The Drums

Can you hear them?
I hear the drums
I hear the drums
The beat
The tempo
The rhythm
The vibrations
I hear the drums
As they serenade my soul
And a silhouette they perform in my consciousness
I hear the drums
The tap
The knock
The swish
The swap
I hear the drums
Through them the voice of the ancestors speaks
As running feet carry the message from this corner to the next
I hear the drums
As I see the perplexed looks on your faces
You don’t hear what I hear
I hear the drums
If you listen more attentively you too will hear
The melodious connotations of the drums.

Dear Father

I wish I could say I love you
And actually mean it,
I hope your day is filled with misery.
I hope as you see my face,
Your organs begin to collide and the space between your lungs become clustered,
You are unable to breathe
and in those moments,
I will forget your face.
Father after you read this,
I hope it gets worse and
if your soul yearns for happiness,
I hope you remember,
I was the first step
when you chose to skate.
Last time we spoke,
You said “I am an ungrateful,
Good for nothing, son of a bitch.”
Who the fuck gave you that right?
If I am from you,
Do we not share that “son of a bitch”gene?
Am I not the blood that runs in your veins?
Was that what you really wanted to say?
You should’ve asked your self these questions,
“Where was I when my son needed a father?”
“Where was I when he became a man with two daughters?” Trying not to make the same mistake I did.
Father when I needed you
You needed yourself,
A clear illustration of selfishness.
I had to learn from a woman,
what it meant to be a man.
Not to say something
is wrong with that
But, she, she fathered me,
I bet you think I would say,
“It was just not the same”
Indeed, but better.
She taught me what makes a man, a man
And how to fend for myself
After, i realised.
That you did not deserve to be called a man,
You are a coward in the eyes of the brave,
A faceless creature of the night.
Father can’t you understand
You are as much as a failure
As you wished to see me be,
But, I learnt the art of becoming.
And that,
I was blessed with the soul of a survivor,
the black skin of a warrior
And you,
You are nothing to me.
But,
A dead beat father
A sperm donor
An absentee loner.
I am nothing like you,
The fact that I happen to share your last name,
Is a big misdemeanour,
With that being said,
Just call me Xavier.

Footprints

I was told to put my best foot forward,
I did the opposite.
In order to do as i was told,
I had to reevaluate the past like the Sankofa bird.
The solution to the future lies there,
Though harsh.
Imagine not having clothes on our backs,
And by the crack of the whip,
We had to work from dawn till dusk,
Little to eat just enough to keep our stomachs warm.
Scars decorating our bodies,
Each exquisitely carved like fine art,
Polished and shined in blood.
With all the odds against them,
They proudly and boldly smile,
Giving praises all the time.
They,
My,
Our ancestors endured so much for us,
To be free,
To be independent,
To be emancipated from mental slavery.
Instead materialism as gotten us going crazy,
Greed as taken its toll,
Having us purchasing our shackles and chains at the stores.
Blind sighted by the lies,
Like a crack fiend,
We want more.
This generation is lost,
Not even a sign of promise that we will find our way.
We line up for a few measly pairs of Jordans and iPhones,
Plugged into the matrix that’s eating our souls.
Undernourished brains,
Stimulated by fabricated nourishment.
Addicted to taking selfies,
Being Facebook famous is our only goal,
Still we can’t organise to take back our thrones,
Kings and queens we were back home.
And still some wonder why I reminisce,
Filled with nostalgia for our humble beginnings,
While surrounded by earthly riches
And all the silver & gold,
That can be found in Rome.

Enough Is Enough!

It becomes an unbearable task
Watching the news,
Instead of being informed,
You end up being depressed.
Disasters all around,
Nothing seems to be changing, from sunrise to sundown.
When will enough really be enough?
Cliché as it seems;
It’s a thought that rests on our minds,
Often times too scared to make it to our mouths,
Suffocating before it makes it way out our lips,
Asphyxiation is imminent.
The need to speak out plays heavily on our hearts,
Built up courage killed by the  fear of death,
Like an undeveloped foetus destined for abortion.
Still enough is enough;
You take your last breath in observance,
Of the strong preying on the weak.
Damsels at every turn awaiting knights in shining armour,
Who are too afraid to make an entry.
Left alone to face these criminals,
Gloomy faces,
Teary eyes.
Trapped in an agonising reality
Deafening cries
falling on deaf ears
Enough is Enough!

Concrete Rose

Imagine being raised in the most unpleasant of environments,
Temperature humid,
Atmosphere far from being great.
Dons and guns reigning,
Showering bullets more than it  rains.
This inhumane climate,
Intensified by the adverse effects of global warming,
Is like a category 5 hurricane,
Which gave no sign of a warning.
Don’t expect help from your neighbours,
The citizens here aren’t that charming.
So please don’t find it alarming,
That these gunmen have a lot of corn,
And no they’re not meant for farming.
Criminals roam the streets,
Day and night,
Without concern for who they’re harming.
So while you sleep and hug your darling,
It’s a different story here
These are the injustices,
Law abiding citizens bear.
Sleepless nights filled with anguish and fear,
Hopelessly calling for help but no one hears.
Surrounded by lifeless souls
And countless carcasses,
Just waiting to be placed in holes,
Suffocating by lies,
While battling for the truth.
Dreams turn into nightmares,
Unpleasantries everywhere.
Amidst all this chaos,
A concrete rose thrives,
Though plagued with unsurmountable destruction,
Adorned with damaged petals,
Somehow,
It survives.

Destined For Success

They say if your from the bottom,
You’ve no right being at the top,
I’ve worked the soles off my feet,
I’ve work the clothes of my back
Just to make it this far,
Why the hell should I stop?
You’re privileged to be born with gold or silver spoon,
Yet you’d cheat me of my chance,
Of getting to the moon,
I am not a weed,
I am a seed with the proper nourishment I will bloom,
You’d be fascinated to know,
What I can do with my little wooden spoon.

Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016

All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

Corner Poet

A tamarind tree provides the shade he needs,
Cooling the spot where he rests.
A tomb for his seat,
Leaves blowing in the wind.
Inspiration at ever turn like the sun as it illuminates the sky,
Still he’s not sure what to write.
Thoughts running through his mind,
Like a stream that runs for miles.
He’s barely known,
Not yet famous,
The words he writes are his own.
Many days he sits silently alone,
Pen in hand,
Book sprawled across his lap,
Waiting for a friend,
Perhaps a stranger to come along.
It brings him great pleasure to share the thoughts he conjures up,
He writes from a place that brings him solace and comfort,
so don’t take from him what you didn’t give.

Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016

All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

Broken City

A place of misery,
The devil’s play ground.
Terrifying screams,
Of the unknown.
Shattered dreams,
Splashed across smashed mirrors.
Mutilated souls,
Carrying desecrated hearts.
Diminishing thoughts,
Vengeance for the broken.
Bodies filled with grief,
pain and guilt.
Sad faces aligned the walls,
Despaired shadows lurking
The lonely halls.
Monsters created,
In the dark they crawl.
Chalked victims,
Decorating pavements after a fall.
Blood drenched streets,
As sirens blare.
A Raven’s stare makes the
Faint minds cower in fear.
don’t get caught alone in the park
After twelve is midnight,
And
you know darkness walks.
Emotions died,
Killed on spot.
the purge continues,
None stop.
Trespassers are warned,
“Not to enter!”
for this broken city,
Is worst than deaths sorrow.
It’s a living horror!

Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016

All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

Freedom Street

You can find friends and enemies
alike scurrying along these pothole filled streets,
With tired feet from the many years of mileage,
Though twisted and bumpy they are.
We share one common goal,
That we aim to accomplish before we get old.
To hurdle these obstacles is the hardest part,
But once we do we will be better off.
We are faced with poverty, tribulations and fear,
Almost impossible odds that bring about despair.
Generation after generation burdened by this weight,
The voices of heroes have been ignored.
The path to freedom has been neglected,
As the Great Marcus Mosiah Garvey once said “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery.”
History and time have proven that these words are true,
Then how is it that doubt still lies within me and you.
When he also said “if we have no confidence in self,
We are twice defeated in the race of life, but with confidence we’ve already won.”
Let’s be bold like our ancestors,
For Freedom Street is like a rainbow,
Shining like the sun.
It is the promise,
Of salvation to come.
Home to all,
Yet more important to some.
It is a testament of what we can become.
It is a hope longed for,
Even before slavery had begun.
The voices of our forefathers beckon still,
And thou at times we must chill.
We will not waste our time on corners and lanes,
For how could we be idle and still be sane.
with Garvey’s words carved within our hearts and etched deep in our brains
“Up you mighty race,
You can accomplish what you will!”
On freedom Street is where we all must meet.

Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016

All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

Thought Of It

As I make an attempt to write this piece the tears flow,
However it comes out its because am letting it go.
I am not sure about you but I am tired
Yes I am tired,
really tired.
As I sit deeply gazing at the night sky with teary eyes,
There’s so many questions puzzling my mind.
Why do we kill?
Why do we murder?
What happened to getting old and dying from natural illnesses?
I am tired of seeing the pain stricken faces of mothers and sisters,
As they weep for their brothers and sons that are shot dead in the streets.
What is the cause for all this senseless killing?
It makes me wonder if its a blood hunting season.
These killers show no remorse for they smile while being behind the gun,
They just take another life for fun.
I wonder what will happen when your time comes?
Just know your music will play one day
And,
When it does its not rhythm nor blues,
So you won’t be dancing to tunes.
What a rude awakening;
one that u can’t refuse
When u finally realise, that the way u chose,
Is filled with doom & woes.
Imagine being buried on Valentines Day,
Gifted with a wreath instead of a rose.

Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016

All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.