African-American Centric Poems
By Charles Shea LeMone
Drum
Deep in the heart of Africa
After the fires and the chaos and the storm
All life was born.
Inside every man and woman and child
The beast of the wild and every living thing
Inside every animate and inanimate object
From the smallest conceivable stone
Lives the magical rhythms of the drum.
Drum.
For eons we sailed the Seven Seas
We mapped the heavenly galaxies
We erected the mighty pyramids
Fashioned the dance of dusk and dawn
And sang the songs of life in hues of reds and blues
Which live on in the magical rhythms of the drum.
Drum… Drum.
We’ve been the loyal scapegoats of history
We’ve suffered the shackles and stigmas of slavery
We’ve been called many ungodly names
But fortunately our natural compassion
And our magnificent resilience
Lives on in the magical rhythms of the drum.
Drum… Drum… Drum.
Listen closely…
And you will surely hear
The original heartbeat so pure and sweet
A zillion serendipitous spirits
Ancient blessed souls
Which live on in the magical rhythms of the drum.
For deep in the heart of Africa
All life was born.
Adam Meets Eve
Adam awoke with a pounding headache
In a deep corner of his mind a misty dream lingered
He stood, yawned and stretched
Oww!! He grimaced
From a sharp pain in his rib.
Slowly his sleepy eyes began to focus
Across a clearing in the Garden of Eden
An apparition of some kind appeared
From the far edge of the lush forest
She watched him with intrigue.
Uncertainly, Adam approached her
With each step he took his heart raced faster
The trees swayed and the songbirds sang
In four part harmony as golden rays dappled sunlight
Graced her form and magnified her uncommon beauty.
At arm’s length from Eve
Adam paused as a sweet jasmine scented breeze
Whispered a brand-new name…
And despite the dry lump in his throat
Adam asked: Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?
Loretta at Serendipitous-Seventeen
Walking along Susquehanna Avenue
on our way from a late Sunday night movie,
when all the bars and other shops were closed,
I’d sing songs like Misty under the streetlights
as though I was Johnny Mathis holding her hand and
pouring out my undisputed love for her.
We would kiss goodbye on her doorstep,
ending another night too soon,
rubbing our young bodies together lustfully,
she would grow weak in the knees
in less than five minutes.
She even followed me up a stream
on more than one summer day,
all the way for two miles to reach Wissahickon Creek.
And we would be up to our knees at times
in the cool turquoise water flowing by.
She’d never be more than a few steps behind.
Through the marshes or around the waterfalls,
her chocolate-brown skin I can still see,
glowing in the sunlight and even more enticing
in the dappled shadows under the trees
we passed along our trek.
We were so alive, so natural and free and
too awe inspired to speak a word
after we made slow love for the first time
in that small clearing big enough for a cozy two.
Me and Loretta,
carving our names indelibly
into each other’s open hearts.
Both of us a “serendipitous-seventeen” and so
happy to be away from the Raymond Rosen projects
for a few hours in the warm light of day.
