Once (a poem by my my father)

Letters from Pops...
Letters from Pops…

(A poem from my incarcerated father about me coming to visit him.)



Once I saw a young man’s face

He came to see me in this place.

He had many questions in his heart

So we began at the start.

Why did I walk away?

Why did I not stay to watch him grow and play?

Life is funny I’ve come to see.

My son came to prison to visit me.

When he left it broke my heart

I knew it would right from the start.

Some things are better left alone, I know that now that he is gone.

I know I’ll probably never see him again.

I hope in my soul, I’ve made some amends.

Though we’ll never be the best of friends

I’ll love you my son, til the very end.


By Pendarvis L. Harshaw

For Pendarvis L.A. Harshaw


Black Eagle

Black Eagle


Black Eagle.

Talons. Talents. Fly brotha.

Stylish. Eyes of a pen point writer. pilot.

Writing in the sky reads: follow my lead…

My screech. My battle scream. I hunt snakes & mice with sight so precise.

I take flight- clear the scene…

A feather dipped in black ink is the only thing that I leave.


… My Desiderata …

“whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt,  the universe is unfolding as it should.”

These illusions are intrusive. dreams… maya… there are things that I desire.
Illusions are for losers… I try to look through them…but…

“ …do not stress yourself with imaginings…”

True… But…
Marijuana, alcohol bottles, the things hood that taught us, the cops, the baby mommas, and the brothas from the other side… all of it- a sign…
… in a way- the system has got us….
I want freedom, so I run for it en la manana… Jogging.
Footsteps and pavement.
I can literally jog from the hood to the wealthy communities… I stop where the gate is…
Thinking…one day: mannnnn…

“Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.”

True… but…  what is there to enjoy when there nothing in my hands?
… and my hands aren’t free …
My hands are a looking glass- showing what I could one day be… if I work…. work my hands til they bleed…

“ beyond a wholesome discipline- be gentle with yourself.”

True…. But…

gentle doesn’t help: go hard… get up…
Early morning rise- pushups, sit-ups,
Just after dawn, posted in a park…
On the pull-up bar…Dew drops on my hands…looking up… I once thought:
If I were doing pull-ups on the clouds, could I muster up enough strength to peak into heaven’s gates?

“you are a child of the universe, no less than the tress &  the stars; you have a right to be here.”
True … but…

Back on earth. Back and shoulder muscles hurt. That workout must have worked.
But, what’s all this work worth?
Success depends on who’s eye it is… sitting in the same position I was when I first started this- does growth exist?
I know the pain does.
… is this in vain… man… what for?

“whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace within your soul.”

True… but…
The noise is soul shaking.
Not only an early riser- but  sometimes a late nighter …awakened with a soldiers style stare down the road  of life…
More exhausted by jogging my mind late night than jogging the streets in the morning light.

“With all its sham drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.”
True…But…alright, that’s true.

I hit my stride… a focused locomotive moving from the hills through the flatlands of Oakland…the sun just started to rise…
…old white people walk past and smile- picking up dog doo-doo piles, junkies getting high, school kids posted by the bust stop sign, immigrants work for better lives… and all over Americans scramble to their 9-5’s… mid stride, I realize:
“strive to be happy.”

Bruh Wolf

Lone wolf, soft paws and sharp teeth, ferocious and fur covered, pig hunter, chicken plucker, the bigger big brother of that slick muh fuggah…Sly fox.

all dogs: pitts and rotts, beagles to dingos, even
the skinny lil doggy on the Nile with Cleo

…they all my peoples…

Well…uh… The name the Latin’s gave us, “Canis familiaris”…
That’s us.

All cute as pups… we grow up to be dangerous…

Quick lesson of life: anything with teeth… Can bite…

except for combs
humans use on their hair.

That’s neither here nor there.

Reason why I’m here: fear…

Big Black wolf…Native to North America…

No mask, no sheep’s wool…

my pack was once strong… Now some of them rest in heaven with all dogs…

Others domesticated…and some run wild

…leaving the lone wolf…walking thru dark woods.

Big moon.

I howl: oowwwwwww-ooooohhhhh!!!…

Inside the moon there’s a man…

inside this man is a wolf…

no x-man wolverine- no werewolf teen… A wolf inside a being…

soft paws…sharp teeth.

Drew Hall’s Sunday Night Cipher

Sunday Night Cipher has been a staple of the Charles R. Drew freshman dormitory since I arrived on this illustrious campus of Howard University, but this year has had momentum like no other.

The original host was a man by the name of Basheer Jones; Basheer has since left to pursue a career in politics as well as being an acclaimed radio host on a radio station in Cleveland, Ohio.

I happened to be at the right place at the right time, and the legacy Basheer left behind fell directly into my hands.

Once called “Drew Halls Poetry Night”, now called the “Sunday Night Cipher”, this stage ( a set of ikea tables in the dormitory lounge) is the platform many talented freshman use to catapult them into Howard University stardom, Washington D.C. notoriety, and as far as their artistic ability will take them.

The event is held every Sunday Night, from 9pm-11pm. It is an open mic format, and brings about the singing talents, comedic genius, poetic prose, the acclaimed acting, and the all out passionate performance of the Howard University Student body.

I constantly compare the Sunday Cipher to Superman’s phone-booth. A place where normal students come in, and metaphorically change into super-heros and share their superhero ability with the greater society…And then they get off stage and return to the form of college student…only difference is: now we know the truth.

I wouldn’t dare expose all of what goes on inside of a Sunday Cipher… its kind of sacred…But here is a snap shot:

and this one is a personal favorite….

and for more photos check the link:


I wanted to write this in effort to thank the people’s energy they bring when they come through the doors of the dorm lounge during Sunday Night cipher . thank yall.

…just my train of thought…



Poem: Leaders and Followers

My teen years...in loose leaf

Before this blog, my writings would go into these composition books. I have accumulated exactly 30 note books (rap books) and I have never lost 1..I believe that the basis of all good writing is poetry, and now that I’m writing in many other forms- I’d be a fool to forget where it originated. Every so often, I’ll post a poem or two. some old, some new. …and that line sounded like Dr. Sues. hahahah anyway

No need to go in order, I’ll just post it as I see fit…

Today’s entry is from November 11th 2008.

(posted tonight because of a chain of events in my life and tonights State of the Union speech. enjoy.)

Leaders and Followers.

Angel’s halos hang around aimless gangstas

and God watches over single mothers as they strip naked

however 12 demonic spirits make decisions that put Black men in prison

and the preacher teaches that there is 1 God who looks over this world we live in

so why do we have to go to your church to bare witness

players prayers answered on faulty cell phones

dropped calls- resorts in dial tones

while kids at home all alone roll up bible paper with cush

forever disabled stuck on the sofa cushion

the pope and Bush, the Dhali lama, Muslims Jihad-ing, and genocided from Darfur to Rawanda- mo problems than just Obama can conquer

we need benevolent mobbsters

need single moma’s to pop-lock-and drop it- straight to parent teacher’s conferences..

the game is follow the leader, the question is: who do the leaders follow?