To Miss Dell...

Soul Food For Lunch (Brother Malcolm Turns 100)

she told me
she was only nineteen
maybe twentyish
simply having a quick Sunday afternoon soul food lunch with the girls
booth by the window 
a view of Lennox Ave
optimal place to people-watch on a Sunday afternoon
and maybe catch a look from a handsome young gent outside
who would smile
come inside for a proper introduction 
an invitation to a Saturday movie matinee 
or leisurely stroll uptown in Central Park
that's what she told me was on her mind
while she was simply having a quick Sunday afternoon soul food lunch with the girls

she didn't see him enter from the 125th street side
tall
well dressed
well groomed
well spoken
but he caught her eye
she didn't catch his
yet
the lunch counter heads turned in perfect synchronization
as three men in black walked before him
three men in black ...

Now, I Am A Black Poet

because I am black
and a writer of poems
my semi-automatic pen should be loaded with fatal words trained at temples
blonde-haired
blue-eyed
those made of glass and stone

I am to blindly follow those whom I never voted for
and shout
“right on!!!”
and
“that’s right, brother! speak the truth!!!”

when the words I hear ain’t necessarily the truth
and the
‘brothas’
who speak them
I respect
but sometimes I gotta respectfully disagree

(sometimes, my truth may be different from yours)

because I am black
and a writer of poems
I should target my message to those who live where I live
loving only those things readily accessible
hating those
blaming those responsible for why I live where I live
and can only love what I am allowed to ...

Nouns

it used to be my student desk
paper
typewriter and pen
this was when words were newly put together
jigsaw puzzle pieces on a cardboard plate
they spoke to me late in the night amidst black velvet posters
my black light illumination
sounds of classic R&B always helped me find the words to write

it was my space
my place
my haven
my escape
to record the experiences of the day
to hell with form and meter
I would write them my own way
bedroom door closed
everyone peacefully sleeping
there was no rush
I wrote about every girl I had a crush on
and there were
indeed
many names
the excitement I felt attending our high school football games
and I am surprised dad never barged in
my typewriter keys working in overdrive
sometimes slumber found me
and I would wake up at five
to the warmth of the risi...

We Took To The Streets (How I Celebrated MLK Day)

then
we wore afros and dashikis
and took to the streets with poetic words for our women
militant words for our people
revolutionary words for the establishment
 
incarcerations and interments would soon follow
as sure as Willie’s dice would roll up 
seven eleven
every Saturday night in the back room of Grady’s bar-be-que shack
 
we took to the streets
with the fire of the sun in our eyes
blazing through our black shades
black berets
partially covering our black afros
and a sea of black fists in the air
 
God
it was a beautiful sight…
 
then
we took to the streets
burning our neighborhood stores
our homes
our businesses
our lives

that was then…
 
each year thereafter
we took to churches and auditoriums in suits and t...

Blizzard In DC (Can You Dig it?)

blizzard in DC
but don't look for accumulating flakes of snow and ice
not sure today what the actual temperature might be
just know for sure
that there will be a 
blizzard in DC
could be Jack Frost nipping at noses
or the sun providing a January mid winter tan
already called out sick
will spend the whole day curled up on the couch
watching Netflix with remote in hand
or scanning other channels to view anything
but the daily weather report on CNN 
or FOX
or...
'cause I knew it from a week ago that there would be a
blizzard in DC
such a storm predicted 
driving on the city streets
and walking on local sidewalks will be hazardous to ones health
already 
warnings issued for folk who are not essential personnel 
no telling what will happen to life and limb
if caught in the middle of that
blizzar...

The Way It's Supposed To Be

silent audience
eyes transfixed upon stage lights of multi-colored hue
awaiting the commencement of the evening’s entertainment
 
announcements concluded
the opening notes from Noel Pointer’s violin
hovering above the frozen throng
a leaf is shaken from its place of birth
fluttering to the earth without a sound
 
she is
as Coltrane plays abstract soliloquies
she is
as Hendrix blows my mind with virtuosity

she is
as classic jazz sounds make sweet love to my ears
as I recline
resigned to dwell in wondrous transfixation
the way it’s supposed to be
 
summer sunset
island breezes conquering the August humidity
she holds my hand
as seagulls sing in motion above us
no words needing to be spoken
a gentle caress
a moment frozen to examine facial details
the smoothness...

Untitled (Birthday Thing For The Wifey)

she makes my heart flutter 
and my words stutter
raindrops ask permission to fall upon her face 
and the evening meal stands at attention 
pausing silently before it says grace
the stars reach out and close her curtains
as she gently falls to sleep
and God has it on record
her soul He will always keep

another year
she is here
to bless me
to bless you
to bless the world
for she is marvelous
so named
so purposed
so fulfilled

Tomorrow Morning

she is going to call tomorrow morning
and I will wait by the phone
preparing myself for just about anything
fifteen rounds of sparring
lefts and rights 
conversations about Malcolm
Martin
Medgar
or just ourselves

when I hear her voice for the first time
is it the sound of a gentle stream floating by
as I rest underneath the shade of an old tree
or is it the sound of a mighty wind
a hurricane hiding from behind dark clouds
or maybe something in between

she is going to call tomorrow morning
so I must either brush up on my street etiquette
Shakespearean soliloquies
militant revolutionary politics
Barry White bedroom banter
or do what I have done for all these years
just be myself 
dry martini
neither shaken nor stirred

the phone will ring
and she will smile
as she says she likes to do<...

Caribbean Jones

damn
this was an easy poem to write

just looking into your eyes seeing sparkling
dancing
cool white foam waterfalls and crystal-clear ocean waters
my toes
sinking deeper into the soft sand of your shores

yeah
this poem was no trouble at all

watching two white hot bolts of lightning
dangerously flashing within above your Caribbean skies
parallel
dancing for a while
never once intersecting causing continuous claps of thunder
Greek gods
making mythological love in the heavens above us
and the worlds rejoicing 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
...

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...