Poetic License: Freedom is to be a Storyteller

By Marco Martin

Numerology One thing I want is Two have peace. Three sides of the truth. What's the lie be-Four me? My Five fingers want to slap reality, as my Six sense tells me, "Be cool." Every Seven minutes, I have Eight regrets, as I survive in this Nine by Ten world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Aug 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781977232434

Marco Martin

At an early age, Marco Martin was influenced to write, by none other, than the incomparable author, Judy Blume. He had aspirations to be an author, because of Judy Blume’s audacious writing, relentless wit and compelling honesty. Especially, with her unapologetic vulnerability, personal imperfections, and character flaws in her books, which resonated with him.

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Poetic License

Freedom is to be a Storyteller.

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2020 Marco Martin

v1.0

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-9772-3243-4

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

I Love God, But Hate My Brother

Whisper

T’was the Night before Ramadan

Small Country

Forgive My Cliché

Roach

Black Butterfly

Excuse My French

Now is the Time

King of Pop

Gone Too Soon

Yes, We Can

Where I’m From

Jihad

In the Name of Allah, The Beneficent, The Merciful The Oneness (tentative Friday sermon)

Bags Under the Eyes

Boy Meets Girl

You Look Familiar

Slippery When Wet

Shut the Front Door

The Kingdom Cometh

The Tale of the Protagonist Caterpillar and the Antagonistic Writer’s Block

Odd Fruit

STOP (a play in four acts)

Loving You

Emotions

Entitled

Touch Me and I’ll…

On a Trial Bases

The Call to Freedom

I Need You

Turn-Ons

Turn-Offs

What I Love

What I Hate

Why Me?

Life

Being Black

Dream

Sweet Liberty

A Hot Mess

The Drama

Jungle Man

The Amazing Fish Who Could Cry

Stuff I Live By

Junk in the Trunk

A Piece of Power

If Baby Girl Names (Someday)

The Future

Under the Finger of a Teenager

Infamous Quote

Thank You Letter

Race

Tears for Fears

When I Die

Lips Smacking of Bubblegum

Lady, Hold Me

Place

If I Have a Baby Boy (Names)

Also Known as Mama

Oh, Brother!

The City

The Home

Rotten Apple

Here

Playing With Fire

The Coming of Age Story

Blue

Puppy Dog

This Christmas

I Desire

The Red Empty Wagon (Before Actual Event)

For Your Information

A Woman’s Touch

Happy Days

It Ain’t Funny

Not Black and White

Poetic License

So-called Muslim

The Fifth Wheel

Bookworms

Tulip

His Royal Badness

The Greatest

Green Light (Prior to Red Light)

Forever Hold Your Peace

Go

12 Meets 35

The Dance Floor Rules

35 Meets 12

Make No Mistake About It

Once Upon a Time

Not My Cup of Tea

Water

Race

The Upper Room

Oh, Fudge!

The Cat Whisperer

Exodus

Fantastical Lady

Coming Full Circle

In the Bush

Thanks, but No Thanks

Pep Talk

The Walls Fall Down

Insurrection

Naughty or Nice

Mother’s Milk

Mother Knows Best

Jungle Love

Death

Big Meanie

I Too

Underground

The Main Event

Stab in the Dark

Float On

I Am

Spin the Bottle

One, for the Money, Two, for the Show

All or Nothing

Hungry as a Mug

So Be It

44

I Don’t Fit In

Funky Guitar

Original Gangster

The Pot Calling the Kettle, Black

Ring the Alarm

Wars

Shopping Spree

Superhero

Exit Plan

Worry Wort

Oh, Lucky Me

Second-Rate

Trojan Man

The Golden Watch

Could it be the Chocolate?

Numerology

Respect Yourself

Flies Don’t Lie

Pride, My Middle Name

On the One

Friend

Epiphany: Love Fulfilled

First Black President

Ode to My Ancestors

Memoirs of Prison

Inner City Blues

Your Name Here

Let It Be Known

Untitled

Let Us Break Bread

King

Storyteller

God

Unspeakable

I Love God, But Hate My Brother

You are a liar, mister!

It is a most despicable thing, sister!

I love God, but you look at me with hatred and disgust.

I love God, but your prejudice precedes predictability.

I love God.

Hungry for advice. Would you feed me?

Sneeze. Would you bless me?

Sick. Would you see me?

Invited. Would you meet me?

Dying. Would you help me?

I come in peace. Would you greet me?

I love God, but you hate your brother, who you see every day.

You are a liar!

Name- calling mister.

Finger-pointing sister.

But you say, I love God though.

Whisper

Do you adore me?

Do I shuffle my feet?

Can you hear me shouting inside?

Is my worship a trend?

Do I snap my fingers?

Do you cherish my swagger?

May I suggest to you my heart, that there’s buried treasure in there?

Do I hike to my nearest buddy and declare what you enjoy most?

You scurry and stammer, but I prefer to trot pass the murmur that you value so much.

It’s all a parade.

Explain to me how you are saved.

Drop your books and describe it to me.

How do you serve, with your position of me.

Again, demonstrate how you serve, with your disposition of me?

You and your illustrious talk!

What do you protect?

May I please be at rest?

Clarify what’s at stake.

Is my situation for your interpretation?

You hide, and arrange agendas, on my account.

I’m not for your entertainment!

Should I organize?

You jabber at my accomplishments.

You stare and chat at my sayings I completed.

You glance at my direction, for a report on my performance.

You gaze and declare that I am finished in this town.

You examine and discuss the things I produced.

You peek when I can inform you.

Whatever I achieve, you noticed with a response.

You present your studies, but you just don’t get it.

You receive me with a purchase.

You gather at what you THINK I’ve earned.

Find it.

Capture it.

It is gossip you obtain.

T’was the Night before Ramadan

"T’was the night before Ramadan, when all the through the house, none of God’s creation was stirring, not even a mouse.

The Qur’ans were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that the first day of Ramadan soon would soon be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sweet dates danced in their heads.

Wife in her hijab cover, and I in my kufi cap, had just settle down for a fasting nap.

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the comfy mattress to see the matter.

Away to the door I flew like a flash, tore open the door, not knowing if it would be my last.

The night light glowed, and me a fuse about to blow, gave the luster of midnight to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature man, who smelled like he had eight cans of beer.

A little old man, so lively and quick, I wondered in a moment if he must hungry and sick.

More rapid than my prayers, came his hunger pain.

He whistled and shouted as I called the children by name,

"Now, Mustafa! Now, Muhammad! Now, Ali and Abdul-Aziz! On, Khadijah! On Aisha, who looks like my Aunt Louise!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, a homeless man is raiding our refrigerator!

Now runaway, run away, run away all!"

Little did I know his home was destroyed, like dry leaves, when the wild hurricane did fly.

Nor did I know what a man with a wife and kids would do with an obstacle mount to the sky.

So to the house top my children flew.

With an armful of toys, and my wife with books too.

And then in the twilight, I heard on the roof the dancing and shoving of each little ooph!

As I drew out my hand, without making a sound, to my horror, the man in my kitchen turned around.

He was dressed all in rags, from his head to his foot.

His clothes were all tarnished, with cigarette ashes and soot.

A bundle of food he flung on his back.

He looked like a peddler putting our food in his pack.

His eyes, how teary-eyed and red!

His dimples, how merry!

His ears were like roses!

His nose, like a cherry!

His hungry little mouth was drawn up like a bow.

Was he a thief, or getting food for his family, due to the new fallen snow?

I was holding my tongue behind my teeth.

The sorrow I had for him encircled my head like a wreath.

He had a scared face, and I had a round, big belly.

He shook, and I laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

I was chubby, plump, and gave him more food from off the shelf.

I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink in my eye, and twist of my head, soon let him know he had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but in the morning I had to go to work.

My eyes were filled with tears as he turned around with a jerk.

Laying his finger aside of his nose, I gave him a nod, when out of the window he rode.

I sprang to the window to give my family a whistle.

Down they all flew, like the falling of crystal.

I heard the stranger exclaim, as he walked out of sight, Have a blessed Ramadan to all, and to all, a good night!

Small Country

You small country, you.

You poor country, you.

Why should I care about you?

I have my big, old house and fancy car too.

I have my nice, old job and social club, boo.

I have a dream.

Why should I care about you?

I eat off the fat of the land.

Plenty of milk and honey too.

You know how I do!

…But something tells me, you are human beings too.

Forgive My Cliché

Forgive my cliché, no pun intended, but for obvious reasons, Yellow is faster than Black.

Yellow screams for attention. It absolutely yells for it. Yellow yearns. Yellow begs to be recognized.

It wants to be seen. It’s the life of the party. The life of the sun. For cautionary measures, be careful of Yellow at all

cost. There’s no telling what’s behind that corner; that Yellow street sign, that Yellow Jack, that sunflower, that

dandelion, that annoying Yellow traffic light. Yellow loathes to go faster, but it does anyway. Can’t help, but see it.

Slowly, but surely it comes; school buses, taxi cabs, holding precious cargo. Even bananas peel back.

Yellow bellows with excitement. It rejuvenates any dull and dreary setting. What an attention-grabber it is!

It wants you to go slow, but at the same time, it shouts, Hey, look at me! Don’t stop, but be careful, okay? Be afraid.

Be very afraid.

Black, pardon the pun, is thicker, heavier. It can’t keep up with a color, such as Yellow, lucky fellow. As a matter of fact,

Black is void of color. It’s considered dark and gloomy on a stormy night. Black, some would say, is sneaky, conniving,

and conning. Furthermore, it cannot be trusted to do the job. The color Black is seemingly slow, lethargic, and lazy. What

a Silly Billy! Black is usually mysterious, miserly, mystical, or magical to all who wants to hear my story.

But wait!

Black means death, as surely as the dearly departed shall swiftly come upon you. Black means for you to wait, to be still,

to look, to loathe, to cry, to be sexy. Black knows that there is no avoiding Yellow. It knows as quick as Yellow may be,

it will one day return to the race. Its beginning it will see.

So my friends, Yellow is quick and nimble. Jack be quick. Black is bad. It lures you within its provisional sight. Yet, what is

there, but a serious, solemn, sad case of the blues, paying its dues? Yellow, like the sun, knows no boundaries. Whereas

Black knows its place, in the back, in the rear, with all the rest of the riff-raft. Yellow makes the damn thing live

and lively.

Black makes the place a show-stopper, a reason for coppers and door-knockers.

Make no mistake about it. Yellow is faster than Black, not because it won’t go, or slow, but because Black chooses to be

stagnant, stuck, and complaining about its rut. Black is degraded, degenerate, making Yellow benefit from it.

Roach

I am that Roach, that pest, that unwanted. I keep coming.

I am that jailhouse lawyer. Where you see one, there’s another one, and another one.

I am that man, you follow around in the store.

I am the country’s nightmare.

I am that man, you don’t want to see in a dark alley somewhere, in a theater, near you.

I am that lover. I am that warrior.

I am that man, who can dance, who can sing, who can ball, but you don’t hear me.

I am that man ,who built the ancient pyramids. Even to this day, 3,500 years after the fact, you still don’t know how the hell I did that.

I am that man, who navigated ships around the world, before famous explorers was thought about. Who do

you think drove him over here?

I am that man, who was put into chains.

I am that man, who was indoctrinated with the N-word.

I am that Roach.

We don’t die. We multiply.

You don’t know me. I for certain know you.

I am that man, who now has an inferiority complex.

I am asked to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.

I am that Roach.

I am that man, who comes from the Dirty South.

I am that man, you snicker at in the boardroom.

I am that man, you snicker at in the Big House.

I am that man, you don’t want.

I am that unwanted thing you have to deal with.

I am that Roach problem that simply will not go away.

I am that man.

Black Butterfly

O’ Busily Bee, I am the Black Butterfly that you eagerly see.

Who would have thought?

Though I am the fastest, the fiercest, the cleverest on two wings.

I am made to feel small, insignificant, and different from the other cool, colorful creatures.

I wonder why?

I am not held in awe.

No one comes to stop and see, despite their busy lives, outside spring morning tea.

Can you believe it?

Enough about me.

You humans are interesting enough.

You fear being rejected.

You fear making costly mistakes.

You also fear the unknown.

I’m bewildered.

What a wonderful way to live!

…And that’s not all.

I see the young- at- heart.

I see humans charismatic, cherishing trinkets, and relics of old.

It is love you seek!

Grant it, this thing you humans call love is the most powerful emotion known to man.

Yet, you utterly destroy yourselves, with so much hate.

You bleed at the ever-changing thing called life.

Like us butterflies, you mischief at shiny, new objects below.

What is the pleasure you seek?

I’ve seen it muddy.

I’ve seen it, like putty in your hands.

I’ve seen the Promised Land.

I am Black Butterfly.

Pretty as anything you ever seen.

Like you, I don’t feel appreciated.

Like you, I sometimes need the wind beneath my wings.

I sniff,