Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
Can We Go Back?
Way back when ponytails were adorned on heads of little girls,
And three pairs of colorful socks were the norm.
Jump rope was always a contest,
Picnics were catered by the candy lady,
Serving pickles with peppermint sticks.
Playing hide and go seek until the lightning bugs gave us away
Ice in a glass…….kool aid,
Marco………… Polo
We had baby fat, not wearing baby phat
All the kids in the neighborhood knew each other, got mad at each other,
Played with each other, switched girlfriends and boyfriends with each other.
That was cool.
Everybody's momma was momma,
And when it was dinner time, whose ever yard you were in, that's were you ate.
Open phonebooks for prank calls. Being dropped off at the mall…of Memphis.
Now it's closed.
The latest gossip was who got in a fight, but now kids got worry about making it
through the night.
The candy lady traded in her chews for rocks and dro pops.
No more pop locks, just booty dropping and p-popping.
And videos turn our little girls to ho's and teaches them how to wear their clothes.
Boys are being taught to disrespect women, call us -itches to get their riches.
You successful if you can rap, or your last resort is to use a gun and pop a cap.
Little boy sixteen with a 28 year old momma, moving on up from one project to
another, proud of her food stamp salary, and getting pimped reality.
She comfortable with her rented furniture, tiger print rug, and her black lacquer
bedroom set, her blond streaks, four inch nails, pierced tongues, eyebrows,
noses and who knows what else.
Kids with snotty noses playing ball in the street, no momma's in site. But yo
momma did it, so that makes it right?
Years pass and we still place the blame on an innocent time and place.
Pointing fingers at all the white race, cause you still allow massa to rule, dictate
how you live your life, and tell you that you don't have to get married to be a wife.
So let's put blame where the blame is due.
No one made you get pregnant, you wanted to screw.
We can get stuck in the past, dwell on boat trips, harp on Roots and the misuse
of black people; riding the coat tails of real revolutionaries who not only tried to
televise it, but they lived for it, got put in jail for it, some ran to Canada for it, and
some died for it.
Most of the pimping and hoeing is done by our own people.
By us, to us, slowly destructs us, plaques us, deconstructs us, and who is going
to save us?
Placing our faith in lotteries, drive bys and robberies, pyramid schemes, and get
rich quick dreams.
We kill ourselves leaving nothing for the future of our seeds, but memories of
raps songs, diamonds, and gold, tight clothes, fast food, and video hoes, baby
momma drama, strippers, and designs on toes, welfare cheese, but momma got
new clothes?
Maybe it's foolish of me to believe that we can go back to how it used to be.
And I know we can't fix the problems over night,
But I can still dream of the days when ponytails were adorned on heads of little
girls, and three pairs of colorful socks were the norm.
When jump rope was always a contest,
Picnics were catered by the candy lady,
We served pickles with peppermint sticks.
Playing hide and go seek until the lightning bugs gave us away
Screaming ice in a glass…….kool aid and,
Marco………… Polo
One person can dream, but as a unit we can make change a reality.
Written by Erica Denise Dunlap
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