A pleasant thought – in
All you do or think or dream –
I hope – you are loved.
occupying every thought.
Don’t be duped again.
Two fell for a fake
Tweet because it supported
The lie they needed.
Old Elijah went straight
to heaven – didn’t pause at
Peter’s pearly gate.
Why would anyone
take that job? All the blame and
can’t bring your own team?
al-isbuwa. O fim de
semana. The key.
Headlines overstate –
the truth – somewhere in-between –
the Bottom – unchanged.
“Just as a candle cannot burn without fire, men cannot live without a spiritual life.”―Buddha
the old ladies
in the big hats
singing the songs of Zion –
not in the choir,
but from the corner
facing the pulpit –
the Amen Corner –
the pre-11:00am-service devotion –
“I know it was the blood
Yes, I know it was the blood
I know it was the blood for me –
One day when I was lost
Jesus died upon the cross
And I know it was the blood for me.”
I don’t know if they still
sing these old songs in black churches –
I lost that cultural connection –
like so many artifacts overlooked,
broken, moving from place to place.
But I remember them, fondly –
a part of my youth and upbringing.
A rolling stone gathers no moss.
It is true.
Friday mornings always take me back in time
to foreign language classes & my turn coming
to say what I’m doing for the weekend –
I used to regret not learning an African language
while living overseas – but no more.
More Portuguese is spoken in Africa
than in Portugal. More Arabic than in Arabia.
Numbers speak. What are the Ghanaians saying
on Twitter today? Is it in English or Twi?
See what I mean? So I’m feeling fulfilled
this Friday morning, recalling phrases
& words in Arabic & Portuguese,
& writing in Haiku. My list of weekend
activities is ready for recitation.
#BlaPoWriMo – The roots of our love
“We’ll meet again and then we must decide upon the hour
When we’ll allow our destinies to intertwine and flower.”
From Sonnet #8
with a nod to Deleuze and Guattari –
Over the passing years our love has grown:
a mass of tangled roots beneath the soil.
Only an expert gardener would appreciate
this rhizome, how interconnected at every point –
each node drawing nourishment from the soil
surrounding it – every connecting root as essential
as the adjoining nodes. No prior unity defines us –
there is no original order to regulate or codify –
we name this love. Errant roots sometimes rupture,
break or fail, and remake their connections
in multitudinous combinations, always seeking
progression, insuring survival, feeding
this intertwining flowering, a map and tracing
of a secret underground geography.
No two snowflakes fall the same,
and even teardrops are different in type –
no other pair, but us, was meant to be.
Still life in the 70’s was plagued
by a fake sense of urgency.
The end, it seemed, was always
located just around the corner,
and there didn’t seem to be, then,
another half century in front of me,
of us, of life, of time to get things
done, as now we know there was.
Still for a decade of my life
I was a lost and lonely manchild.
Things always seemed to fall apart –
over and over and over again –
until I found my stride, my voice.
I’m making a playlist to capture
in song all the highs and lows of those
rocky years. I’ll name it on Spotify –
Devotion, no, the sunshine of your love.
Words in poetry and notes in music
Are sounds, simple wavelengths colliding off
Our eardrums and the membranes of our souls.
Oft times we transmit sound waves, words or notes,
Through positive values, like happiness
And tenderness, timbres soft and bright.
Sometimes negative: sadness, fear – dull and
Sharp, like aches and pains we frequently endure.
At times, we just receive: parameters
Are the same. But when we meet, ah, when we
Meet, our words and notes connect! Our wavelengths
Intersect, and intertwine, and synthesize!
And we make love – sweet love. External tones
And errant thoughts die softly in the deep.
You told me. It’s true.
Sometimes I’m slow and miss stuff.
Blame the all boys’ school.
postscript. I never
applied for the PG county
job. Weekends required.
Went to bed early
last night. Couldn’t tolerate
Scandal on TV.
Portuguese I claim
To speak – mas poesia –
Poco dificil –
Eu vou tentar –
Pacienca por favor –
mas tudo legal.
boycott today – see sonnet
I posted ontem.
If they take her back,
they deserve what she brings them –
resistance, dissent –
what you get when you treat spoiled
white kids like the help
if you drain the swamp
and the pimps and whores remain –
it’s still a whorehouse.
K Street used to be
whorehouses, undertakers –
now – the high, mighty.
is not always a bad word –
but will you convert?
Be – unlike the world –
inside, all around, and out –