“Black Black Crows,” “Broken Homes” and “Poker”

“Black Black Crows,” “Broken Homes” and “Poker”

Black Black Crows

Why does God send crows to mock my dawn?

They resurrect all that is wrong

with deeds standing on my shadow,

with dogs growling at my heels.

My mind, my heart, I cannot explain

a guitar left out in the rain,

or my path, my direction;

coins lost beneath couch cushions,

small matters to reclaim,

a time-weary tale to tell,

a drunk lounge singer’s song.

This runner is too weak to sweat

in this race that’s much too long.

God, disperse these crows before tomorrow’s dawn.

Broken Homes

Broken homes, people pieces,

snapped stick figure children

lay strewn, angry, idle.

Shards cannot complete a puzzle.

They drift upon a vapor ocean

then sink below footsteps, concrete and crust.

Tides of lapse, relapse, and collapse

beat upon bleak sand.

Sunken time capsules bulge and erupt

broken vows, worn tattered promises,

shame, blame, rage and blood.

A sea of grief has no horizon.

Sighs that drive listless waves

pound upon bleak sand.

Winds have died

and groans cannot fill a sail.


It’s a game,

like a fist fight,

or collecting rent,

or stealing drugs

from grandma’s purse.

It can be fun.

Fish and chips taste so good,

especially when they tilt.

They cry.

If you’re going to feel sorry,

don’t sit here.

Do arithmetic. Read a book.

Go have a smoke or something;

but don’t sit down

if you can’t get hurt real bad

or beat some nice guy all in.

About the Author

Stuart Forrest

Stuart James Forrest is a retired public servant living in Oceanside, California. In the summer of 2014, he developed a passion for creative writing while attending Stanford University Continuing Studies. He continues to write poetry, short stories and hopes to develop enough skill to be a strong, creative voice of his generation of Black Americans who lived through a very tumultuous period in American history.