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Just because we didn’t see it,
doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Just because we don’t agree, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t listen. Just because it’s not our struggle, doesn’t mean we turn away. We cannot close our eyes, Just because we don’t relate. Just stand beside each other. In each other, simply trust. And not just because, but rather, because it’s just.
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 Rush hour moves
like a Sunday drive replacing the memory of silent skies, while ghostly walks echo the whispers, from drawn shades and dimmed fixtures, echo the whispers of bills we can’t meet of worst case scenarios and the weight that they bring to empty pockets and empty eyes on screens, empty hearts that listen to empty guarantees, echo the whispers of Nana’s novenas echo the whispers of the little one’s prayers for an end to tapped elbows and his parents’ despair for an end to this distance from teachers who dare to keep him engaged in subjects that mean nothing in a world with no answers to make clear when an end can come to unfathomable days where all we hear are whispers and their echoes of despair. Published 10/02/2020 ChicagoWrites.org  "Sunrise" by Claude Monet Wake up, girl! Don’t you press that snooze button one more time… Don’t do it. This revolving world doesn’t stop for another fifteen minutes until you’re ready to get ready, so just Wake Up! It’s time, girl. It’s YOUR time to face the day face the crisis face the past the heavy in your heart the life you fear to start... Wake up! You can’t rely on distractions to keep reality at bay, not any more, I say, Not Any More So let’s get moving today. Let’s make it happen, all the “its” that’ve been waiting, waiting on you to Wake up! You gotta wake up, girl. Gotta look in that mirror and see the YOU you need to express. The one you hold back The one you repress The one that sleeps idle while the world’s getting dressed. Life’s too short to settle for nothing but your best, so just dig deep, girl. Gotta get inspired. And I know that you’re tired, but feeling numb and standing still is not an option. Not Any More. Climbing that hill is the only way to Go Burn Fly So wake your ass up, girl and do it! You know it, all the “its” that’ve been waiting, waiting on you to Wake Up! You gotta wake up, girl. Do the right thing. Do right by YOU. See? See what I said? By YOU. There’s no shame in thinking about yourself, as if you matter, because you do. Damn, girl, you do! But you gotta wake up, first, see? Can you dig what I'm I saying? Are you listening? Can you hear it? All the “its” that’ve been waiting, waiting on you to Wake Up! You gotta wake up, girl. Now’s the time. That alarm is sounding. Don’t you press snooze. What are you gonna do? There you go, girl. There you go…  this world of ours is begging for more
more peace more patience more arms outstretched more love more laughter more human respect more brothers more sisters more worldly grace no more separation of religion and race no more degradation nor humiliation no more mutilation of this precious earth this world of ours is begging for more more kindness more calm more lifting of spirit more praise for this home and the people within it this home this place this land of the “free” is begging for more from you and me so listen to the echoes of our ancestry that warn us to avoid repetition to awaken and be shaken to the core because our past and our future are begging for more yes, this world of ours is begging * The picture was taken of a painting at the Art Institute of Chicago. Workshop of Dieric Bouts, Netherlandish, c. 1410–1475 - Mater Dolorosa (Sorrowing Virgin), 1480/1500; Oil on panel 38.7 x 30.3 cm (15 1/4 x 11 7/8 in.); painted surface: 37.2 x 29 cm (14 7/8 x 11 3/8 in.) - European Painting and Sculpture Gallery 202  Photo by Robin Rolder Incandescence-- veiled by dust, a halo ringed circumference. Mirrored slate-- the hot steams gust, and Heaven meets the walk in spate. What lies behind the tapping thrust of drops still set in swollen eyes? No shelter, shoulder, nor moonlit cusp gives comfort to a soul deprived.  Photo by Robin Rolder It’s not that he can’t walk up the stairs. He just wonders if he should. He reflects at the fifth step. She will be waiting at the table with two hands holding the tea cup, as if the cooled porcelain could still give her warmth, as if his embrace could, either. The frayed edges of his jeans slosh like mops, heavy with the weight of water while the toe of his boot pushes the snow back and forth. With seven steps, she’ll see him then. He’ll be seven hours late-- again. Seven years of cooled porcelain. Published at Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY (2/19/16)  Photo by Robin Rolder She evokes in me the wanting of poets, stillness and beauty on verge of escape where heart and pen unite and linger on words and visions too close to relate. I drink in her silence, embrace the pain of memories too far gone to negate, left to ponder why she, of all angels, did choose me to haunt, to bless, and to bate. She left me singing this lover’s refrain and dwells each day in my woeful state, evoking in me the wanting of poets, stillness and beauty on verge of escape. (Originally published in my chapbook, One Thing Leads to Another., 2015).
"The Whistle" is a poem inspired by the story of Emmett Till. A group of former students recited this piece during a public performance in March, 2015, at my favorite coffee house, The Friendly Coffee Lounge. What pride I felt with these girls! The poem appears in my chapbook, and the live performance can be viewed here: ------------------------------------------------------------- The Whistle (The murder of Emmett Till) Did he whistle? He did. No, sir. I do not recall. Who the hell cares about the whistle? The Chicago boy just 14 that Chicago 14-year-old Negro boy who whistled whistled while down visiting Money Money, Mississippi whistled at a white woman-- He shoulda known not to not to whistle at no woman no white woman shoulda known not to whistle at no white woman while down in Mississippi when you’re a 14-year-old boy from Chicago when you’re a Negro boy no matter the age and birthplace but especially when you’re a 14-year-old Negro boy from up north from Chicago. But they say he did it that he done whistled that he done whistled at the white woman and so they came for him the white woman’s husband and his brother they came for the Negro boy who whistled found him in his uncle’s house asleep in the black of night found the Negro boy asleep, not thinking about the whistle but the husband and brother sure were and they roused that boy that Negro boy and kidnapped ‘im took ‘im away to teach ‘im a lesson teach ‘im a lesson is what they done did carry ‘im out back to the car drive ‘im down the road to the farm shoot ‘im in the head to the sound of drunken laughter tie ‘em with wire to the cotton gin mess up his face and ears just for fun drag him to the river ‘fore the rising of the sun walkin’ aways as if a battle they’d won a battle between power and power- less- ness a battle between a deranged society and a boy a 14-year-old boy a 14-year-old Negro boy from Chicago who whistled who dared to whistle whistle at a white woman while visiting Money, Mississippi That whistle. Did he whistle? He did. No, sir. I do not recall. Who the hell cares about the whistle! (originally published in my chapbook One Thing Leads to Another, 2015) |
