Follow ‘Da’ Yellow Brick Road (Oh My) | Poem

Follow ‘Da’ Yellow Brick Road (Oh My)

By: Author: Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown


Off to SEE a Wizard in Oz???
Dorothy ‘wit’ friend’s like us
Who needs ‘luv’?


A state of mutual trust
Shared tween only us
What ‘kinda’ friends
‘Dis’ love?
‘Wit’ friend’s like ‘deeze’
Again Dorothy
Who needs ‘luv’?


A lil’ bump on Ms. Dorothy’s head
‘An’ her
Storm clouds rise 
strong winds they blow
She can’t withstand
Being thrown to and fro
She bails ship
From home
This kind of friend will leave you ‘fend’ in Kansas



‘Da’ Scarecrow bums along
‘Freeloadin’ Freddie
Can’t stand on his own
You guessed right
Pick a straw
Short man out
Get him fired up 
Up, up, up 
‘An’ away…
He’s out!



Mr. Tin Man
Old man down
Rusty round ‘da’ edge
In ‘da’ club
Ol’ G’s
Known to thee
Corrupting minors
Game so weak 
You ‘da’ man
You ‘da’ man
Scraping oil from cans
Go sit down
‘An’ leave ‘da’ ‘youngins’ stand
Young men SEE visions
Old men
Dream dreams
Come out ‘dem’ clubs
‘Wit’ kids
Like your eighty-three



King of the jungle
‘Hidin’ behind a lil’ girl
Yeah ‘dat’ be you
‘Talkin’ trash
WRITING checks your hind can’t cash
All ‘da’ while expecting
‘Evr’ybody’ to jump in
Your mess
While you snake
‘Outta’ it
Leaving your friends to bite ‘da’ dust
‘An’ another one down
But to you
No big deal; what’s the fuss?

‘Da’ Yellow Brick Road
‘Wit’ friends like ‘dis’
‘Da’ blind shall lead ‘da’ blind
Ev’rybody falls in ‘dat’ ditch
‘An’ you know THIS
If it weren’t true
I wouldn’t’ve told you it

A state of mutual trust
Shared tween only us!!!
What kind of friends
‘Dis’ love?
‘Wit’ friend’s like ‘deeze’
Who needs ‘luv’?



Dedicated to: 
Make new friends but keep ‘da’ ol’ ‘SUM’ are for keeps; the others NEED TO GO!


As an emerging artist, trying to establish a solid reputation as an author amongst my critics, I am asking for your support by *SHARING THIS POST* and *ORDERING* my hardback, soft back, and e-Book(s) online and/or on my Face Book Page.

(Authored: “Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs” and “SOLD: TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER”)



No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author.
All Rights Reserved@ July 4, 2016.














Great Minds INK Alike


Or so…

We’ve been told

We’ze beat to a comparable tune

More’s different than you’ll ever imagine


Can even know




Her peculiar ink rules

Poetic thoughts

Ev’r so



We’re voices

For the unheard

Societal issues are our passion

Poetic injustices

Cries for children

Justice! Justice!

Cries out

Naw ‘dems’ just kids!


we carry

one’s load


Cannon our pen’s

Pen pals decide

our fate


One’s INK




My, my , my



More similarities shared ‘tween’ us

Than had not

been foretold

if it weren’t true


Wouldn’t INK ever so




Author: Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown


Dedicated to: Idenity…

Please support my write(s) by sharing this post and ordering my e-Book, Hardback and soft back books on Amazon, Barns and Noble and/or on my Face Book Page.


(Authored: “Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs” and “SOLD: TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER”. Note* each book ranked 5 stars!!!)



No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author.

All Rights Reserved@ August 24, 2016.



Some Like Poetry Poem By Wislawa Szymborska

Some Like Poetry – Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Some –

thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.

Not counting schools, where one has to,

and the poets themselves,

there might be two people per thousand.

Like –

but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,

one likes compliments and the color blue,

one likes an old scarf,

one likes having the upper hand,

one likes stroking a dog.

Poetry –

but what is poetry.

Many shaky answers

have been given to this question.

But I don’t know and don’t know and hold on to it

like to a sustaining railing.

Translated by Regina Grol

Destroyer Poem

destroyer of creativity
maker of average
it is a grade school friend
you can’t sing
a weeks work flows by in two seconds
into oblivion
life is dark enough
out here in
give up land
out here in try again city
we are all children coloring in our
enjoying the mud
it is not important if the dirt
on our hands is pure
it is only important that our hands are dirty
from work
fuck the likes
fuck the shares
good art can come from
not being
It’s best to throw the rock
from outside the window
It’s better to scream alone in the forest
God cannot hear you in the

Fukushima. 5 Poems by Mitch Grabois Featured at

browns the waters
like spilled cocoa
and creeps across the sea
Laying naked on Santa Monica Beach at 2 a.m.
I awake with a start
my tongue burning
the taste of marshmallows
twisting my stomach
I’ve taken so many mind-expanding drugs
I can sense what no one else can
Homeless, I have only my own life to save
I’ve got to run before my ears turn blue
before my dick falls off
and my descendants turn into
Elephant Men
I pull on my jeans and sweatshirt
and take off running
for Nova Scotia
We’re getting worse, worse than the Goths
and Vandals who sacked Rome
and ate all the green and yellow parakeets in Egypt
worse than the Soviets
who ate the peach-faced love birds
There are benevolent Nazi women
on the dark side of the moon
with huge boobs
and faces frozen with Botox
preparing our annihilation
She’s on a chaise lounge on her rooftop
in Brooklyn
in this Facebook post
She’s stretched out
her legs extended straight in front of her
Her body is very white
She’s wearing an awkward looking bathing suit top
or maybe it’s a kind of halter
It’s hard to tell from this angle
She’s taken a selfie of her body
There must have been some neck strain involved
Her body is like milk
I can’t see any tattoos
She’s lost all her mystery
I can no longer pretend that she’s satanic
I’ve heard she works for a woman’s magazine
something like Better Homes and Gardens
Do they still publish shit like that?
She’s on the roof with the Hispanic neighborhood
spread out below
She smells the good odor of the rotisserie chicken place
the glass all greasy
and all the Mexican beer and sodas
the Mexicans enjoying their swarthy selves
She thinks she’s getting tanned up there
on the roof
but she’s just getting burned
Her thighs are thick
I see that now
I don’t mind thick thighs
but I mind women who talk about
how thick theirs are
as if it would ameliorate some of the shame
if they talk about it
in a jocular way
But who the fuck cares if her thighs are a little chubby
after everything we’ve been through in this world?
Anyway, as Michael Ventura said, fat feels good in bed
Cruel Mayan
The woman with the cruel face and large breasts
rests on the couch under the jaguar
her legs folded under her
and talks on a cell phone
the universal currency
of disengagement and contempt
The doors are ten feet tall
but she is only five
the same height as her ancestors
who died before they were forty
and whose foreheads were flat
and their eyes crossed
in beauty
This woman’s face is rich in cruelty
as if cruelty came in batches of
a million pixels
Her cell phone and blouse are lurid pink
her toenails are orange
She is a minor character in a detective novel
who hides a shiv in her ratted hair
She studies the screen of her cell phone
like a Sephardic rabbi studying the Torah
She studies it like a weatherman
studying swirls of radar
for deadly storms
like a mother staring
into her baby’s crib
for signs of polio
or sudden death syndrome
like the father of a juvenile delinquent
peering into his son’s face for proof of worth
or worthlessness
This woman’s face gets crueler
as I watch
until she forces me to orgasm
without touching me
then leaves me
to recover my sanity
and to clean myself
She goes back to the couch
back to uninterrupted staring
into her cell phone
like a Sicilian studying the face of a pizza
for signs of crime
or the dark, mottled face of his lover
for signs of betrayal
The jaguar’s eyes burn red
His mouth is red and glows from within
I come and go
The world is full of phantasmas
and lost Americans
whose only salvation is death
but who pour agua purificado
from jug to jug
as if
their rituals of juggling clean water
will void damnation
The jaguar’s teeth are sharp as a shark’s
sharp as a moray eel’s
This peninsula was once a sea
The jaguar’s whiskers are bristly
as my uncle’s
who ran a clothing store in Queens
His face cut me
when he bent to kiss
I’d already learned that vampires
came from Rumania
and here he was
with his flat cap
and red eyes
Ruler of the ghetto
he cheated black men
who were afraid to buy their work clothes
from someone else

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over twelve-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, including POETRY LIFE AND TIMES. He has been nominated for numerous prizes. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a Print Edition . To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .