ramona scott Poems

Oblivious to the realities that haunt you to this day
In every part of the world that you have touched
Destroying civilizations and races of men is your way;
What might have been had they remained untouched?
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Inside this mansion of many rooms
I listen to earthly sounds
Voices of a world to which
In nine months I'll be bound.
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My granddaddy, rest his soul,
Made the best home-made sweet rolls

With arthritic, deformed hands
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Chewy caramel covered in creamy crisp chips of chocolate;
Horehound, honey-crisp, hard or Hershey's Kisses soft;
Overwhelming, overbold opulence of ogbano nuts oozing African flavor;
Craving coconut cake cloaked in creamy charcoal colored icing;
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When people hear the word 'ghetto' they immediately think of poor, black, drugs, violence, gangs, abandoned buildings, unkempt lawns, police sirens, gunshots, liquor stores, corner stores, rap music blaring, drunks hanging out on corners, crack heads, dope fiends, and most of all, despair. To others, its just home. A place where: they have lived all of their life; their mother has lived; and their grandparents have lived. This is the only world they know, except for what they see on tv. And this is where they believe they will die. Outside of their parameter, they rarely if ever, venture, except perhaps to visit a mall. They are very protective of their home like most people. This is where they live, love, breed, and die. They write their songs about it, they make movies of their own about it, and they write books about it. And to their frustration, no one outside of their ghetto appreciates any of it. It is like another world, another planet of which outsiders wish would just disappear, fade into a memory just as the original ghetto, from whence the word evolved, has done.

I grew up middle class and my parents still live in a mini mansion of fifteen rooms, on a well landscaped golf-course, surrounded by a man made moat filled with swans, ducks, geese and serenity. My mom's bathroom is the size of my one-bedroom apartment.
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