I couldn’t categorize you.
You wouldn’t neatly fit
in any labeled form of order.
All of you is split.
Unsolved fractions
undefined beneath a silver moon.
Still, my love for you is high.
A golden sun at noon.
Tag: spirit
A Story Told in Song
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.
The Sandman’s Bride
Sleep, my daughter, for I am but a myth,
A Muse, they say.
A thing to make a man’s heart tender,
A creature that veils a woman’s eyes with love.
I know not what I am,
only that I was born to harvest
the very stars I made,
eons before you were born.
Sleep, my son, for I am but a mother,
a deliverer of dreams, they tell me, that bring smiles to infants,
and nightmares to those who see the world
through filters of neglect.
I know not what I am,
only that this light is made to sift
through my fingers and dapple
the clouds with twilight colors.
Sleep, my children, for I am
but a shadowed, masked, and transient being,
I’m told.
A fantasy of space and time,
contained in the imagination,
freed and manifest in the mind.
I know not what I am,
only that this mask
hides me from my own soul,
and the warmth of these clouds
console me in the dark, but are not
a lover’s embrace.
Sleep, my darlings, and know that
you are limitless as stars,
boundless as eternity,
and eternal as love.
I know not what I am,
only that I share my heart
with you, and we are twinned
in mind and purpose.
Take my hand, come with me,
and sleep.
No Quiet Silence
There is no quiet silence.
there’s the turning of the page,
a peal of laughter,
a snatch of conversation, innocuous and inane,
the rush of wind over the ears,
the rustling sway of wind-dancer branches,
the susurration of the sea,
the cracking of the baking soil,
the buzz and click and hum of droning insects,
the sizzle of fires
the churning core of the world birthing mountains
the hiss and patter of the blizzard’s snowfall
the wail of the newborn,
the dying sigh of the old.
And death itself is only sleep,
as restless spirits manifest to tell us all:
There is no quiet silence.
The Fringe Grabber
The place reeked of hard luck, bad people, and sob stories.
I was in that place, trying to gather up the scraps of what was left of my soul.
************
There was nowhere for me to be, and no one to care if I got there.
I was sitting on the sidewalk watching the news van unpack some gear.
The reporter was a walking mannequin of bleached blonde and silicone, pretty in the plastic way such people were.
I heard her say, “These homeless people are on the fringe of society,” as the cameraman boldly took a shot of me on my urban perch.
At least now I knew where I was in relation to the rest of the world.
On the fringe. In my mind it was a wet, flapping, fringe growing more slippery the tighter I tried to hold on with a hand full of frostbite, arthritis, and gods-knew-what-else.
I wanted to make her beg.
Beg for what?
Her life? Not a killer.
For me to stop? Not a rapist.
To make her cum? Not a billionaire.
Maybe food. Yeah. Beg for scraps in a trash-strewn alley scented with alcoholic urine, and take some half-eaten pastry at the top of the trash for dessert.
************
The Homeless: brought out for the holidays like decorations, and tucked neatly away again after New Year’s.
But I digress. That was long ago, but she was that pretty, that annoying, and the phrase just stuck with me: “…fringe of society.”
I was still holding on to that fringe, but I didn’t know why.
Below me was nothing but blackness, full of peace and quiet.
Poe used another phrase that stuck with me: ‘…surcease from sorrow.’
All I had to do was let go, but I was no quitter, either.
You don’t qualify.
The apartment was rented.
I don’t have any money, bro.
Get outta here, perv.
Fuck off, monster.
And the ubiquitous Get a job.
The funny thing is, part of the reason I didn’t give up was pride.
What would it take to actually kill me? I’ve certainly become strong.
Surcease of sorrow/ the sun will come out tomorrow. Not a good mashup, but it’s what I held onto for now.
“Kevin Gilliam?”
Ah, at last, summoned before the throne of Her Majesty Civil Servant, the Millionth.
But this voice was different; it didn’t have that world weary tone, and it was actually pleasant.
I rose like Leviathan out of the mud.
The young Lady of the Pleasant Voice favored me with a smile.
Ah, she’s new, and yet believes in what she’s doing. Be kind, and don’t shatter her dreams of making a difference.
“Good morning, Mr. Gilliam.”
“Good morning.”
“Follow me, please?”
I followed.
We walked through a Land of Cubicles, strewn with soulless drones vainly trying to stem the tide of hopeless refuse, to reach down and boost up the fringe grabbers like me.
They probably all started out like this young lady here, full of determination and hope, with a noble sense of purpose.
Tilting at windmills…
“Sit down, please, Mr. Gilliam.”
“Alright,” I sat.
She settled herself in, tapping the folder full of papers on the desk to straighten out the edges, put it down, and extended her hand across the desk.
“I’m Tina. Nice to meet you.”
I was so surprised I gave her my name too though she already knew it.
She laughed, but I sensed it was at the moment, not me.
“Sorry.” I found myself smiling.
“Don’t be. Nice to meet you, Kevin.”
I found myself beginning to relax as we released hands.
“What happened to Althea?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but she got sick and had to resign. She didn’t know how long she was going to need, or …if she was coming back.”
I was sad, but not really surprised. Althea hadn’t been the same in a long time, and I knew what I was looking at after awhile.
“Sooo, they gave me her case file, and you’re in it.” She turned to her computer and fired it up, then went back into the folder.
As it booted, I said “She’d been talking about retiring for awhile anyway. I hope she’s okay.”
Tina gave me a small smile. She had a nice one.
“Last I heard, she was fighting it all the way.”
“Good for her. So you’re gonna help me now?”
“I’m going to do my best.” The computer blipped and the dark monitor lit up, an electronic Cyclops with a blind eye full of wisdom it didn’t understand.
“Alrighty, let’s see…”
She tapped some keys, read a bit, tapped some more.
I slouched in the chair and looked down at my hands.
Tina was young, vibrant, and beautiful; I didn’t want to be a creep like I’d been with the reporter.
I was going to miss Althea; she made me laugh in spite of my circumstances. She never found me anything, but I always left feeling better for a little while.
“—were a professor?”
I looked up. “What?”
“You were a professor.”
“Yes. You had my file…”
“No sir, well, yes, but I got your file so I could get your name; I didn’t get the chance to read it yet. I didn’t see this information.”
“Oh.”
We fell into a silence as she read through what I taught, and what happened.
The silence held a mild tension, stretching into awkward, when she seemed to make a decision; she turned her chair facing me.
“I may have something for you.”
I stopped fidgeting. “I’m listening.”
“I’m still in school, taking night classes, and I need help.”
I sat up straight and rolled my chair back a bit, hoping this wasn’t going to take a bad turn.
“Help with what?”
“My research and term papers.”
“How is that going to help me?”
“I’d pay you, Mr. Gilliam.”
“What do you mean, Tina…?” My stomach sank.
She laughed and shook her head at my expression.
“With money, Mr. Gilliam. I’d pay you to help me with my papers.”
My face heated. “Oh! Oh, well, I… Tina, I don’t have a bank account anymore.”
“I can help you with that too. Mr. Gilliam, I’d even refer you to my friends, if this works out.”
She gave another small, somewhat embarrassed laugh and rolled her eyes.
“We all need help. I don’t know if you want to teach anymore, but if you’re willing, will you do it?”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
She sat back, smiling. “I handle the paperwork. If I can’t, I’ll call Althea to find out who can. I won’t do anything to jeopardize you or me. We can set it up as a tutoring service. You’d be self-employed, Mr. Gilliam.”
Her chair came toward me again, her eyes hopeful, her voice quiet.
“What do you say?”
Things got blurry, and at first I wasn’t sure why…
“Mr. Gilliam? Oh! Mr. Gilliam?” Smiling, she handed me a tissue. “Mr. Gilliam, please don’t cry.”
In my mind I wrapped the wet fringe around my fingers. It was a start.
Surcease from sorrow…
Darkling Water
Down by the river,
she runs through
the night.
Shade alabaster.
Shrouded moonlight.
Some rich man’s wife.
Some farmer’s daughter.
Some say she haunts
by the
Darkling Water.
Some say they’ve
seen her
run through the trees.
Some say she cries out
with keening and pleas.
Some say her pale hands
are dripping with blood.
Some say she’s lying so still
in the mud.
No name is given.
No questions asked.
Sitting on mossy stones,
in moonlight basked.
Chills when she looks at you,
grasps at your sleeves.
Crying, she clutches you.
Spectral heart grieves.
There’s no escaping now.
With her you go,
caught in the current’s
ethereal flow.
Some rich man’s wife.
Some farmer’s daughter.
Some say she haunts
by the Darkling Water.
Beyond Panic 