Tag Archives: Donald Vincent

TRIO OF TRIOLETS

by Donald Vincent


– for Gail Mazur

I fancy shoes with red laces
to whom it concerns, sincerely.
No races, I prefer paces.
I fancy shoes with red laces.
I crave solitude, less spaces
at least yearly to see clearly.
I fancy shoes with red laces,
to whom it concerns, sincerely.

I fancy shoes with red laces
to whom it concerns, sincerely,
I’m no patient nor have patience.
I fancy shoes with red laces
severely; soles, their embraces.
Death to austerity cheerily,
I fancy shoes with red laces.
To whom it concerns, sincerely.

I fancy shoes with red laces
to whom it concerns, sincerely
faces of all generations.
I fancy shoes with red laces
for ages by God’s good graces,
missing my beloved, dearly
I fancy shoes with red laces
to whom it concerns. Sincerely,

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BLOOD OF CHRIST

by Donald Vincent


– after John Skoyles’ Excuse for a Love Poem

Yes, it was definitely the last drink
(or drink before) that made
me feel this way—not yet loved,
but cared for like a first significant

other. It had to be the drink before
last (or maybe even the one
before that) because she began
to make sense. “Religion or sex?”

she asked. “If you can’t choose one,
then you’ll fall for any and every
thing. Can’t stand for either, then
you are a hypocrite.” I understood

it all. Her words made me drunker.
Desire there. The ability to perform,
                                                                                  elsewhere.

WAKING FROM SLEEP

by Donald Vincent


Aspen Dream, Near Ashcroft, Colorado
              – Plate 6 by John Sexton

You, like the Aspen Dream, a beautiful forest of white,
are from the imagination and chapters of fairytales that last
a lifetime. On the floors of the Coloradan forest, I
search high & low for your lost slippers. Luckily, the sun
shines through giving nourishment to all, as you do
when you make those funny faces, that only I seem to enjoy.

Out here, nothing can be tamed. All is wild. The aspens
stretch out bending awkwardly, seeking life from
the sun. Your figure illuminates & no matter how savage
our emotions get, one spoken word & I become docile
like the tranquility of the trees during the setting of the sun.

INBETWEEN POEMS

by Donald Vincent


I think— when did my pigment come to mean
I’m ignorant? Or mostly what I am
afraid of most, which is that one day,
you might leave me, alone. Loneliness
is me among people, but you’re absent,
these people are always never you.

I can’t fix it, can’t take it back. There’s
no warranty on love. Between music and muses,
I have solaced death. Picasso said, The hidden
harmony is better than the obvious.
My melody
has left me. So I hum a tune, giving
special thanks to the women who reciprocate

the same song, in between my dreams
and between poems.

FOR MY UNBORN SON

by Donald Vincent


When I die, I hope heaven isn’t hell.
                We’re treated like second citizens,
it ain’t hard to see or tell. Don’t make sense
we can’t enjoy Skittles and other goodies.
It’s our fault, the love for black Jordans
and black Hoodies. Stole a life, this skin color
is a curse. Sybrina can’t stop crying,
tears falling, drowning in sorrows. Should I

                lie in a river and simply wade on?
No black and white issue, too many shades
of grey are gone. There’s no difference
between an Emmett Till, Sean Bell,
and Trayvon. Concealed objects:
a wallet, ID card, nothing but lint

                in pockets. Not a cent.
Red and blue sirens, white
cops, dark body. Shots fired,
someone drops. The remark
is self-defense, He was high off PCP.
Do they inject their bullets with PCP?
Think about it— no need to lie,
                alacrity is their alibi.

BLACK INK

by Donald Vincent


I just can’t keep living like this:
nightmares of the Union battles
packaged and shipped in excrement
to a foreign land labeled as chattle.

Or forcing my eyes to the floors
in nigger-colored corridors
filled with white women
because I feel like Emmett Till.

At times I picture Jim Crow foyers,
“Shall I grapple with my destroyers?”
Still—I rise stripped of my pride.
Even Affirmative Actions couldn’t
bleach Michael Jackson’s insides.

See Biggie, see Tupac,
see Martin, see Malcolm,
see Huey, see Garvey;
see black leaders
and their outcomes.

When I die, will I see black?
Buried in a black coffin—trapped
Waiting on Obama to address
my situation in his fireside chats.

“We real cool,” right?
“We die soon?” Right.
With urban public schools
teaching us how to be fools

neglecting to tell us truths,
but that 20 bag is enough
to help us get through.
Working hard

but never hardly working
as the ink dots these very pages
inequality is inevitable.
Never will these thoughts settle.

Black boy marries black girl
giving birth to a small, black imprint
forced into a blank,
white world.