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Just

4/7/2020

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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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Echoes

4/2/2020

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Picture
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
​


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Wake Up

2/2/2020

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Picture
"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…


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Begging

7/29/2016

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Picture
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

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Soul Deprived

5/11/2016

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Picture
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.
​
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Seven Steps

12/28/2015

 
Picture
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) 

The Wanting of Poets

12/1/2015

 
Picture
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

10/21/2015

 

"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)
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