Life all around us

Welcome to Urban poems. Real life. Real words. Poetic flow.

21 July, 2007

Miss Inde’ Kills Mr. Chivalry

I’m all that
An’ a bag of perzat
Don’t need no man to do for me
What I already do for me.
I’m Miss Inde’.
Got my degree, an Msc., a PHD
A house, a car
And plenty of money.
Step back!!
Wid your dry chat
I checked the oil level already
I fixed the blocked drain
Hung the picture frame
Don’t need you taking care of me.
I’m Miss Inde’.

“Let me get the door”
What for?
Got two hands and a brain
I can do it myself
Thanks all the same.

“Let me pay”
No that’s OK!
Never let it be said
You paid to get to my bed
I can pay my own way.

“It’s cold. Here’s my coat”
Is that a joke?
Think I can’t handle a little rain
Brother you’re insane
Coming with you 1960’s tired game.

One! Two! Three”
Stabs to the heart
Miss Inde’ departs
Killing Mr Chivalry
Dead in his path.

But soon she’ll complain:
“He never does anything for me
No Flowers
No romance
No intimacy
Huh! Brothers!
They’re all the same
Can’t take Miss Inde’
Black Sista Queen
I’m too strong for him to tame.
Says I intimidate
Says I infuriate
Says I emasculate
Miss Inde’ always gets the blame.”

Deborah L. Harper © 02/08/04

Generation Ex

“Excuse me girl”, he said to me
“You’re looking fine, I like what I see”
I thought, hmm not my cup of tea
But I’ve had some fine brothers
Dog out on me.
Maybe the love
Of an ugly bruv
Is what I need.
Soon we realise this ain’t meant to be
He steps, I’m ex, who’s next!

So I stop and look around
I realise generation ex is in every crowd:
Ex-cused, Ex-communicated
Ex-man, ex-wife,
Ex-boss, X-Box

Our generation
Has stopped communicating
We’ve lost the secret recipe
To longevity
Our children grow up with mummy
On weekends and holidays
They may see daddy
She works round the clock
Thinking every man is a –
He thinks all women are the same
We all play the blame game
But then
I won’t get vex,
Just re-write the text.

Generation ex have more options
But make bad choices
More opportunities and get out clauses
Better universities and research facilities
Slicker cars, bigger houses
Wide screen TV, MP3’s
Broadband connectivity
And more single 30 something’s
Than in the 1950’s
Less teenage pregnancies
But older baby-mummy’s
More “Independent Women”
Looking for their “Black Brother”
While affirming “I’m a Survivor”.

There are still some fine brothers out there
And plenty fine sisters who care
But my selection for the next generation
Won’t be based on looks or complexion
Not on height, depth or flight reservations
But on character, openness, communication
Love, commitment, respect and devotion
I want to put a stop to the ex generation.

Deborah © 1/08/04

Closer my tail

The more things change
My constant remains
The more I move
The more I stay the same
There's constant blame
About working for no gain
On living on grain
The more my wheel turns
The closer my tail
The harder I run
The greater the fail
Bloody Hell

Deborah 2005

What's on your mind?

Family feuds
And meetings
Raising a child
And breathing
In cigarette smoke
Less eating
I'm learning to cope
With grieving
Get on the treadmill
This evening
Moving house
And leaving
The family nest
That's keeping me
A float and bleeding
Me dry of hope
Of leading a normal life
With meaning
Breath D!
I'm breathing

No Job satisfaction
But no ceiling
On my imagination
For dreaming
Up a new career
With more meaning
Meanwhile my
Self esteem
Is bleeding
Through my heart n soul
And stealing
From me my
My hopes and dreams
Of leading a better life
But I keep dreaming
I'm sure that one day
I'll end up breathing
In new air, new feelings
Till then I'll keep breathing
D? You there?
Yep! I'm still breathing.

Deborah 6/10/05


Woman I have always been
I’ve crossed the invisible chasm
From little girl, pretty skin
To Beautiful, Strong Black Woman

Invisible it may be
But the journey has not been pain free
As full breast bloom from tiny shoots
And hair is processed at the roots.
With full hips of Mother Earth Round possess
Where thick thighs conceal my unveiled God Bless
I struggle to comprehend
The emotion and cycle-of-me demands.
From hapless childhood land
To adult, lover, Mother…


SUBJECT: Your stupidity

You move me
To write poetry
SUBJECT: Your Stupidity
Or is it naiveté?
I like you
Is it mutual?
I thought it might be
We planned a big night out
Where we would party
Converse a bit
Then flirt heavily.
I bought a new dress
Something sexy
Not too revealing
But just enough to be
I sent you emails
We talked daily
I was so geared up
On possibilities
And out of no where
You change the receipe
Now there’s three of us
You, me and she.
What’s the deal bro?
Is this a hint to me?
Or you just being blind?
And acting stupidly!
Well, I’ll still go
But I’m behavin’ differently
Cos if a new bro’
Should try and step to me
I’m taking numbers yo!
And moving steadily
To a new direction
Away from your stupidity


Steppin' Out

Peeking from the back
18 carat
Diamond ring
To finger is attached
Emphasising breasts
Is your name “Princess”?
On boots knee length
Just covers interests
From salon expert tease
To death
Handbag Prada
You’re steppin to impress


(she Said, he Said)

(She said)

Hey L8,
Can you please me?
Can those eyes pene' mine?
Can our paths entwine?
Then two chocolate lips.
Two educated minds.
Can those hands caress
A woman with mild distress,
Who needs a gentle "Yes
"Honey, everything will "Be just fine"
Can I be your soundboard?
Can I put my soul on yours?
Can I touch you here
And here
And there
And kiss you from chest to jaw
And back to here

Hey L8
Can we?
Can you?
Can I?

(L8 said: )
most can..and i can,
its just that ur dealing with an impatient man,
iv got a good heart,
with more kisses than sand...
on the beach...
stretch out your hand...
and likewise ill reach...out...
you re chocolate bliss..
i dont doubt...
when i close my eyes...
my lips can feel your mouth..
your gorgeous...
im talking north to south...
trust i can please u,
as long as u dont doubt

(She said)
impatience is my specialty
you are my curiosity
and email joins us virtually
i need a reality
check that
i need you in reality
to smell you
brush you gentlywith lips,
with heart
with wild sensuality
when did you say that would be?

UrbanPoet and Chocl8boy

I Knew it was You

I knew it was you
By the curve of your smile
And the warmth in your eyes
I know it was you
By the slight of your hand
And the strength in your stand
I knew it was you
By the tone of your voice
And the words of your choice
I knew it was your
By your warm embrace
And the truth in your face
I knew it was you
When a day with you
Left us longing to do –

I hoped it was you
Who would stand by my side
And make me your bride
I hoped it was you
Who felt the same way I do
And would follow it through

I knew it was you
Who could so easily
Have been perfect with me
I knew it was you
Who would pass me by
Leave me wondering why
I wanted you
To want me too
So badly, I knew
It was too good to be true.
I knew.


Is it Because…

Is it because my hair is too long
Or not long enough
Is it because you prefer high notes
And I, soft bluffs
Is it because my eyes are brown
My butt is round
I’m Black and I’m proud
Is it because of the skin I’m in
Or the joy I can bring
Is it because my personality shines,
I speak my mind
Am way too kind
Am a unique find
Could you tell me if it is
Because of my kid
Or the truth I did
Is it because I bought you
The Gladys Knight melody
“You’re the best thing
To ever happen to me”
Did I come across too heavy?
Is it because I won’t let you explore
Until I’m sure
Or because I run and hide
Before our spirits collide.
Is it because I’m so in love
With the thought of love
And the stars above
It is because
I’m too short
Too light
Too dark
Too right Too smart
Is it because you’re frightened
Or because of the timing
It is because of another
Or your baby son’s mother?
If you could let me know
What it is,
I could change these things
Do you know what he said
When I asked, what it is
He said
“It just is”

‘Is it Because…’© By Urban Poet

Happy Tamed ‘Fro

Canerow, chiny-bumps
Tiny plaits, do-do plaits
In one, in two, in three
Sitting between mummy’s knees
Eyes moist, face pained
As she combed from the roots
Extracted your brain
Curious about what’s on top
You reach up
You get a chop.
“Don’t touch, I soon stop”.
You pray to the Bergamot God
That it’s a good job
With bobbles and bows
And neat little rows
Of Happy Tamed ‘Fro.

20 July, 2007

Jamaican Proverbs

Miss Pauline she, she loves
To keep up with style
And dress in the latest fashion
All de while
But the felt hat was a mistake
And miss by a mile
So when she arx me how it look
I just turn to her and smile
And say
Not everything suit alligator, suit crocodile

And when Miss Berta big bwoy Boris
Was jus’ a likkle yout’
Him use to gwan bad
And t’ink say it cute
But him go way too far
When him pick and uproot
My coco, sweet pitata, yam and breadfruit
So me warn him arf good
And tell him de truut
Anytime plantain waan dead, it shoot!

Anyway de odder day
Mid did have a big problem
Cos Ivan did a come
And de roof waan men’
An’ de retaining wall waan buil’
From me no know when
An’ mi a pray an’ a fret
‘Bout my twelve pickney dem
But in de midst of despair
Me just say to meself “Gwen
Stop worry ya me chil’
If you fe drown you can heng

Now me an Mas’ Johnny
We deh from de start
From we a live inna one room
An’ a push ol’ hand cart
But me frien’ dem say
Johnny no good
An’ t’ink we should part
But me t’ink dem is jinal
An’ a try fi fin’ fault
True Johnny buy Camry
An’ buil’ suit from good clart
So me tek time part dem company
Far like how me salt
You might see a man face,
but you don’t see him heart

Deborah © 27/09/04


juicy juicy ,
sure looking so juicy ,
surprising .
your making me craving .
essential ,
mental hold you got on my brain .
juicy fruit ,
recommended for my well being ,
your juicy got me dreaming
scheming ,
venting ,
panting ,
breathless ,
restless .
your juicy is my medication .
my diet consist of your juicy ,
vexation ,
if you not giving ;
compulsion ,
need that fix ,
need that taste ,
splash that juice all on my face .
delicious ,
nutritious ,
finger licking ,
definitely juicy .

by Danger Man
(for me... again!! ;-) )

Stories on the Underground

An urban shortie

Due to a person under a train at Green Park, there are severe delays on the Jubliee Line. Customers are advised to take the Metropolitan line and change where necessary. London Underground wishes to apologies for the disruption caused to your journey this morning”.
A general groan filtered through the crowd on the platform at Dollis Hill. By now it was three deep and stretched to the far end of the station. At eight thirty in the morning the Jubilee line was already a heaving mass of sour flesh. The third consecutive day of cold British rain only ensured that the journey was yet again, unbearable. When a tube finally materialised, the rain had created sodden coats that breathed their unwashed odour into the cramped carriages. The staleness clung to the air, evaporating any surplus oxygen. Sacha couldn’t understand why so many people had to smell that nauseating so early in the morning. She rationalised that soap was cheap and water almost free, so there really was no excuse.

Under normal circumstances, a tube this full would be crawling its way to Bond Street without her. However as she was already late, the struggle of make a living in London had to start at Wembley Park. The interview at the London Mayor’s office in [Waterloo] as a communications researcher was in less then fifty minutes times. Sacha had hoped to use the travelling time to write down a few intelligent questions to ask her interviewer. But with someone else’s armpit against her nose and Miss Two Bags hitting her in the ribs from one angle and the buttocks from the other, chances of even surviving, much less writing, where slim to none.

Her thoughts had wondered to the “person under a train”. How desperate do you have to be to jump in front of train first thing on a Monday morning? That’s taking a cry for help a step too far. Must have been a rough weekend. Unless they were pushed. Maybe the platform was full and they were too close to the yellow line. Perhaps they stepped back to put some distance between them and the on coming train. Mashed a foot. Got shoved. It’s over. Tube rage was a real thing. And by Willesden Green, Sacha could fully understand how tube rage came about, as she would gladly have treated Miss Two Bags to 1000 volts of live rail track. Miss Two Bags had chosen the rush hour to transport three weeks worth of gym clothes, avec towels, shower sundries and Nike cross-trainers, in a large bright red rucksack. The other bag, a fair-sized, black rectangular handbag, with silver-tipped corners, carried all the usual paraphernalia. With both straps of the burdensome rucksack slung over her left shoulder, and the handbag balancing on her right, Miss Two Bags performed a convincing impersonation of “The Little Donkey” on the rocky road to Bethlehem.

Now in all fairness to Sacha, who was immaculately dressed in business attire, and trying to remain composed for her interview, she did make it all the way to Swiss Cottage before finally losing the power of self-restraint. Miss Two Bags gave Sacha a mighty blow in the back while trying to muscle more room for her own personal comfort. “Ooow! Jesus woman! Are you blind or am I invisible”? Sacha’s voice was loud enough for people towards the far end of the carriage to hear. Newspaper’s rustled as the seated chosen few, discretely lowered them to observe the fracas amongst the standing cattle class. “Sorry!!” said Miss T.B sarcastically, tossing her blond hair in Sacha’s face, “I didn’t realise you were so close”, she hissed. Sacha was outraged at this woman’s lack of remorse for almost paralysing her from the waist down. And although she normally carried her self as a consummate professional, this morning she unleashed the ‘rude girl’ in her and was ready to salt and pepper Miss Goddamn Two Bags. “S’what? Am I not black enough and big enough for you to see me? Listen! Tek your handbag out of my backside, before I find a permanent place for you to stick it!” she warned.

Silence fell on the whole carriage. All eyes where on Sacha and Miss Two Bags. The man with the sweaty armpits gently released his grip on the yellow ceiling rail and turned his body away from the commotion, obviously not wanting to be the next in the line of fire. A few opened mouthed people shamelessly stared at Sacha, while others darted their eyes between the two women wondering if there was going to be a come back from the blonde lady. For that moment, it seemed as if Swiss Cottage station had turned the volume down on the train noises, and pumped the volume up on the silence. The musty clothes smell grew stronger as the motionless train was drained of the remaining stale air that had been circulating. The carriage was caught in suspended animation. Sacha eyed Miss Two Bags with a stern glare. Miss Two Bags glared back, contemplating a response while calculating how many stops she had before she could safely escape this scene. Then the tube doors gave their warning beeps as they steadily closed trapping her in the carriage until at least the next station.

Miss Two Bags thought better of challenging this angry black woman. Safety in numbers was not a practiced concept in London. The fact that the train was bulging with people didn’t actually guarantee your personal security. Besides she had heard how violent these yardie types could be. So instead of continuing the stand off, Miss Two Bags just tutted a weak disapproval as her only response to Sacha’s warning. Sacha, adrenaline pumping, and wishing she had kept her big mouth shut, was glad that Miss T.B had not taken it any further. The odds were against her. There were too many white people to come to the defence of the helpless weightlifter blonde, who was obviously under threat against her, the black sister with an attitude. However, to save face and through genuine annoyance, she kissed her teeth in a manner that would have made her mother ask her if she was trying to “draw me tru’ dem”.

The tube moved off slowly and Sacha silently prayed that it wouldn’t stop suddenly and send her flying into her opponent. The other tube passengers resumed their previous poses. In a seat, diagonal to the dispute a young black man smiled in Sacha’s direction, with a touch of admiration for her courage, and hint of attraction at her style. Sacha noticed him, but was too embarrassed to acknowledge his subtle support.
By Deborah Harper, © 2004

Something Beautiful

The fullness of the autumn leaf
As it clutches to its stem.
Blushed skies at early sunet grief,
Awaken Seven Star planet heaven.
The aura of a love to be:
Bright blue and scarlet red.
The chocolate covered skin of me
My heart for you has bled.
The laughter of a little chap
Innocence fills his cup.
Trust is love and love perhaps
Will shadow dance with luck.
The rain washes troubles away
Cleansing sky and earth.
Don’t tut to see the rain obey
Its need to clear your path.
All things my eyes are blessed to behold
Are beautiful to me
Grief, strength, nature, love untold
God’s gems of life indeed.



The influences
That touch my
Come from the
“Oh shit, do I have to”
and the
“Dear God, why me?”
They spring from the
“Oh Thanks, that was lovely”
and the
“Ummmummm, did she?”
They are the
Woven tapestry
Of the tings
That effect me
And the people
Who invite me
To co-exist in
Their tapestry
The influences are from the
“I know you’re right mum”
to the
“Damn he ain’t the one!”
and the
“Girls, lets have fun”
From the
“This is my father,
my brother,
my son”
And all the things
In between and around
Near, far
By sea, by plane, or car
The influences
Inspire me and guide me
To believe
“Yeah, I’m lucky”
“That shit ain’t funny”
to the
“Today I’m blue”
“Let’s try something new”
based on
“I need to make a point
about that too”
You’re part of my
Influences, so
A Big Thank You to You!


19 July, 2007


My love for you will be
As unassuming as a solstice breeze
Pure, warm and beautifully charming

My devotion to us will be
As sure as stars that orbit in Heaven
Admired from afar, formed in Seven

My understanding of love has been
Matured by an epiphany inspired emotion

My temper has now evolved
To exclude anger and embrace passion

The love I now endure
Is based on commitment, not token
Gestures of things unsecured
To a feeling of unreal affection.

My expectations of you will be
As clear as a healing crystal
No more will I demand too much
Or yet expect too little.

For my next act I will be
Carefully selecting my mood rock
And we will share and protect together
As our past loves evolve our Equinox

Deborah © 21/09/04

18 July, 2007

Note to self...

Note to Self
An urban story

Memory being what it was, she was always forgetting things: where she put the hair brush; the window measurements for the blinds; the last time she weighed 10 stone. Hence the ‘notes to self’ grew longer and longer. Time evaporated. The cycle continued.

A glimpse of summer sunshine had inspired a visit to the £7 hand carwash in Wembley Park. One thing to tick off the To Do list. Now with car gleaming, windows down and sunroof open, the urge to sing along to "A little bit of Love" was too great. Her errands had taken her to Ladbroke Grove, enroute to High Street Ken. For the time of day the road was unusually clear, and with 25 mph feeling like a 100mph, she pushed the new Gucci sunglasses closer to your brow and her foot further to floor and sang "I met a man today, who cannot change his life". She had forgotten to indicate at the Barlby Road roundabout but where the black Audi TT came from was a mystery. The reflex emergency braking still left her skidding into an intimate encounter with this car, whose insurance was more than the total value of her little jelopy.

"Sh*t!". "F*ck".

Before she could focus enough to turn the radio down, he was in front of her, tugging at the car door handle. Instinctively she rushed her hand to the central locking, although she always locked the door before putting on her seatbelt. “The action of his ways is paved with so much strife”. He had jumped out of the driver seat and over to her car with such vigour, she was convinced he was about to haul her from the vehicle and shake the blame out of her then and there.

The damn power windows refused to respond to her desperate attempts to close them and protect herself. When she felt his hand on her wrist her other instinct for self defence at all costs, made her thump him repeatedly with her heavy "I'm a single girl, buy my own fake diamonds" ring. It was only when she heard him say "Well she's alright then", that she realised he had come to make sure she wasn't hurt.

Looking up, tentatively, at the man now rubbing the diamond indented spot on the back of his hand, she saw his concern, his jet black brow, jealously bold against his chocolate completion; his soft angled jaw; the fleshy pink lips a jewel in the crown of his neat goatee framed mouth... mmmm, his just enough buff chest.

New instincts kicked in: damsel in distress. “So what you’re thinking of, should maybe start today”

She unlocked the door and allowed him to open it for her. Happily today was a day that she had made an effort. The hair was still fresh from last nights four hour perfect grooming stint at Michael’s Style salon in Willesden. The deep blue denim jeans hugged and loved in the right places. Her blue-black silk waist-length khaftan concealed the ripple effect of the belly, while revealing the magnetic effect of the cleavage. The bell sleeves exposed the smooth flesh of her arms, accented with a chunky onck bangle. Make up! Thank God for rear occasions. Today it was applied and appropriate.

Now all that remained for her to apply was a charming demean a. Veiled in a mildly apologetic, subtly accusatory tone, of course. Heck this was live bait after all. “A little bit of love, can go a long, long way”

"Are you alright?" he asked.
She touched her neck delicately, leaning her head to one side then the other. This had dual purpose: (a) to prolong the conversation with the fine looking brother (b) where's the blame, there's a claim. And as her insurance would most certainly not cover this collison, she would have to find another way of upgrading to the ’08 Fiesta. Cup is always half full.

“I think so. Think I just... the seatbelt might have, you know, forced my neck back suddenly. Sorry. About your hand. I…”.

She felt him staring at her intensely. It wasn’t just concern. He was making the most of this opportunity too. His half smile and dancing eyes had already memorised her features, her neckline, her iridescent brown skin. She knew the signs. “Look not sure who was in the wrong here. But your car seems to be little more dented than mine.” He diverted his attention to the kissing cars. The bumper had a fist-sized dent in it, with black marks causing painful scarring to the yellow colour-coding.

Following his gaze to the offending ding, she stood back as he took a few steps closer to examine the damage. She examined the damage. Six foot two, broad and toned, without the off-putting six-days-a-week-in-the-gym-obtaining-muscle-definition. Clearly the man worked, not just worked-out. Nice shelf bottom too. Note to self: re-instate Cannons membership.

“Is it bad? Should we exchange details? Never had an accident before, so not entirely sure of the procedure. Do we need to report it to the police or something?” Her mind raced as she tried to find ways of creating dialogue. Wit was escaping her. The usual defence of dry sarcasm was dripping in this ditzy armour.

He smiled. Adding to her confusion. She smiled back. Holding his gaze. He held on too and with a gentle deep chuckle, he lowered his head. Reaching into his back pocket to pull his wallet out, he said “Let me give you my card. We can settle this between us. No need for insurance. Cost to repair will be less than the increase in the premium”.

No insurance. Damn. Hood-rat! “Well, as long as you’re a man of your word. How do I know you won’t just disappear?” She took his business card. James Braithwait. Chartered Surveyor. She managed to stifle her look of relief and approval, while mentally she was doing a celebratory dance, wining her waist and circling her arms infront of her chest, while chanting ‘He is a fit man, with a good job, nah, nah, nah, nah-nah’.
She tried on the last name as though trying on this season’s jacket in a Karen Millen shop. No changing room required, nothing to remove. Just slip it on over current attire. Alison Grey-Braithwaite. Yes, I do!

Time to up the ante.

Turning to her car, she leaned in through the opened car door, bending over the drivers seat to retrieve her soft tan Mui Mui handbag. She kept her back to him a moment longer, to ensure he had captured a full length vision of her all woman Caribbean asset, featured in her jeans. Turning suddenly, she was pleased with her efforts, as he was duly staring directly at her. She handed him her card. “My other mobile number is on the back, in case my blackberry is off.” She offered.

“Thanks. Look, sorry for this. Although I’m not totally to blame, you know, but I will fix it. Maybe we can meet up tomorrow and I’ll take you to my mechanic for an assessment.”

“Need your mechanic to assess me too, huh?” Game on! Without laughing he said “Call me later and we can make the necessary arrangements, yeah?” Not biting the bait. Strange.

“OK. Well I’ll have to make a note of your license plate number, just to be on the safe side. You understand that right?” she asked, while walking around to examine the front grill of his car. She looked down at his license plate. Private number. JB 24 7. With a side smile she glanced up to look at him and from the corner of her eye she noticed someone in the passenger seat for the first time.

Taking a closer look, she saw her. Long, thick blonde hair, creamy-skinned, thin, shimmering glossed lip and a beauty-spot just below her nose. Open-necked, white fitted shirt, with an oversized silver necklace. Indisputably stunning. Her smile curved up at the corners of mouth, with a look of knowing certainty that there was no contest. She smiled back, relinquishing her quest to conquer.

When she looked backed at him, he felt change in the tone of her gaze. Yet her disappointment in him and disapproval of his passenger, coupled with an all too familiar tinge of defeat, went unchallenged. Either he was used to it, or mistook it for jealousy. Either way he kept smiling as he walked to his car door. “Call me, ok?”

She smiled weakly then returned to her car. Kissing her teeth she wondered how she could forget the most basic of instincts when flirting with a stranger. Note to self: make sure the roundabout is clear before speeding in.