misty eyed
somewhere in me beneath the mists
is a city on fire
burning like napalm bombs
im pissed,
and somewhere, even deeper
is also a calm feeding the flames
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Poems
The Press
Hail the press, sword-arm of justice
once chosen for its resistance but the existence of fake news is a mass misconception because there has always been the fake and the real
since inception.
The black journalist, duplicitous in nature, was shut out of newsrooms
strung up by their necks
literature spread that let the long-arm of the law snatch boys from their cribs
who fit the profile
The panther party persisted
the so called Freedom Messengers
inciting revolutions with pens and passion
What did the press and the president say of them then
the fake, the real. The red or the blue pill
John Henry’s Woman
my daddy’s name was john henry
my moms name was polly ann
he never sold crack
but was a hard workin man who laid track in the subways
bent back like his people
and when he died from all that
he gave ma his legendary hammer
she had a slammer that was mean
and took no shit from men, white brown or black
weary, she
me and your daddy built this city
so you wouldn’t have to
now take this hammer
and show’ em what you can do
Morning Song
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.
–By Sylvia Plath
Monet’s Waterlilies
Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.
Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.
O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy
–by Robert Hayden
Dedication
i wrote a lil diddy
dedicated to daddy’s nickname
that i got tattooed
when i was 22
it went like this: i am to soar, evermore, like the eagle above the clouds do
then i wrapped my skin in wings so i’d always feel free, got a job and two degrees to support a writing habit, see
So I…
nana died. sometimes daddy isnt here. sometimes i sit so still that i kind of want to be invisible. except Mommy always sees me. so i smile.
im pretty sure no one person should watch this much Buffy in one sitting when my Mom comes in. she peers at my sunken form on the couch. been in relatively the same spot since graduation. i cant afford college though i got in places. i cant hop off to see the world, but i can turn on the tv. im not good enough. i cant leave and move forward. i cant go back to high school. i cant-
enough, she says. she picks up my blanket, muttering in Spanish that you are who you are and you are where you are. then she unceremoniously dumps me on the floor of my future. so i get a job.
we fight about me cutting my hair. we fight about schools. we fight about the dishes and cleaning the bathroom. so i go away.
Ma calls. she’s hurting. she’s busy with the little ones. she’s angry. she needs help. she misses me. so i go home.
my Mother pushes me to write. to create. to paint. to be better. so i get a masters.
sometimes when life’s too stressful and there’s deadlines and i cant finish anything and i shouldnt be a writer and i suck compared to everyone else and im tired–
she hugs me and smiles. so i smile.
when he stopped writing her
the letter always bled for her for her eyes (brown as those old bottles in the medicine cabinet) bleeding words like teardrops yet without spilling onto the green tile floor those words always pure only staining the paper glossy black ink blood like muslin stuck to an old wound those words always strong yet blurred, obscure words only a scholar would find obscene
happy are those who die because they have returned to those first crumbs of dirt that fed us to that first hole to that soft black and smell of coal
-Pablo Picasso
Homey Don’t Play
when I was a kid they still burned crosses on Stone Mountain you know
I am old
obsidian war-like headstones jutting out from the ground
old
stumped, roving, mad
mobocracy
there’s too many mysteries for answers
known unknowns that fill the cracks of conscious when we probably should be paying attention
but I’m over it
that shit will swirl in an endless cycle
pale faces speak, brown preach, women woman all over the place
just provide me with pretty and silly thangs
I’ll cradle the corner and entertain the children
as the world burns
Letter To The Police
Photo By A. Long
Dear Sirs:
I have been enjoying the law and order of our
community throughout the past three months since
my wife and I, our two cats, and miscellaneous
photographs of the six grandchildren belonging to
our previous neighbors (with whom we were very
close) arrived in Saratoga Springs which is clearly
prospering under your custody
Indeed, until yesterday afternoon and despite my
vigilant casting about, I have been unable to discover
a single instance of reasons for public-spirited concern,
much less complaint
You may easily appreciate, then, how it is that
I write to your office, at this date, with utmost
regret for the lamentable circumstances that force
my hand
Speaking directly to the issue of the moment:
I have encountered a regular profusion of certain
unidentified roses, growing to no discernible purpose,
and according to no perceptible control, approximately
one quarter mile west of the Northway, on the southern
side
To be specific, there are practically thousands of
the aforementioned abiding in perpetual near riot
of wild behavior, indiscriminate coloring, and only
the Good Lord Himself can say what diverse soliciting
of promiscuous cross-fertilization
As I say, these roses, no matter what the apparent
background, training, tropistic tendencies, age,
or color, do not demonstrate the least inclination
toward categorization, specified allegiance, resolute
preference, consideration of the needs of others, or
any other minimal traits of decency
May I point out that I did not assiduously seek out
this colony, as it were, and that these certain
unidentified roses remain open to viewing even by
children, with or without suitable supervision
(My wife asks me to append a note as regards the
seasonal but nevertheless seriously licentious
phenomenon of honeysuckle under the moon that one may
apprehend at the corner of Nelson and Main
However, I have recommended that she undertake direct
correspondence with you, as regards this: yet
another civic disturbance in our midst)
I am confident that you will devise and pursue
appropriate legal response to the roses in question
If I may aid your efforts in this respect, please
do not hesitate to call me into consultation
Respectfully yours,
–June Jordan
