Tag: love

Aren’t You Tired?

Hatred

takes

time and energy

 

Hatred

wears away

the good in us

by gradual degrees

of erosion until

you no longer

realize

you’re empty

inside

 

Hatred is

tiring to

perpetuate

 

Hatred is

tiresome to

its victims

and targets

 

Hatred

is based

on

private preferences

in a

public world.

 

 

Let us be done with

Hatred

and be about

the business

of rebuilding

the land

we now share

and each other

 

We will never

purge evil

as long as we

practice it

look the other way

when it occurs

take pictures of it

say “Glad it’s not me.”

and

convince ourselves

‘it will never change

because we can’t change.”

 

Why not?

 

A Moment of Weakness, A Lifetime of Pain

Your life upended,

just wanting to feel good

for a moment,

 

The serpent slithered down

and flicked your ear with

a silver tongue

 

Betrayed, you were

hung up

strung out

and dying slow

 

The jester bested

the king

 

And the pain of your need

dimmed the light of your soul

 

You’d say anything

Do anything

Kill anyone

 

And now

the programs sprout

like mushrooms

pretty with disease

nutritious with bacteria

 

And you live in

cold and wretched

shadows

 

in cold and wretched

places

 

with a cold and wretched

heart.

 

and cold and wretched

voices in your head.

 

I would reach out to you,

but you won’t put your hand out,

except to pull a weapon on me

and have me supply your

demon’s need

 

Sometimes I just gave it to you,

because I knew you once

and recognized your shell.

 

I can’t return home,

And you can’t leave.

 

Is this goodbye?

 

I wish we knew

I wish it wasn’t

I hope it isn’t

 

but as we idolize

the parasite

that infested you

as he drives his Escalade,

his rims spinning as he goes

nowhere, a reflection

of both of you,

 

I can only look in from

the outside,

and say

I’m sorry

our

friendship

our

brotherhood

could not make you

feel good enough about

you

 

I still hold out hope,

my brother, that one day

through your nightmares

a dream will come instead,

and

you too, will remember

the man you

used to be

 

I’m standing in the light

calling

waiting for your

crawling shadow

to pass the dirty window

 

I’ll still be here

when you answer,

if you answer,

but

it’s up to you now…

Humanity Redeemed

3/5 of a person?

Property?

 

Stripped of dignity

No sense of civility

To the brink of insanity

 

See, the white man wears no placard

to identify himself.

He marches, but he is

 

separated,

 

to prove the point that

his species

is not in question

 

He will never be called

‘boy’ ‘Charlie’

‘nigger’ ‘coon’

‘savage’ ‘monkey’

 

He will not need to be protected

by the anti-lynching law (there had to be

a law, because lynching was addicting…)

and

Jim Crow doesn’t peck away

at his humanity

 

We would have our humanity back;

Not that it went away, but the effort

to remove it was prolonged, intense,

and relentless

 

And even now, still flares

like solar arcs

 

So yes,

we would take our humanity back,

and whether you like it or not…

 

We don’t need

your permission.

 

You Can Try

You can try

to taste

those luscious

Blackberry

lips

 

You can try

to stay in

the eye of the storm

in those patient

piercing eyes

 

You can try

to get her

to drop

the warlike

stance

and the

Deadly Weapon

 

You can try

to meld those

hips

to the contours

of your hands

 

You can try

to part her

thighs and get

her to

Surrender

 

and if you do,

you will

die a

different

Death

 

and wanting more…

 

you will smile, and

reach for her

 

And have to

do it all

again

A Story Told in Song

From the savannah

the deserts

the grasslands

the veldt

and the jungle

 

The music played

 

On the ship

In the cabins

In the master’s house

and 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

and chain gangs

 

The music played

 

Through hard times

and celebrations

 

Through vibrant

ululations

 

and 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, through Newton,

and Martin and Jesse

 

The music played

 

Through the first black…

 

The music…

 

We must teach the songs

that kept the voices lifted

though hearts were heavy

 

Kept the flames lit though

our dreams of freedom were

constantly extinguished

 

 

Kept hope alive through our best

writers, artists, and orators.

 

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.

The Legacy of Kings

He will rise to lead

his nation

to greatness

 

He will serve

his queen and heirs

by standing firm

keeping his word

and controlling

his spirit

 

He will guide his people

through wisdom

with knowledge

only he may

possess,

for kings do

not deal in

common things

 

Secrets revealed to him

are on a higher plane,

a riskier level

 

War is ever at his gate

Strife sniffs at his table

Death watches his bed

 

and yet, his people

love and honor him

for his integrity

and fairness

 

they delight in

the peace at their borders

and their countenances

reflect his prosperity

 

Long is he revered

and with bittersweet

Mourning he will be

remembered

 

such is

the legacy of

strong, wise

kings

 

Negasi’s Song

(Negasi is Ethiopian for ‘Royalty’)

The jungle rains

make smooth

the tracks of

his journeys,

and hide away

his bones

 

His kingdom

long emptied

of treasure

and people

and time

 

His throne

succumbs to

the loving embrace

of encroaching

tree branches

 

Vines of ivy

and small berries

the birds glean

in high summer

spiral round his

decrepit scepter

in

vernal abandon

 

 

Snakes

burrow

in the

holes

of

looted

gold

 

Drums

Dance

and

Ululations

of celebration

have turned to

morning

birdsong

 

The moonlight

Dirge

sung

as he passed

through the

mourning throng

has become the

chirring

of crickets

and the

croaking

of toads

 

But the

Strength

of his

Spirit

has

forever

altered

this land.

 

 

Still On Tryal

Author’s Note: This photo was taken at the Slave Museum. As the little girl’s mother was explaining what happened, she hugged the statue and said, “Everything’s going to be okay.” This is a poem that reflects that faith…

 

 

They sure tried:

 

To strip us culturally

To bend us spiritually

To break us physically

To give us second best

To question our humanity

To question our intelligence

 

They sure tried:

 

To stop us from voting

To stop us from organizing

To stop us from demanding

To stop us from marching

To stop us from praying

To stop us from fighting

To stop us from protesting

To stop us from singing

 

They sure tried:

 

To deny us access

To reduce our numbers

To convince us we don’t belong

To tell us we had nothing

they didn’t give us

To stop us from voting

To erase us from history

 

They sure tried:

 

To tell us to get over

the very history they

imposed

on us

 

They sure tried:

 

To tell us we’re violent

Ignorant

Beastly

Savage

Sexual predators

Dopefiends

Whores

and Pimps

and

Criminals

 

They sure tried:

 

To keep us illiterate

To keep us afraid

To keep us unaware

To keep us drunk

To keep us in vice

To keep us down

 

They sure tried:

 

To keep us enslaved

 

We tried too:

 

To be patient

To be non-violent

To suffer

To fight through the system

To die on our feet

 

But we got tired of trying

because they mistook

patience

for weakness

 

So we said

No,

and we said

No longer

And we said

No more

And we said

Our lives matter

 

And now they try

to say it’s our fault

they have to kill us.

 

And now, in 2016…

We find that

the

Tryal

is far from over

 

But if we stand

and work

and build

and teach

and love

TOGETHER

the verdict

is

Victory.

Jazz Dancer

Jazz Dancer

balancing

brassy bronze

jazz sax solos

with your

ballet shoes

 

Notes in the air

scoop up

your feet

and you dance

on

beams of wood

and

bars of music

 

Ah, there you are,

Spinning en pointe…

En garde, my heart!

(but I’ve already lost this fight;

in fact, I’ve taken a dive for love)

 

In your movements

I hear Beale Street

 

In your eyes I see

Storyville

and

Birdland

and

Paris

 

Your feet write rhythms

 

Your hands transpose keys

 

Your elegant fingers twirl them

together into something

Transcendent and Divine

 

You are a

Jazz Dancer

and I

a mere mortal

crying with gratitude

at the

Miracle

you’ve given

me.

 

 

The Eyes of Home

His smile speaks of contentment

 

I pray his times of discontent are brief,

though they are certain.

 

His hand on the windowsill

lingers between

exploring and safety

 

I pray that he ever be connected to home,

and adventurous in his exploration

 

His expression

is full of innocence

and peace

 

I pray that a fragment of

each remain resistant to a

frenzied, hostile world

 

His eyes,

so bright and clear

guide me back

to my ancestral

family

the way Polaris

guided the Railroad

passengers,

 

And gave them

Sanctuary

far,far away

from

Home.

 

I pray we find each other

and be complete