quite a wonderful thing
Posted: January 21, 2013 Filed under: Poetry Leave a comment »
and if i could spend my time
sunkissed high
by a body of water
beats in my ears
smiling at brown faces passing by
loved and loving
in these moments
well,
life wouldn’t be too bad.
thoughts for my grandfather
Posted: December 16, 2012 Filed under: Poetic truths, Poetry 1 Comment »
a very dapper Daddy Herman
I have never known the experience of having a grandfather in your life to learn from and spend time with. My father did not know his father and my mother was estranged from hers. However, my father’s grandfather, my great grandfather, has always carried such importance in my life. His name is Herman Walder, but we call him Daddy Herman. I never knew him but I know many things about him. He was a well-known and talented jazz musician in Kansas City, a family man, and a sharp dresser. His daughter, my grandmother, says that he used to say ‘sharp like a Harlem sissy’ in regards to his fashion. A lover of womyn and an ally to the queers. The truth is my grandfather was always down for a good time, and during the prohibition days good times were to be had at the underground jazz clubs, where musicians, queers, prostitutes, jazz lovers, and anyone looking for a party could be found. He was a charismatic person and an artist. Even though I never knew him I have been connected to him all my life. I guess it’s just something in the intuition; I feel his spirit in my own.
He has been gone for 28 years now. I’ve been thinking about him a lot today and it has felt good to meditate on his spirit, as well as my own. Been feeling preoccupied all weekend with thoughts…thoughts for my brothers who are so alienated in this world. Dehumanized as ‘criminals’. Disconnected from feelings. The legacy of our continual slavery. I think about the challenges I have experienced with trying to love my brothers. The disappointment and violence that sometimes greets this love. I think about humanizing them as I humanize myself, so that we can really embrace each other in our many selves. In honor of those feelings and my grandfather I wanted to include a poem by the fierce and important poet Wanda Coleman. Also known as the ‘LA blues woman’. Her words always radiate with truth and power.
Much love for the ancestors.
Holding the Sidewalk Down by wanda coleman
it is an american universal peculiar to certain black men
who hang out on street corners no matter where
making signals to one another
some mysterious juju/communication
worshipping the passing of a life
that excludes them
A young Daddy Herman to the left..holding the sidewalks down
slow gray mornings with yerba mate and myself are when i feel the most romantic
Posted: December 1, 2012 Filed under: Poetic truths, Poetry 3 Comments »
foto by my cosmic sister moon: http://fotosrevolutioninmotion.wordpress.com
There are moments when lovers reveal parts of themselves
never revealed before
and you are hit with the sudden realization
that things aren’t always as sweet as they seem
and those late night giggles that lead to late morning kisses
are replaced with long silences
and awkward goodbyes
There are times when lovers reveal parts of themselves
never revealed before
that release you from old habits
daydreams where security is found
and pedestals that don’t really exist
and the hard feelings of disappointment
sometimes carried
are gently unpacked from the truth gained from the release
and truth is sweet
as love first felt
where i come from
Posted: August 7, 2012 Filed under: Poetry, Uncategorized Leave a comment »
Choosing your own name is a righteous tradition
for black people
a movement
closer to Africa
to our ancestors.
I’ve thought about it
but I’ve always secretly liked my name.
Francis
chosen by my mother
my strength
taken from my great grandmother
whose great grandmother was a slave.
Francis
the ‘blackymore maid’
an african womyn
who rebelled against her slavery
during the transatlantic trade.
My name comes from warrior womyn
who guided large bodies of water
against currents of domination.
Freedom in their movement
in their determination to live
and I have gathered enough years on this soil
to want more than just living.
I want to feel in my whole self
what it might be like
to know love.
It’s Been awhile
Posted: May 5, 2011 Filed under: Poetry Leave a comment »
It’s amazing how so much time can past
and then none at all
where familiar feelings of love and pain settle in my chest.
Mind
restless and contemplative.
You
the father I idolized and watched leave time and time again.
You
the first woman I loved but struggled to hold on to.
I am shaped by the rough contours of our relations
even during long periods of quiet
And then again
during phone conversations years later where we cry and laugh.
I still hear your spark through the crack of your aging voice
pleased to see myself in it.
I am shaped by the rough contours of our relations
even during long periods of quiet
And then again
when I see you smiling across a crowded room
beautiful in black.
You are happy now and this is how I want to remember you.
This system doesn’t teach love in a world
where young men are born without fathers
desperately searching to fill the voids with crack pipes and women
while their own children are left with the pieces.
In a world where young women are taught to take in the men
who are suppose to complete us
while we reject ourselves and each other.
We struggle to learn how to keep each other close
how to keep ourselves close.
There are times when I fear the weight of emotion collecting across time
where I fear the sound of your voice
and my own voice.
And then there are those moments when your laughter makes me whole
and time proves to be an illusion.
2 Poems
Posted: November 29, 2010 Filed under: Poetry 4 Comments »
For My Mother
She bathes herself in hot water steeped in chamomile.
Flower buds float in the reservoir between
her breasts
the roundness of her belly peaks out above the water
warm and healthy.
Her hair is thin, but soft
wrapped in bright colored cloth
she is tired.
Tired of long days and dirty kitchens
and the boss’s never ending requests
‘can you stay just a little longer?’
And she is tired.
Tired of holding back the desire to rip the fake smile
off of her face and walk out of these hell kitchens
with dignity and freedom and promises never to return.
And she is tired of spending half of the day standing up
feet so swollen she can barely make it to the bus stop
joint in hand
the green calms her racing mind and aching body
preparing her for the next shift at home
where her babies yearn for her
because daddy is not home
and never is.
She heats up large pots of water to bathe her children in
and wraps them in blankets and holds them tight against her chest
hoping they can feel her love
and thoughts of reassurance that everything will be ok.
She is tired.
She sits in bath water soaking her muscles and rubbing lotion
into the cracks of her fingers
trying to find the strength to start all over the next day
and the next
and the next.
She wraps her life dreams away in tiny boxes for her children
and hopes they will understand
that this world never meant for her to survive.
And her daily living offers glimpses into
revolutionary dreams deferred.
Hot pavement aroma fills the thick summer air
as children laugh and shriek.
Hose water sprayed into the black streets to
cool the ground and their burnt feet.
Oldies play out car windows
‘hot fun in the summertime…’
A little girl patiently waits on porch steps
for a father who rarely comes.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
She ask’s
Father why don’t you hoop with me anymore?
Why you so skinny?
Why you bring that woman around when mama isn’t here?
A child’s inquiries become a child’s panic screams
father why you touch mama like that?
Why do you leave?
Why do you always leave?
Little girl screams become a young woman’s strength
no longer asking why you leave
but asking you to leave.
Don’t come around this house you didn’t build
you think the simple act of ejaculating into a woman is fatherhood?
You think spontaneous visits and sports games
makes up for years of pain, neglect and confusion?
The seasons have changed
and the hot pavement cracks with the growing pains of
a little girl becoming a woman.
Learning not to fear the unknown
or herself.
My Own Stash
Posted: November 26, 2010 Filed under: Home Truths, Poetry, Uncategorized 2 Comments »
Every woman should have her own stash
of that sticky icky magical green.
Roll it up, twist it up, let the smoke fill you up until you get lifted up.
Because you know its hard being a woman
in a world of constant
‘hey baby can I walk with you for a minute?’
‘whats your name? Can I get your number?’
No.
Every woman should have her own baggy
of that chronic, herb, in the words of Rick James
‘Mary Jannneeee’
Pack it up, burn it up, let the smoke fill you up until you get lifted up.
Because you know its hard being a woman in a world
of clocking in
clocking out
Damn that’s all I made this month?
Every woman should have her own supply
of those purple trees
burn it up let the smoke fill you up until you get lifted up.
Because you know its hard being a woman in a world
where everyday is a battlefield with scars that run deep.
Scars that you swallow up and push deep inside you till you
want to scream.
Because its hard being a woman in these streets, running from the police
pushed to the point when all you want is to go home
and be like pass the piece.
