Marchell Dyon- Three Poems

When her Man gets it Right

 

A black woman is all butter

Her skin is soft and sweet

Taffy laces her tongue

Her salty words turn into pure sugar cane

 

When her man gets it right

 

She belts out a heart song like an opera singer

Her voice low one moment

Higher than choir boys the next

As she touches heaven as she kiss angel’s wings

 

When her man gets it right

 

A black woman will forget

She is supposed to be made of steel

She cradles her body low like a child

She offers all she has to give, herself

 

When her man gets it right

 

She thinks of him as lord his kingdom her heart

To her around his head circles halos and stars

Although, he may be made of clay

By what she sees he can do no wrong

 

When her man gets it right

 

She will follow him into battle with the world

She knows she will be crucify

By the world for following him

As long as she’s with him that doesn’t matter

 

When her man gets it right                   

 

He can come home to her tarred and feathered

Still she embraces him wiping his face with her hair

She cleans his feet with her tears…

 

When her man gets it right.

 

 

 

Hipbones in Motion

 

Our bodies are musical instruments

Our bodies enticed your body to sing along

 

Our bodies sweat creates its own heat

We keep time with the drumming of our feet

 

We churn our hips like snakes

Our hips gyrate in motions slow

 

Our hips can keep the beat to any tempo

If you dare say our hips are too sexual

 

This praising we share of our hips is our ritual

Our religion and heaven is felt in our dance

 

Our bodies has found again the rhythm

Reminding us we too are daughters of mother Africa

 

Our hipbones in motion is an act of love

The magic hidden deep in our blood

 

 

 

Black Mary

 

She is ripe with child but divine aid has yet to come.

Whom will she turn to without a Joseph to put it on?

Born to her a son to be glorified in squalor in snow

Teeny Maria who God has chosen let no man shun.

 

By her fifth month her dad threw her out

While her mom stood silent

Starring out the window then said a Psalm.

She is ripe with child but divine aid has yet to come.

 

A good girl to be canonized without a manger

By God glorified into the hostile night she must run.

Another pregnant throwaway without a place set aside.

Whom will she turn to without a Joseph to put it on?

 

Subway graffiti artist will find her image irresistible

Her dark eyes window to the soul

Beautification this time without eyes of blue

Born to her a son to be glorified in squalor swaddle in snow

 

A new queen of heaven coming out of the ghetto

Somewhere holy choirs are waiting to sing this new song

How the Lord messiah born behind a Dunkin’ Donuts again has come.

Teeny Maria whom God has chosen let no man shun.

 

 

 

Marchell Dyon poetry has been published in many magazines including Eye to the Telescope, Mused Bella Online, Dead Snakes and Medusa’s Kitchen. She is from Chicago IL.