Separated from my tribe
I lie hidden in the brush
Nearby a stream
Whispers secrets
In a language
I am supposed to learn
A subtle wind
Carries kisses
Of a distant past
Across my brown skin
While I listen
To the stars
Remind me
That my people
Haven't forgotten
As sunrise clothes
The darkness in majesty
Faint echoes
Of a familiar drum
Dance upon the horizon
Naked and unafraid
My soul stirs
Bidding farewell
To the soil of separation
And with the prayer
Of the morning
I return

There is a quiet place
Somewhere in an undisturbed valley
Where, among the tamarisks
A rock stands sentry
Untouched by impure hands
It watches the moon
Chase the sun
Still solid and smooth
After all this time
Centuries of accumulated secrets
It divulges to none
Unmoved by the tempests
Which scatter the sands
To other quiet places

Raindrops run indiscriminately
Down the window pane
In awkward, fantastic patterns
That blur what lies in the distance

A little Black girl
Walking, holding the hand of her mother
Pauses, looks down and smiles
Shattering the face
Of the once still puddle
She jumps in and laughs
Unconcerned with the wrath that looks
A moment of joy
That cannot be taken away

Streams form in the gutter
Carrying away cigarette butts,
Trash and discarded dreams
Blood, sweat and tears
That have fallen
And been forgotten by many
The rain, a street baptism
The sweet smell of familiarity,
Rebirth and struggle
Glides succinctly through
The screen doors of the restless

They zig and they zag
Stop
Then travel on
Raindrops down the window pane
I follow them with my fingertips
Until they merge at the bottom
And cease being raindrops
Becoming simply
Water

I hear a man laugh
As he talks to his son
On the phone
He has ***** shoes
And faded tattoos
And laughs with his son
On the phone

A Black man
Sits in a blue chair
Writing
Lost in thought
He looks at people
But doesn't see them
And writes
About the people
He doesn't see

A woman
In another city
Misses me
She tells me that
She says she misses me
During the day
And she sleeps
At night
And always
Misses me

A poem
Descends on me
And says
Write me
It's time for me
To be born
Right now
No, not later
Now
The world is ready
And I write it

I watch
A young man pray
He utters
Beautiful Arabic words
That I know
And prostrates
Eastward
His prayer rug
Is worn
Where his feet stand
And forehead rests
It is teal and gold
I don't know the fabric
There is peace
On that rug

I listen
To songs
I've heard before
I listen
And am not here
I'm there again
With those smells
And hazy mornings
I listen close
And hear
My dead friend's
Familiar smile