That lingers The
petals grow sore a caving cascade of
mother nature's downfall A botanical whore Whose potential was
clipped at the stem Potted and placed Wilting and waste We can barely stand to
look now Closing our eyes to sniff The contents of a cloudy
vase Gathered and tossed Innocence lost As soon as she Was planted.
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