About slam poetry
Slam poetry is a type of poetry competition where people read their poems without props, costumes, or music. After performing, they receive scores (0-10) from 5 randomly selected judges. The judges can be anyone: they don't even need to be poets! Scores are awarded based on how much each judge likes a poem
a tombstone tongue
will not take the stage.
An audience will gather
but there's no fatality to fiend upon.
See the poem won't be pried open,
forced into a hungry mouth.
A poet will not pluck a stranger
from the pavement
to dangle their bones above the pages.
Let the poem starve
and leave the boy.
He can hold his own name.
A Black woman will not be a mother
of a movement today.
She will just be a mother.
But how much death does it take
for us to spit resurrection back
into our community?
I want to see my niggers grow,
bloom, rose-like
from the concrete thorns,
buried, like to adapt ain't necessary.
I want to see my niggers soar
amongst the eagles
like the freedom America thinks
they promise.
High above hierarchies of the past
can defeat itself, today, we celebrate.
So ode, to the barbershop,
where therapy is cheap in sessions,
and only when the fade is clean.
Church ain't always on Sunday.
Your barber finna lay down
a sermon of his own.
Watch as we confess our sins
and then dap each other up afterward.
Coconut oil anointings,
blade for this baptism,
each cut a new genesis.
The fresh slap of rubbing alcohol
on your hairline
to test the grit in your grimace.
Oh, how that first sting
be right of passage.
Pain, merely evidence healing
will start again.
Ode to the old heads: the union of wisdom
and stuttering gold teeth,
how my nose drink a wave
of cool water cologne
before they enter a room,
clink in their glide,
anthem of too many coins and keys,
he already told you twice.
If you stay ready,
you ain't got to get ready,
with the mid-west draw so long
you fit a Baptist choir
between each syllable.
On most days, my open ear
and closes lips be praise enough.
where no one pulls a piece
but it always gets poppin'.
Pop, lockin', droppin',
music for fellowship.
The blend of old school and young blood.
Y'all don't know nothin' bout this,
harmonized with "Oooh! That's my shit!"
Come one, come all.
Come kickin' something vicious.
A party ain't a party til the public think
we ignant, not ignorant.
Ain't no such thing as too much pride
in our pigment,
cookout without the code switch,
grandpas turned grill masters,
wearing those brown,
Jesus-looking sandals.
Y'all know what I'm talking about.
See, if grandma goes home
the matriarch won't.
Grandma gonna live... Nah.
She gonna breathe
through this potato salad,
through these collard greens
and green beans.
The family stays fed on this culture,
on cranberry and ancestry.
Ode to the Black woman.
Brother, those waves on your little head
don't impress her.
Her hands be enough for two oceans.
Ocean of our waters, a Black woman
taught our veins how to shuck and jive,
that rhythm be the pulse
and drum of this body.
Ode to the Black man who still lives.
Although the world may nip at the heels
of his hustle,
they can't replace the mark his steps
will leave behind
and here he stands amongst us all,
this time, holding his own name.
Slam poetry is a type of poetry competition where people read their poems without props, costumes, or music. After performing, they receive scores (0-10) from 5 randomly selected judges. The judges can be anyone: they don't even need to be poets! Scores are awarded based on how much each judge likes a poem
 |
| Tips for Slam Poetry | Power Poetry Things in Our Hood |
Slam poetry
Today... in this room,a tombstone tongue
will not take the stage.
An audience will gather
but there's no fatality to fiend upon.
See the poem won't be pried open,
forced into a hungry mouth.
A poet will not pluck a stranger
from the pavement
to dangle their bones above the pages.
Let the poem starve
and leave the boy.
Black woman
He can hold his own name.
A Black woman will not be a mother
of a movement today.
She will just be a mother.
But how much death does it take
for us to spit resurrection back
into our community?
 |
| Black woman |
I want to see my niggers grow,
bloom, rose-like
from the concrete thorns,
buried, like to adapt ain't necessary.
I want to see my niggers soar
amongst the eagles
like the freedom America thinks
they promise.
Past
High above hierarchies of the past
can defeat itself, today, we celebrate.
So ode, to the barbershop,
where therapy is cheap in sessions,
and only when the fade is clean.
Church ain't always on Sunday.
Your barber finna lay down
a sermon of his own.
Watch as we confess our sins
and then dap each other up afterward.
Coconut oil anointings,
blade for this baptism,
each cut a new genesis.
Alcohol
The fresh slap of rubbing alcohol
on your hairline
to test the grit in your grimace.
Oh, how that first sting
be right of passage.
Pain, merely evidence healing
will start again.
 |
| Tips for Slam Poetry | Power Poetry Things in Our Hood |
Ode to the old heads: the union of wisdom
and stuttering gold teeth,
how my nose drink a wave
of cool water cologne
before they enter a room,
clink in their glide,
anthem of too many coins and keys,
Already
and you don't gotta ask why,he already told you twice.
If you stay ready,
you ain't got to get ready,
with the mid-west draw so long
you fit a Baptist choir
between each syllable.
On most days, my open ear
and closes lips be praise enough.
Ode
Ode to the block partywhere no one pulls a piece
but it always gets poppin'.
Pop, lockin', droppin',
music for fellowship.
The blend of old school and young blood.
Y'all don't know nothin' bout this,
harmonized with "Oooh! That's my shit!"
Come one, come all.
Come kickin' something vicious.
A party ain't a party til the public think
we ignant, not ignorant.
I said ignorant.
Ain't no such thing as too much pride
in our pigment,
cookout without the code switch,
grandpas turned grill masters,
wearing those brown,
Jesus-looking sandals.
 |
| Tips for Slam Poetry | Power Poetry Things in Our Hood |
Y'all know what I'm talking about.
See, if grandma goes home
the matriarch won't.
Grandma gonna live... Nah.
She gonna breathe
through this potato salad,
through these collard greens
and green beans.
Culture
The family stays fed on this culture,
on cranberry and ancestry.
Ode to the Black woman.
Brother, those waves on your little head
don't impress her.
Her hands be enough for two oceans.
Ocean of our waters, a Black woman
taught our veins how to shuck and jive,
that rhythm be the pulse
and drum of this body.
Ode to the Black man who still lives.
world
Although the world may nip at the heelsof his hustle,
they can't replace the mark his steps
will leave behind
and here he stands amongst us all,
this time, holding his own name.
watch more poems & poetry:
Click these links.
- love poems,
- funny kids poems,
- sad love poetry,
- Romantic love poems,
- poems for her,
- button poetry,
- slam poetry,
Post a Comment
Thank you visitor we will reply soon.