Another Pleasant Byram Sunday

If Brother Gil Was Here

If Brother Gil was here
he would sing to us with poetry set to sounds and strings
and Brother Brian
would take his sax and not lull us to sleep
but blow us violently away into outer space while we weep
never forgiving us
and we say to 
Brother Gil
and to
Brother Brian
we knew not what we did
but we did know what we did
sheep devoured by wolves dressed in red
instead of lying down peacefully in fields of green
it was not the mirage we think we saw
but the burning embers of the world
 
Brother Gil 
said
I told you so
all those yesterdays and albums ago
accompanied by Brother Brian’s sax solos 
when he sang out his poetry
and we paid no attention to the
B-Movie in our ears
computer screens turned off
while the revolution was actually televised on YouTube
and CNN
and th...

A Conversation With Somebody I Know

this poem is mine
I don't have a receipt for it 
because I didn't buy it during Black Friday advertising
or fight for parking spaces and crowds at the mall 
it wasn't advertised on TV
and no salesman interrupted my day with unsolicited calls
offering differed payments and low interest if I bought more than one
 
this poem is mine
it was given to me
and I personally attended to its alterations
snugly fitting like my own skin
approving of its style
its color
the material is so comfortable
I don't know why I didn't get one earlier
 
this poem sees what I see
feels everything I feel
and you can't understand it
because this poem don't belong to you
gotta get your own
try it on
and see if it is really
you
 
can't copy my poem
because its facsim...

Bad Breath

when you spoke
I envisioned a long ago audience in such a horrid rage
John Coltrane and Miles Davis blowing passionately on stage
yet
their notes were consistently off key at the Blue Note cafe
and watching your interview on TV
yeah
I felt that kind of way
uneasy and perplexed
when you spoke

what you said
awakened the distant memories of decaying lynched bodies
softly falling to the ground as they dropped from southern trees
their freed spirits rose from the ashes and laughed in the wind
then suddenly cried out after horrid double takes praying that you would rescind
every syllable and word of
what you said

when I saw your face
grinning like a porter shining shoes on an old Chicago train
tap dancing in rhythm to "Hambone" in the sun and in the rain
large white teeth blinding my television set like the familiar Cheshire Cat

12:01 A.M. (The New Day)

12:01 a.m.
I look forward to the new day

others will worry about how much they lost
how much time it will take them to recover what wasn't rightfully theirs in the first place
maybe the next day
the next month
the next millennium
and I will turn on CNN
because the evening's entertainment won't be courtesy of Mister Bojangles in blackface
or ten inch characters in plaids and pastels
puffy afros and ten inch platform shoes
 
I am gonna sit back in my recliner and watch the revolution
not the revolution Gil Scot Heron was talkin' about
but a different spinning of the planet
 
the times
they will be a changin'
like Bob Dylan said it would
 
a rebroadcast of
‘'War Of The Worlds”
but they can't blame me for the pandemonium
because I was sittin' at home in my recliner...

Yesterday

I do not dream of yesterday
when all my troubles seemed so far away
but they are as near as my finger 
touching the nose on my trembling face
and so false it is 
when my choir sings on Sunday mornings that 
trouble don’t last always

I can clearly see
the morning mist clearing the view
from the heavy lynch roped branches of southern trees
weeping women and children on their knees
as their men swing above them like
orchards of strange fruit 
musical strains softly played in the background
the ghost of Lady Day
still singing from a long rusted microphone

but this ain’t yesterday
when we were meagerly rewarded
severely chastised based on our daily yield 
the long unending 
God forsaken crisp baking hours in the plantation field
back to being less than three fifths of a human being
and ...

Coming Back Home

it may have been just a media ratings boost
when Malcolm said that thing about chickens coming home to roost
it was like Alice in her Wonderland
off with his red bearded head
but one last look down that dusty Tara plantation road
there was Scarlett scampering down the lane
holding her fancy petticoat

I ain’t here to gloat
but we seen them dark clouds before
the impending hurricanes on the horizons 
comin’ round the mountain
weeks
months
years ago
this daily show reminds me when the master called good old faithful
Rin Tin Tin
but the whistle didn’t work this time

they sitting in them leather recliners
won’t peep the other side of the aisle
nah
can’t point crooked fingers at me
'cause we ain’t had nothing to do with it
we was minding our own business
sitting on our own fron...

Caribbean Jones

damn
this was an easy poem to write

your eyes
sparkling
dancing amidst cool white foam waterfalls 
and crystal-clear turquoise ocean waters

my toes
sinking deeper into the soft sand of your shores

yeah
this poem was no trouble at all

two white hot bolts of lightning
dangerously flashing above your Caribbean skies
parallel
dancing for a while
never once intersecting
causing continuous claps of thunder

Greek gods
make mythological love in the heavens above us
and the worlds rejoice in their union

I know your name ain’t
Jones

just happened to see the name
Jones
sitting all by its damned self

an island surrounded by cool coral waters
schools of tropical fish in military formation
palm trees swaying
orchards bursting
full of all kinds of island fruits
...

Salvation

moments after when the tears have dried
and I have put aside my emotions
setting them down in a nice glass jar in the center of the living room coffee table
not forgetting where they are when I need to refer back to the old me
and if I need to black out for a moment
apologizing profusely for stepping out of my inner self
remember
it don’t happen too often
often told and knowing truly that my fuse line is longer than that one lane highway across the Nevada desert

I know me

as I grow older
steady mirroring the personality of my daddy
patience level swaying in the wind
needing a moment to dip my toe into the pool

yeah
I know how deep the damn water is

and so I find myself here
alone with me
or
the soft 
smooth touch of you
a tall glass of icy pineapple 1800 at my elbow
the sounds of Phyllis Hyman in my ear

The Way We Were

it was all so simple then
late at night with my typewriter
reams of schoolboy paper and black ink pen
and when the spirit moved me in the middle of the night
words were formed
I obeyed the spirit
and began to write
with beads of poetic sweat bouncing from my brow
an out of body moment
never understanding just how these letters altogether formed
fusing together words
sentences
quatrains in military formation
sometimes a haiku
and out of body experience
it just happened
there was nothing ever for me to do 
the spirit offering 
directing words to pen
remembering those times
it was all so simple then

the way I was
the way we were

periodic interludes of time
many moments of second looks
these things were all over my room
unorganized
later finding their way inside of hole punchers
...

She Loves The Color Blue

she loves the color blue
but ain't got 'em
ain't got the sympathy you think she should have
as you bypass her soul
peering endlessly at what you think you came for
but will leave empty handed

she loves the color blue
but ain't got the smile you see painted on Barbie Doll's face
just the same one she wears when her heart is broken
and when she's chillin' at the weekend house parties
hiding her joy and her pain from you
just like the morning clouds hide the still sleeping sun

she loves the color blue
but got plenty of blackness
sometimes passing for the blues she loves so much
but you gotta look deep within her to find the richness of its hue
regal
like a shining Black Panther she could've been
like a loving black mother she surely is

yeah
she's got plenty of blackness
and shares it with those...