Category: poetry

Still She Tugs

Biggest surprise of my life? Parenting. No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape feeling the complete and utter awe that surrounds the totality of the parenting experience. And yet, despite parenting being a nearly indescribable wonder, there is one moment–one fairly common and frequent action–that keeps surfacing which illustrates it perfectly.

More than the always surprising bump of my hand into hers as we begin to walk toward and away from the car, more than her exasperating desire to be picked up just when I finally can leave the hamburger helper to simmer on the stove, more than her double-checking nightly that after story-time when I get up to turn off the light I will be coming back to rub her for a bit before leaving her alone to dream, more than all these things is her firm tug on my fingers when she recognizes we will be parting for whatever practical reason.

I make her go to her bed when she’s “not even sleepy!” twice a day, and because I am sleepy I linger in my bed when she wants me to get out of it. Still she tugs.

Recently she brought over a toy digital camera and demonstrated first-hand just how annoying it must be to have me tell her that I’ll only be another minute on the laptop or phone for fifteen minutes at a time. (Point taken.) Still she tugs.

I bull-headedly push my play-time agenda to the point of tears when all she wants is to be with me. Still she tugs.

I make her wait as I putz around doing who knows what because I’m not looking forward to sitting on the ground to play stuffed-animals. Still she tugs.

I dictate the order in which she eats her meal and drinks her drink. Still she tugs.

I never let her play in the bath after she’s clean. Still she tugs.

I choose the bedtime story more often than not because I know that these stories will have a lasting impact. Still she tugs.

And no matter how much I want to stay with her, my decisions have given her the memory of constantly leaving one of her parents for the other for an entire childhood. And still she tugs.

Black People Does Not Exist

Black People does not exist. Black People is not an organization. Black People has no leader. Black People has no agenda. Black People has no logo. Black People is not looking to increase its membership. Black People has no bank account. Black People has no buildings.

Black People does not hate White People. Black People does not believe in looting. Black People does not encourage lawlessness. Black People does not teach its young members to ignore policemen. Black People does not fear for its life.

Black People does not align itself with views held by Al Sharpton, Eric Holder, Barack Obama, or Bill Cosby. Black People does not have a dress code. Black People does not believe the dream is deferred.

Black People is not responsible for Ferguson. Black People does not support Michael Brown’s family. Black People is not angry at Darren Wilson. Black People is not angry, period. That’s because there is no Black People.

You may wonder where Black People came from if it does not exist. You may be curious and ask, “Did Black People ever exist?” The answer is irrelevant to the universal goal. The goal is to get there. And no, there will never be defined more clearly than as an abstract place that I want to arrive at safely–with you.

The only way to get there is together. It’s the slogan of this blog. It is by no means an original concept. Air Force pilots and flight crews say it in the negative or inverse, well, they say it this way: “You don’t crash in compartments.” It is a stark reminder that aircrews use to eloquently express the concept if you know something is wrong with the flight and choose to let an outside pressure–real or perceived–prevent you from sharing the information and consequently the aircraft crashes, you die too. In this case, the mechanical problem is the widespread belief of a falsehood–that Black People is a real thing.

Crew, Black People does not exist. This has been true for some time, but it is now clear that the safe landing of this flight depends on you believing it. Black People does not exist. There is no Black People. Believe it.

I Killed Church

Arrest me. Do it soon. I need to feel the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists. I am even okay with the sharp-edged plasticky feel of zip-ties. Hurry up and place a guiding hand on my head as I step into the back seat of a squad car.

I did it. I confess. It was over a decade ago. I cannot remember the exact day but I remember why I did it. He had become weak. He had lost his edge. He was no different than anyone else. He did not even know my name.

Replace my name with a number. You can have my personal effects. I look forward to putting on a jump suit. My favorite letters are D O and C. I will wear them with pride.

I never wanted to hurt him. You should know that. But I did it just the same.

So what if it was negligence. I am still the guilty party. I saw his thirst for more money. I heard his desire for a bigger house. I felt his demand for more friends.

I prefer powdered soap. I have no friends. I have no family. No one will miss me.

He disgusted me. So I killed him the only way I knew how. I left him.

I thought I saw him last Sunday. I was mistaken. The man I saw was just an imitation. He was older. He would not offend. He would not provoke. He would not incite. He would not love. I knew then that I must confess my crime. The world needs to know. Church is dead. I know because I killed him.

Pizza

But what is it?

Not just bread and cheese and sauce, no.  This meal fit for God himself is so much more.

It is the sound of the loveliest doorbell.  It is the acceptable apology for the mealtime “oops!”  It is the welcoming party when the vacation ends.

It is the taste of summertime birthdays.  It is the texture of picking which movie to watch first.  It is the height of soda can towers.

It is the singing clock’s twelve chimes reminding all that Friday is gone.   It is the placing of a small hand into a big one.  It is the compromise between parents and children.

It is soda’s groom.

It is breakfast.  It is lunch.  It is dinner.  It is the substance of every moment in between.

It is nourishment.  And as nourishment, it is life itself.

Is it worthy of worship, this pizza?

Yes.  An unapologetic, unabashed, unable to understand yes.

Night

If the shining sun in the blue sky

Reveals everything for what it is,

We must also confess that it adds a heavy weight to life.

But night!

Night, sable night, lifts this load.

Like the unrestrained black cosmos

That floats above us,

Night furthers freedom–

Freedom to visit secret destinations,

Commit private acts,

Admit confidential thoughts.

Night.  The place where

Love heightens,

Hate deepens, and

Hope–unconquerable hope–soon rises.

Wonderful Weather – A Sestina

A Sestina is form of poetry.  A restrictive form of poetry.  It has six stanzas of six lines, then a three line stanza.  The last words of each stanza are the tricky part.  After the first stanza, the last words have been chosen.  The full pattern is as follows:    

  1. ABCDEF
  2. FAEBDC
  3. CFDABE
  4. ECBFAD
  5. DEACFB
  6. BDFECA
  7. ECA or ACE (called envol or tornada–it must also contain the other end-words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six appear in the final three lines.)

 

Wonderful Weather

Leaves horizontal foretold stormy weather,

Foretold darkened skies.  Danger lingered in the air.

Standing together, the two, a pair

United in disgust,

They heeded the captain, and ventured to the bow.

Remaining anchored would prove too intense.

Remaining anchored would prove too intense,

The port must be abandoned in search of fair weather.

Cracking, breaking, crunching sounded the bough,

Unable to stand the force of the air.

Leave they must, no other option need be discussed.

Trust me, he said, and so complied the pair.

Trust me, he said, and so complied the pair.

The swelling sea stopped short of intense,

Honeymoon over, hidden from each other was disgust.

Such an event, to be ruined by weather,

It seemed that love was no longer in the air–

At least, until he took that fateful bow,

At least, until he took that fateful bow.

Fading from view, the trees, the storm began to pare.

Not upon them yet, water was in the air.

Only yesterday, they were in tents

Deciding whether or whether

Not to follow through with what they discussed.

Not to follow through with what they discussed

Was the decision they made.  Her hair bow

Was loosed by the weather,

A light green, the green of a pear.

The deck dropped out from under, intense

The moment became, as they hovered in the air.

They hovered in the air,

Their eyes absent of disgust.

The moment was intense.

Port side, starboard side, stern and bow,

All dashed away, all left the pair.

Never before this feeling, never before this weather.

Over too quickly, the air vanished; feet returned to the bow.

Disgust gone for good, the pair

Called to the Captain whose eyes were intense, “Wonderful Weather!”

A Hike’s End

The woods are

Always darkest first, I remember.

It’s just the two of us.

He says we need to hurry because

It’ll be too dark to see

Soon.

Each step directly in front of the last,

The trail’s raised edges keep my vanishing course sure.

Darkness encroaching, he says to go faster.

Nearly running,

I am struck by terror.

It is dark,

We’re separated from the group,

We are alone.

He is big,

I am small.

Could I out run him?

The plants are coming faster now,

Like my heartbeats, thoughts,

And him.

I want to sprint,

But can’t.

Campfire voices announce the end.

I stop.

He approaches.

I look into his eyes.

He says he’d rather not

Be out so late next time.