Sun Ra/Sandra Posadas



On the Black Arts Movement


Art is not entertainment…it’s a revolution. - Salman Rushdie


Black is Beautiful.

Black is…

Black is…

Black is magic.

Black is power.

Black is revolution.

Writing poems that kill.

Making rhythm of thoughts explode.

Words become sub sonic projectiles,

rising off floors,

into pages where

waves of careful speech

give  voice to

the counter narrative





The sepia brown polaroid

is  a portal to another dimension

where life happened around me,

where life happened to me.


I stand near Mami,

smile frozen in compliance.

She clutches me close.

I am life preserver to

a family drowning in rum.

Papi stands next to her.

He is half smiling drunk.

Arms dangle independent

of his his body,

like sleeves on a clothesline.

Yolanda kneels near me

half woman, half child,

already planning her escape.


Silent observer,

I was object and subject

of this place where

secrets clung  like

plastic furniture covers.

A broken family

held together by

the thread of dysfunction.



Spring Time In Chicago


From inside the door he squints at the sun.

His worshipping took place

during Saturday night’s barroom vigil;

sacred sacrament  of J& B whisky,

Freddy Fender jukebox hymns,

and praise dancing in the back room

 on pretty, snake movin’ hips.


Now it’s a Sunday morning stumble

down cracked and crooked streets,

holding his head so it doesn’t

float away into remorse




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