I see them look up to where
they cannot be.
I feel their wishes collide
with the magnified need
of their wandering, pagan hearts.
The spirits of their departed
float past in silent cloaks of dust,
reflecting our own futures.
They send up their
rockets and space toys,
cluttering their sky
as we watch them
implode.
We will grieve the day
they go dark forever,
and all they knew
floats silently past us
into the past.
No more impassioned pleas of poetry
to pour into the ears of poisoned people.
Fattened snakes, they peer through narrow slits
for more morsels than they can consume.
They can’t hear their vomit splatter on
the opulence they claim to own,
luxuriating in their greed
though they rot the same as street urchins.
The clashing of cultures and colors
consume the country.
The passion of misguided zealots
wars with
the passion of misguided fools,
though they have
more in common than not.
The poets read to rooms bereft of thought and innocence.
The writer’s craft crashes,
crushed by corporate creeds of false benevolence,
revealing itself a malevolent presence sitting on
the writer’s hand.
We are blind to the irony of a gated community,
and when there’s no one left to bear the blame,
we will hurl each other out to be first in a
wasteland of liberty.
Our words will be the legacy of our spirit’s journey.
The words we leave behind will be the journals
of our departed souls.
For now, for better, for worse,
for a future we won’t see,
we write in the darkness,
ever moving toward the light.
From the savanna,
the deserts,
the grasslands,
the veldt,
and the jungle,
The music played.
From the empires,
the gold and diamond mines,
and the pyramids,
The music played.
From the ivory tusks,
the red clay,
the ebony wood,
and the skins of war drums,
The music played.
On the ship,
In the cabins,
In ‘massa’s house,
In the whipping sheds,
and the cotton and tobacco fields,
The music played.
And at sunset,
Heads lowered over
Unmarked graves of
Old men and
Innocent children,
The music played.
From the Underground Railroad
through the rise of Pullman Porters,
The music played.
Through Jim Crow,
chain gangs,
and Sunday morning services,
The music played.
Through hard times
and celebrations,
and through vibrant
ululations,
and our rising expectations,
The music played.
In the Deep South,
through the screams
and cries wrought
by night riders
and cross burnings,
The music played.
Over the sound
of barking dogs
and high pressure hoses,
The music played.
Through Malcolm and Dr. Huey Newton,
and Martin and Jesse,
and Barack Obama,
The music played.
Through the first black…(insert pioneer name here)
The music…(still playing)
We must teach the songs
that kept the voices lifted
though hearts were heavy,
Kept the flames of joyous spirits
and the love of hearts
lit,
though our dreams of freedom were
constantly extinguished.
Kept hope alive through our best
writers, artists, and orators,
Proud Black Men
and Beautiful Black Women
united in one purpose:
Us.
The music played, and plays still…
And it will play on
as long as we remember.
And if
we
teach it well,
long after
we’re gone.
In the flurried, frenzied madness
are the words that never come.
There’s a sorrowful, silent sadness
like a rain soaked, broken drum.
When your spirit’s badly broken,
when the mocking page stares back,
and you’re reaching, reaching, reaching
down a hole that’s cold and black,
When the thirst is quenched within you
and imagination dies,
And the fire’s banked inside you,
no one’s there to hear your cries.
Go and order a tequila.
Go and throw a ball or two,
and somewhere between the sun and moon,
the words return to you.
For they never really leave you.
You’re a writer, after all.
When you give them life and purpose
they will answer to your call.
In the frenzied, flurried madness,
they will answer to your call…
You’ve traveled far to see me, child,
and never told me why.
Am I supposed to love you, hate you,
live with you, or die?
You’ve traveled far to see me, child,
but I don’t know your name.
Am I to solve a riddle or to
play a guessing game?
You’ve traveled far to see me
following some long dead star.
And now you stand before me here,
so I’ll know who you are.
No longer sentient, my child.
Not able to inquire.
I can no longer see or hear
your circumstances dire.
I’ve no advice or wisdom.
You must learn them on your own.
The maggots feasted long ago,
and sharp fangs cracked the bone.
I’ll say your name to you, my child,
and I will speak it true.
The skeleton you gaze at on this mountaintop
is you.
Descend now from this mountain, child.
There’s nothing for you here.
Death’s but a silent, endless dream
and so you mustn’t fear.
You weep, my child, but foolishly.
The fate of all is this:
the gods who see us war and play
betray us with a kiss.
Amid the wreckage of Love’s palace he stood, looking at the blood and rubble of what had once been splendid and vibrant and good.
No more.
Empty now, his sobs echoed in the broken rafters, louder for that he’d told himself he wouldn’t cry.
Men have no feelings, no hearts. They are but brute and rutting beasts capable only of low thought and high mischief.
Darkness gathered at the window, peering in on him with its pale lunar eye lighting the ruin he’d become, kneeling with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking like a trembling child.
Sudden, cruel, and terrible had been the sound of her high-heeled footsteps, staccato clacking like small caliber shots to his heart.
Dignity lost, manhood scattered, his ice veins turned to water,and the water came out through his eyes. Despair had him by the throat and pulled the anguish out of him. He gave himself over and vowed he would always remember
And in the morning after, he would begin to become whole again,
But in the mourning after, he would never forget.
They say ‘You grow too old to dream’
They say that ‘You’re too young to know’
Yet say ‘You can do anything.’
So do I stay or do I grow?
For if I am too old to dream
my time here is already done.
And if I am too young to know
then teach me, so the rising sun
will never find me void of thought
as I look at the world through eyes
of what I’ve learned of love and wonder,
cynicism and surprise.
A jaded innocence possesses
all the years I’ve been alive;
still taking people at their word
though most of them are talking jive.
I’ll never get too old to dream.
I’ll never be too young to know.
I’ll keep exploring although it may seem
there’s nowhere left to go.
From here I can look
all around
and survey my empire.
There, the distant hills gilded
in silver mist and emerald leaves
humble my own royal robes.
And here, the servants at my feet…
Young. Nubile. Fertile.
Mine to pluck like ripe fruit,
or slaughter as tender lambs.
My bride’s perfume is pleasant.
The eyes of my court are hard.
The halls of my palace
hold whispers of secrets and dreams.
My gardens host ghosts in the moonlight.
They tell me to be at peace,
take comfort,
sleep.
My borders do not
boil with rebellion,
and there is
no alarm of armies
at my gates.
I stand at the pinnacle of
all my achievements,
and realize that as I watch
the setting sun,
there is a smile
in the darkness of my grave
that
patiently waits…
his breath hangs
white and smoky
on the
winter wind
carrying his life
before him
lifting his prayers to
Heaven
speaking his words
to some great, nameless
thing
dissipating
words ignored
prayers unanswered
life gone
he
is the
nameless
thing
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
