North Star II

Chicago. New York. St. Louis.

And all destinations

North—

Lawrence poured the tens of

Thousands in red,

Green, and yellow paints

Mixed and matched

Like their patched coats

And runover shoes

And cardboard suitcases.

They boarded:

The Illinois Central, Baltimore and Ohio, and Chesapeake

Bound for that Promised Land.

Lawrence painted

Their sorrow songs

And their gut bucket blues

His brush jazzed their gin.

He painted their bleary eyes

And tired feet

Marching

Riding

Walking

Hoboing

To Freedomland.

copyright David Cooper 2014

 

The Inspiration for "Homer" and Pindar

Sunset on the Ionian Sea

A Silly Poem

Mr. Pringles Cheddarcheese

                                                dances light

                                                And knocks his knees.

                                                Mr. Pringles Cheddarcheese,

                                                I have to sneeze—

                                                Pass the Kleenex

                                                If you please

                                                And say “goodnight”

                                                To Louis and Louise.

"Weird Al" Yankovic - Word Crimes

Susana Baca - De Los Amores

Georgia on My Mind

The gray day

                                    And the red clay

                                    Of Georgia’s dust tracks

                                    Of mind and memory

                                    Haunt

                                    me at 3 a.m.

                                    Ghosts walk

                                    til dawn

                                    drawn by the

                                    darkness and

                                    rain.

 

                                    Fallen path of lost

                                    Love and lust:

                                    Mary the tall girl

with liquid eyes;

                                    Belinda the tiny

                                    Redbone*

                                    With a sandy afro;

                                    And Brenda

                                    With smooth ebony skin—

                                    Of years and yore—

                                    All gone

                                    Like the red clay

                                    Washed over the road…gone.

 

 

 

*Redbone: a high yellow girl; a mulatto or quadroon.

 

                                    © David L. Cooper

Bars Flight

 

                                                            A Caged bird

                                                            cannot fly.

                                                            Like Dunbar,

                                                            I spread my wings

                                                            & try,

                                                            but a caged bird

                                                            Cannot fly.

                                                            I long to soar

                                                            & touch the sky

                                                            but a caged bird

                                                            cannot fly.

                                                            Bound by race

                                                            And region,

                                                            Pain and poverty….

                                                            yet I try,

                                                            but neither

                                                            a caged bird

                                                            nor I can fly.

The sun setting on the Ionian Sea.

Lee Pennington mentioned you in a comment. Lee wrote: "Jesse Stuart once said in a poem, "Another time like this will not come this way." It was a very special event for me to share the stage with such beautiful word masters. I had read with David Cooper before; it was my first time reading with Jill Baker and Ron Whitehead. Don't let anybody kid you. I'm the lucky one! I'm the one blessed. Thank all of your for sharing this magic moment."

Three Poems About Scotland

            1

A smoked yank

A long, long way from home

Ayonder he did roam

a-riding trams and mare o’shank

            2

 

Of glens and bens

I spied on crags

Glazed by black-faced sheep

--Oh of Loch Drunkie

Of glens and bens

 

            3

There in the Trossacks

A man finds God

Amid the lochs and flocks

My, my how odd!

 

 

Three Scotches and Macbeth

“The people of London have no face”

--Scottish Tour Guide in Edinburgh

                                1

Scotland             

Snow-capped bens,

Green, grassy glens

Cold, clear lochs

Plaids and argyle socks

Here in the land of the Scots.

 

                2

 

White gulls glide

over the glassy river

named Ness

in a park near Inverness.

 

                3

 

Rainbows arc the sky

As kirk bells

Toll and thunder rolls

In Inverness.     

©David Cooper 1995

 

Banjo

            (For Henry Tanner and The Banjo Lesson)

 

Patiently,

the old slave’s cracked and

workhard hands

guided the boy’s hands

to strum, strum, strum

the banjo

and pluck the merry

sounds

string by string by string.

Listen to the music:

bling, bling, bling,.

What the magic,

what the art,

can thaw even

the coldest white heart.

List to the banjo

pling, pling, pling—

Listen as the strings

sing, sing, sing.

Is this art,

or is this freedom?

At the sun’s

dying light

and well into the

blackdark night

they play

to stay

the real darkness.

Is this art
or is it freedom?

 

David Cooper © 2014

Midnight Sunglasses

We were cool…

Back in the day—

I mean we even wore shades

At night in smoky bars

where hammers wore skin-

tight, short mini-skirts

that went to their thighs

And to our imagination.

 

We were cool—

Back in the day—

Smokin’ weed

through cherry and strawberry flavored

cigarette papers

carburators

and bongs

Snortin’ coke

through Benjamins

and leaning in

El Dogs and Lincolns

while  the long-legged

street walkers

stopped cars

like urban sirens…

Ulysses Johnson

was a pimp on Euclid

Avenue back in the day

when the players and hustlers

came out to play.

Colt 45

Malt Liquor

and Country Club

and other bottles

of pissed and wasted

dreams....

Back in the day

when hos hoed

and the players played

and the pimps

pimped

and the simps

simped...

BC

Before crack.