From the archives – an elegy

Did They Ever Find His Body? An Elegy for Christopher Dorner

I had forgotten about Chris Dorner
Until Dave Chappelle’s mention. I recall
secretly pulling for him, hoping he’d
escape being swiss-cheesed by 400
Of his fellow cops. Did they ever find
his body? I found his manifesto,
living and breathing on the internet.
He left behind a lot for us to read
and digest. Hyperlinks . . . all over the place.
Did they ever find his body? We’ve not
heard from him since. We must assume he died
in that shitstorm, transitioned this life.
Still, the mention of him makes me want to smoke.
The burned body they found was never identified.

From the archives

To Phillis, Emily, and Gwendolyn

The words we read, the lines we write,
are gaps in time, that soon take flight –

poetry has that property
transporting us through space –
we write a word and make a rhyme
and aim it to its place –

if accurate, we hit the mark,
we reach the goal we seek –
but if precise, we claim the prize,
and scale the highest peak –

the words and rhymes unwind, divide
with measured purpose, need –
then seek to replicate the thought
and shape the world of deeds –

The message in the poems we write
is free, yet hidden in plain sight.

Walt Whitman read-along Monday at noon EST

Anybody interested in a group read of all 52 cantos of Song of Myself?

Google Meet at noon, EST, Monday, Sept. 7.

Blessed by Al.

Click this link Monday at noon EST:

If anybody needs the text, it is all here:

From the archives – Cosmos Club

When I was a young pup and a struggling undergrad, I worked briefly with a friend doing janitorial work. One of our contracts was with a local entertainment venue in Greensboro, the Cosmos Club. We would come in after midnight on weekends, clear away the trash, clean the tables, and mop, strip and wax the floors. Of course, I imagined coming there to party, though I never traveled in those circles. So I wrote a poem about it. 1976.

Cosmos Club

Come in, come in . . .
Let the smoke invade your mind
and nod your head to the rhythm
of electronic disco music

Sit down, sit down . . .
Join us in a game . . .
of cards, or chess,
or death by double-elimination.

Have a cup of coffee . . .
or a can of beer,
or a shot of whiskey,
or a pull of reefer.

The cosmos is mathematical
and methodical and
exciting and fun, and
deliberately subjunctive.

Memoir update – Table of Contents

Woodberry Forest Experiment
Shabazz Bakery the lost years
Return to Greensboro and NCA&T
Navy Memories I: Enlistment and Training
Navy Memories II: USS Hammerhead
Navy Memories III: USS Michigan
Navy Memories IV: FAMU NROTC
Navy Memories V: USS Luce
Pre-Foreign Service
Orientation and Pre-assignment training
Embassy Bissau – the first year
Embassy Bissau – the second year

Embassy London
Domestic Assignment: The Operations Center
Embassy Luanda, Angola
Embassy Accra, Ghana
Domestic Assignment: AF/EX
The Final Eight Years – The Islamic Trifecta
Domestic Assignment – The Near East Bureau

From the archives – Still under construction: For Aretha

Still under construction – For Aretha

I can’t pretend it was just like any other
summer day. We gathered early, after coffee,
for the morning plenary session that officially opened
the annual SAA conference. The Archivist of the U.S.
addressed the assemblage and promised to keep his oath
to the Constitution. A famous scholar from UNC
improved on her TED talk about the effects of algorithms
(an Arabic word that sneaks too often into our conversations),
algorithms that control all the social media they let us see.
I tweeted a photo of her to friends in Cairo and Ankara
and flashed back to my time in Damascus, promising
to share the Youtube video with them all soon.

Then my phone buzzed: it was a mournful incoming tweet
containing and announcing Aretha’s passing.
(We knew you were sick, but the final words,
good bye, would never fit in our vocabularies.)

I tried to respond with a tweet but my phone’s
battery strength was too weak to pump it out.
Instead I pulled out my iPad and found a spot
in the hotel lobby where the wifi signal was strong.
All I could think to type, though, were the lyrics
to my favorite Franklin song: “Ain’t no way, ain’t
no way for me to love you, if you won’t let me.”
Later I posted to Facebook the Frank O’Hara poem,
“The Day Lady Died” because I knew my poetry friends
would be grieving. But the evening was still young
and I couldn’t just crash early on your transition day.

So I found that August Wilson passage that
set the scene in “Joe Turner’s Come and Gone”
about a song “worth singing, kicking in the chest…”
a song that was “both a wail and a whelp of joy.”
And I said a little prayer for you.

A childhood memory reimagined – #modpolive

Our ModPo Global Studies Group is reading a poem about Ray Charles, Blues Note, by Bob Kaufman. I dug this up from the deep recesses of suppressed memory. #modpolive

Our parents took us to see Ray Charles
At the Carlotta Supper Club in our hometown
Greensboro. Chitling circuit they called it.
Mama said no, but Daddy said the children
should see this. History in the making. Mama
was afraid we’d see Daddy’s drinking. It was dark
and smokey inside. Each table had its own “set-up”
because clubs back then couldn’t sell drinks.
Ray came out with his guide who sat him down
at the piano. He looked up, eyes shaded,
and flashed that light-giving smile. We knew
something special was in store. Then the piano
came alive and the magical journey was underway.
What you say? Hit the road, Jack.

Recent archives: Lockdown sonnet #12

At this point in the lockdown I was knee deep in our August Wilson discussion group (you’ll see references to Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom and The Piano Lesson). Today’s retrieval from the archives was inspired by a Saturday webinar, #OctaviaTried #7, hosted by three writers and friends of the great science fiction writer, Octavia Butler.

I just listened to the new Bob Dylan drop.
Some kind of weird incantation –
A forced repetition, for a hypnotic effect,
a magic ritual in an ancient oral tradition.

Also, a shout out to the musical ancestors,
Invoking each of the gods by name.
An African conceptualization is what Toledo
would call it. Oh, you don’t know Toledo?

How could you? He was Ma Rainey’s piano player.
Ain’t never been the same fool twice. Don’t worry,
You’ll see it on Netflix when it comes out.
A piano lesson disguises the real drama.

Old Bob gives the devil his due. Play that funky
music white boy. Spell it with a K in B flat.

Getting psyched about ModPo

Once upon a time there was an online poetry course called ModPo. And inside of ModPo forums there came to exist a discussion group known as The Breakfast Club where some really cool and creative ModPo students hung out. And yes, I joined that group, attracted to its coolness.

In ModPo’s second year, remnants of The Breakfast Club took the course again and renamed themselves Second Breakfast. More coolness and more creativity. And there was spillover into social media, into ModPo Alumni groups, into Coursera Cafe, into affinity groups observing NaPoWriMo, NaHaiWriMo, Postcard Poetry Month, DiGiWriMo, and countless others. Some formed unstructured groups that followed each other on Twitter. Some formed more professional writing groups. And blogs. Many had blogs where they showcased their own poetry. Some even became teachers of poetry. All spillover from ModPo forums.

Many original members of The Breakfast Club and Second Breakfast became community teaching assistants. They hung out in a new forum group called Coffee and Tea.

In 2014-2015 I worked as a librarian and a teacher of library instruction to freshmen, sophomores, and business students. That was quite a scope-widening experience, I can say in retrospect. But it was my lowest participation year in ModPo and I really missed it.

By 2016, some groups took on a slightly political persuasion, mostly in support of the Democratic candidate. And a few went to the opposing end of the spectrum. Poetry is like that, you know.

It was in 2016 that I completed docent training at the Library of Congress. And it was in conducting tours of the Jefferson Building that I discovered what poetry really was/is. In explaining the gaps between the John White Alexander murals that make up the exhibit, The Evolution of the Book, I had the following epiphany: Poetry began as the first manifestation of the oral tradition, a by-product of the mixture of ritual, religious experience, and human brain evolution. It was carved or inscribed onto walls of human habitations, just like Facebook or Twitter, then clay tablets, and finally, paper. But mainly, it was recited out loud, at parties and ceremonies and religious events. It was committed to memory and passed down through generations, each level adding value and depth and richness. Think Homer. Think Virgil. Think Psalms and Ecclesiastes.

Extending the metaphor, poetry arose as the original transcript of the sacred conversation (Google that one!) and the meeting minutes of the Beloved Community (look that one up too!). At an even higher level, poetry is the language of the demarche, a conversation between princes that became the structure and the art of diplomacy (you can’t look that one up because I haven’t written the book yet!).

I have given you a lot of homework. It’s another election year in America, after all. Perhaps I’ve invited you into my echo chamber, my parallel universe. But ModPo is not a cult, it’s a way of thinking about life.

p.s. Here is the link to ModPo:

lost in the archives – Rainy Night in Foggy Bottom

When it rains all night in Foggy Bottom
you can smell the swamp beneath us – 
the old rotted tree roots, the tadpoles,
the water moccasins skimming – 

The swamp is only ever ten feet away –
and all that separates us is asphalt,
and gas and water pipes,
and underground telephone lines.

It’s pitch black down there –
dark from lack of light,
black as a night without stars –
even the water is black.

The level of the swamp rises
as our own level imperceptibly falls,
both at an accelerating rate –
soon we will be together.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

from the archives – my experiment with the ballad form

Prayer Song to Grandma Lena Rankin Maxwell

Early, early in the morning
just before the break of day,
I arise, and count my blessings,
and fall to my knees to pray.

And I thank the Gracious Master
and I praise His name so sweet,
and I pour out all my troubles,
and I leave them at His feet.

“Prayer is better,” said the wise man
“than another hour’s snooze,
it will pick you up much higher
than some other stuff you use.”

Late at evening after dealing
With the problems of the day,
All bewildered and disheartened
I fall to my knees and pray.

And I thank the Gracious Master
for his grace in helping me
through another day of passage
on life’s cold and stormy sea.

“Prayer is better,” said the wise man
“than that wine or weed or dope.
It will soothe away your heartache,
it will fill you up with hope.”

St. Louis, October 1991

not a poem . . . . yes, an epic poem

I have discovered that most recordings of the famous Frederick Douglass 1852 speech, What to the Slave is the 4th of July,” are abbreviated, curated, and otherwise shortened for convenience. Moreover, most transcripts and texts available and accessible on the internets are similarly selectively curtailed. Let’s face it, people gave very long speeches back then, more like the Sunday sermons I grew up being subjected to in my Baptist/Methodist youth.

All that said, here is a link to the whole Douglass speech. It is, as the Portuguese would say, vale a pena (worth the pain) to review and study in its entirety, all 18 pages. And below is a Youtube audio of the entire speech read aloud. Enjoy!

from the archives – homage to Walt Whitman

Song of self (homage to Grandpa Walt)

I am that Irish pennant –
sticking out from a hem or a seam,
that, if you pull on me,
the whole thing unravels/disintegrates

I am the canary in the coal mine –
When my song singing ceases,
the fresh air that you need to breathe
to survive is just about to run out

I am the A-ganger in AMR II –
running the O2 generator, the CO2 scrubber,
and the H2 burner in close, tight synchronicity,
in melodic harmony the compressors speak
to each other, while I maintain the nitrogen
and the oxygen balance throughout the boat.

I am the fly in the ointment –
a textual discontinuity,
a corruption in a pure system,
a something that just won’t fit in

I am the sentinel species –
my presence or my absence,
or my well-being a sign
of the relative health of the ecosystem

December 23, 2013

a poem for the fifth of July

Lift every voice and sing was always a blues song –
Words of inclusion and uplift –  infused with a melody.
Never improvised, never syncopated, just overcoming,
adapting. Emerging rapidly from a downbeat,
a flat note at the beginning and the end of time.
We called it our Negro national anthem growing up.
Then in college it became our Black national anthem,
though the words and tune remained the same.
It was we who changed. Our outlook matured.
Nation time! The song was always just a poem
put to music. When it became our hymn, we ennobled
and universalized it – we had a song worth singing.
The ancestors are with us on this one. Believe me.
The eagle landed. Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

A response to The Pieces I Am – a sonnet

I don’t have a “great migration” story.
My folks stayed where they were, where they’d been born.
No one way train rides punctuated life
For us: my parents cast their buckets down
And made their peace, I guess, with all the lines
That circumscribed their lives. And their parents,
And their parents, and their parents, and on
And on. Oh yeah they ventured forth from time
To time, but always came back to the home
They knew and loved. We grew up with the ghosts
Of generations past. They spoke to us
And taught us things not learnable from books,
Like how to deal with loss, and love’s delay,
And death, the ever present end of all.

Not really poetry – well, kinda, sorta – you be the decider

Remembrances from a foreign service career

Part 1 – Foreign Service Exam and Oral Assessment
Part 2 – A-100 and preassignment training
Part 3 – Embassy Bissau – the first year
Part 4 – Embassy Bissau – the second year
Part 5 – The London Embassy
Part 6 – The Ops Center
Part 7 – Embassy Luanda, Angola
Part 8 – Embassy Accra, Ghana
Part 9 – Domestic Assignment – AF/EX
Part 10 – Epilogue: the final eight years
Part 11 – Bonus: Reflections on War and Peace in Iraq

Eclipse/summer solstice/Juneteenth sonnet

(I lifted some phrases at the start and the finish from Cornell West. He won’t mind. “It’s not where you take it from – but where you take it to.”)

Some say we are in for grim times. They say
We should fortify our souls for the storms
Headed soon this way – put on the armor,
Set our sights on a distant unnamed star.

I am studying the constellations
Like our ancestors used to do. I stand
On their shoulders – holy ground. Through their eyes
I learn how they armed themselves and endured.

An annular eclipse coincided
With summer solstice this year. An omen
Of things to come, a lunar ring of fire
Not visible to seeking western eyes.

I saw it on YouTube. A ring of fire.
Let no man steal your joy, your sense of style.

From the archives: summer solstice/Juneteenth poems

Summer solstice II

Sun Ra told us years ago the planet
was doomed – yet we believed,
deep inside, that our exceptionalism
and our privilege would pull us through
in the end – except it didn’t.

The doom we thought we’d avert
eventually consumed us, along
with everybody/everything else.

I had a large garden plot when I lived
in the mountains. Grew a row of sunflowers
from seed on the eastern border.

When they grew so tall with flowers
like crowns, I named each and called
them my ladies. Then one evening
in the valley of the lilies, we were visited
by a microburst – strange weather
in those mountains – and every tall thing
was leveled.

Each poem I write is about these things:
love, family, tribe and poetry. There.
You have the key. No need to guess,
I’ll tell you what’s up. I can’t escape
this destiny, and I cannot hide my pen.


June 20, 2016

Summer solstice

A migration,
a journey by moonlight,
from one ​sacred state
to a​nother –

move fast though,
‘cause the night,
well​-​lit, is short,
which means no time
for reading signs
and prayers for good fortune
on the road.

The shortest​ ​distance
between two points
is a straight line –
or a tesseract ​​
for time travelers​ ​
among us.

Another year
won’t kill them,
and the cotton crop
demands their presence.

But this particular
convergence comes
once a generation,
so their next chance
will be less fortuitous –
as will ours.

A long day, a bright moon,
and a lost year.
And a journey
to bridge a gap in space.


June 17, 2016

Here we are, the convergence of summer
solstice, “strawberry” full moon, Ramadan
midpoint, and Juneteenth, and I need to write
a poem about it, a sonnet, perhaps.
I’ve written summer solstice poems before,
the longest day, the shortest night, and what
that’s worth, but this conjunction is richer,
holier than the things I wrote before.


Morning Walk – Summer Solstice

I make my morning walk today,
it is the summer solstice, after all –
the first morning of summer,
the longest day, the shortest night –

But what good is that,
I say –
a short night is not worth
a plug nickel –

we love the night,
we make love at night,
sweet love we hope
will never end,
an endless night of love –
we dream pure dreams
at night, and pray
those dreams come true –
we plot and strategize
our plan of attack
in the wee hours,
at the midnight hour,
at night.

Of what value, then,
is a short night?

Crossing the bridge,
I shift my timepiece
from 88five to 103five,
“traffic and weather
together, on the eights,”
and the neurons start to fire
in rapid succession…

the tide is high –
portions of the shore
normally exposed
are submerged.
I pause and watch
as the crawling critters
flee the flood and seek
refuge on higher ground,
inching closer and closer
to the human walking trail –
I see tall stalks
of phytolacca americana
growing in groves
along the shore,
sprouting long green leaves,
greens my ancestors used to eat,
as they headed north,
to escape an immoral
oppression. “It’s poison
if you don’t cook it right…”
I can hear them whisper
through the soft rush
of the running tide…

my baby sister is writing poetry
again, mostly in her letters.
I think about her as I turn the corner
onto Frances Scott Key Bridge.
She is the better poet,
she has the gift,
the power to apaziguar o dor –
that’s what friends are for.

I’m nearing home,
my walk almost complete.
The longest day of the year
opens its arms before me.
“From the Shenandoah
to the Chesapeake,”
WTOP says on the radio —
all day long.

Poems from the crucible, pt. 7

Let’s celebrate!

I’ve clearly been reading too much Walt Whitman! (“It’s not where you take it from. It’s where you take it to.”)

Let us celebrate every aspect of our being!
Celebrate our parents and our children, our ancestors on whose shoulders we stand and all the generations yet to come.
Celebrate our gender, whether male or female, whether binary on non-binary.
Celebrate our race, our blackness, our whiteness, our redness, our yellowness, our brownness and everything in betweenness. Celebrate our nationality, our place of origin. Celebrate our migration from there to here.
Celebrate our straightness and our queerness.
Celebrate where we went to school, whether elementary, middle school, high school, or college. Send them a check, big or small, whatever you can afford to let them know you care.
Celebrate the God/Goddess/Deity we serve if we are religious. Celebrate our unbelief if we are atheists or agnostics. Celebrate all our doubts about everything.
Celebrate our friends and our enemies.
Celebrate the “things” we own and our freedom over materialism.
Celebrate any knowledge we have. Celebrate the things we can never fully know.
Celebrate our hopes for the future. Celebrate our fears.
Celebrate being married. Celebrate being single and unencumbered.
Celebrate having children. Celebrate being childless.
Celebrate every aspect of our being.

Poems from the crucible, pt. 6

Did They Ever Find His Body? An Elegy for Christopher Dorner

I had forgotten about Chris Dorner
Until Dave Chappelle’s mention. I recall
secretly pulling for him, hoping he’d
escape being swiss-cheesed by 400
Of his fellow cops. Did they ever find
his body? I found his manifesto,
living and breathing on the internet.
He left behind a lot for us to read
and digest. Hyperlinks . . . all over the place.
Did they ever find his body? We’ve not
heard from him since. We must assume he died
in that shitstorm, transitioned this life.
Still, the mention of him makes me want to smoke.
The burned body they found was never identified.

Poems from the crucible, pt. 5

(Not really a poem. I guess I just think in stanzas these days!)

A not nearly modest enough proposal

Since the whole world is agitated,
What’s stopping a group
of non-partisan patriots
from putting together
a petition to the United Nations
to put the cabash on all these
extrajudicial killings
by renegade policemen
in the US? In the aggregate
it is a human rights violation
and as such, a violation
of international UN norms.

Or am I listening to too many
Malcolm X speeches, too tired
Of being tired of all the crap?
All the marching and rioting
And looting is not gonna stop it.
And we know BLM is only
an appendage of Democratic Party
fundraising and election year
vote generation. Let’s do something
Serious about stopping the madness.

Anybody up for an adult conversation?

Poems from the crucible, pt. 4

If #CHAZ were black protesters
and not white anarchists,
they might end up like MOVE,
hunted and penned and
bombed and blown to smithereens.
Nothing left but a clean-up job
for highly skilled city janitors.

But Seattle ain’t like Philadelphia.
Not a church in Revelations.
Not the City of Brotherly Love.
It was named for an Indian chief
who predicted, “The white man will
never be alone. Let him be just,
and deal kindly with my people.
For the dead are not powerless.”
An ominous warning, indeed.

And 2020 ain’t 1985. The internet
sends a picture around the world.
Instantaneously a meme is formed,
a virus for the fertile mind. It could be
a trap, this massive sit-in that displaces
others who used to hang out there,
an occupation by a next generation
of settlers, an expression of their
new found manifest destiny. Quicksand.
Chief Seattle still whispers to us.

Instagram photos

For M. Milonaki

I thumbed through your
Instagram photos today,
all the way to the bottom,
and reminded myself
how lucky I am to count
you among my circle of friends.

It almost sounds like stalking
but I assure you it is not.
More like a respectful appreciation,
a casual stroll thru a special gallery.

The poetry will end one day,
like everything else. Memento mori.
But true affection endures forever,
if only just a fading memory.

Poems from the crucible, pt. 3

What’s worse?
Kneeling to a false god?
Or wearing kente while kneeling?
Betcha it was fake, knockoff kente.
Betcha it came from China.

And yes, we all know what happens next.
Bad cop gets light or no sentence
(because with all the drugs
they couldn’t figure out conclusively
the actual cause of death).

This event, true to form,
sets off a second round
of riots and looting,
misnamed peaceful protests,
in cities and urban areas
where black folk live and shop,
lowering property values.

And then what?
We’ve seen this film before.
Gentrification when the ashes cool
while the

Poems from the crucible, pt.2

“black lives matter”
Is technically a tautology:
An assertion that is true
In any possible interpretation.

As such, it needn’t be spoken:
Everybody understands it to be.
But we hear it all over the place
And we see it on posters
& on walls & in windows – even
On a street (but that won’t last too long).

Growing up we used to say
“Black is beautiful” – more
An identity than a tautology,
At least mathematically speaking –
More to affirm than to assert –
More cultural than political –
More feel good than mindfuck.

“To be or not to be”
Is a line from Shakespeare,
and “To be rather than to seem”
Is a line from Cicero adopted
By North Carolina as a state motto.
But “I will fuck you up if you
Block my path,” is unambiguous
And requires no interpretation.