Tribal Sounds

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...

A Warm Moment In Time

I loved her
though she wasn't the cutest girl in the neighborhood
couldn't afford to wear the latest threads
place her delicate feet inside the latest platforms
or shape her afro into the perfect Angela Davis sphere

I loved her
because when she slow dragged with me
I lost all of my insecurities and inhibitions
for the length of the 45 playing on the turntable
words lost their weight
while I held her tightly in rhythm

her warm
even
breathing caressed the side of my neck
and her fingers
sinfully lost
in the deepest part of my afro

when the three minutes were up
I would return to the end of the sofa
and wait patiently
while others took their turns
and lost themselves with her
in their own
warm moments in time

Hiatus

took a hiatus
the side pocket is where it was slowly inserted 
placed in its holster with safety clip checked
could be innocent children or poets nearby
smile
you can approach me now
no Clint Eastwood squint
I can see clearly 
can think clearly 
my pen 
is now safely in its holster
letting it smolder for a few minutes
the room cleared 
dancehall
now a room where poets gather in rowdy celebration
inebriated
overflowing frothy mugs filled with verbs
adjectives
pronouns shot into the ceiling
and we sat in our wooden chairs
whooping and hollering
careful not call out wayward poets to meet in the dusty road at high noon
a poetic showdown
we all know that a drunken pen can be the most deadliest instrument
widows weeping above poetic graveyards over the hill
and my pen
was safel...

Apocalypse (Haiku Afterlife)

morning cup of joe
apocalypse is over
he did the right thing

and on the third day
the clouds parted from the skies
her name is Harris

a thief in the night
soul of the nation is saved
joy in the morning

almost November
world will do the holy dance
the joy bells will ring

the mark of the beast
says so in revelations
wearing a red hat

six headed serpent
the second set is over
but we serve third set

wolf dressed as a chef
grilled lamb chops on the menu
they still will follow

new Monopoly 
she changed the rules of the game
damned glad about it

much reminiscing
women not allowed to vote
that was yesterday

message to these men
she can make her own choices
mind your damn business

Sometimes, I Prune

sometimes
I prune
things that were once 
live
vibrant
once having meaning and value
got sick and died along the way
before succumbing
reached out their infested limbs to
infect other well-meaning branches
live
currently having meaning
value
purpose

sometimes
I prune
before the sickness turns my green into a sad 
morbid yellow
then
a blackness of death
spreading branch to branch
and eventually
killing the entire tree
which was once vibrant
meaningful
full of purpose
which is the end of me

sometimes
I prune
but before I do
every attempt is made to revive
to survive its sickness
maybe remove a leaf
here or there
I owe it that
because it once had meaning
purpose
once a part of the big picture
part of the trunk<...