This poem is
Of me
Something I have birthed
Been blessed to give life to
As surely as I have been blessed
To give other life and
Without this poem
As with
Without the other
I would surely die

I could do
Without you
Before I could do without
This poem
Even if removing you
Would leave me
An amputee
Spiritually speaking…

I have enuf love to cover you both~
You should not make me choose
Between this poem
And you
Tho I do love you so
You will lose

On the crowded bus / from my nice downtown job / looking expensive… and smelling expensive… cuz I am / expensive that is…/ and I’m immediately ****** / cuz I’ve had a long day and I’m tired / and this homeless brother is in the back / talking loud / to his Invisible Confidante / and / without a sign or a signal / but nevertheless as a group / we do not see him…
He is to be ignored…

But my ears do not comply as he sez

It’s one thing to fight to be who you are- and another to fight just to be

And I’m like / ****… that was deep / and the poet in me needs to write this down / cuz “Crazy” follows with

My mother wasn’t nothing- wasn’t no kinda woman at all / Homeless since fifteen how do you explain that? / Nobody’s got the answers to the questions I ask / so I fight in the war / now what’s our new Black president gonna do for me? / When am I gonna get mine?

I sense a burgeoning forgiveness in the crowd / this boy’s… a Vet / but an irritation in my own spirit blossoms because forgiveness / I’m sure / is not real high on the list of all this boy needs / and I suddenly feel like I’ve been somehow negligent*

His Invisible Confidante must have interjected / as he replies

Because… / Big people don’t care about us /  David shuda gave everybody a slingshot / and if they got too big we could **** ‘em / We don’t want to have to look AFTER each other / or even AT each other / can’t even spare a dollar / Tell me to go get a job / like I didn’t try /  It’s hard to fit a camel through the eye of a needle /  So I’ma take my time / Take my time /  Take… take… take… sumthin / Just try to stay modest… just a modest sum is all I need.

The bus has slowly / gotten quieter / all pretending to be ignoring this eloquent schizophrenic / as he merges the holy bible with the u.s. constitution / and adds

Farmers usta run thangs but now Man and God together made satan / I know what I did for my country but what’s my country gonna do for me?

And by now he’s making a jacked-up kind of sense / to more than just me alone... / as he continues

It’s always the black people who think they cool with whitey / I go to the justice center / and they say "leave us alone” / it makes ‘em feel so good / that they could quit THEIR OWN jobs.
  
Which brought to mind the last time WE had to ask for help / Caught myself just in time-- cuz I’se classy now / But I almost said out loud “Say That!” / And he was on a roll…

“I’m sorry” / they say / “go to church” / they say / and at the same time they lookin’ at me / and I know I could never be part’a they church

Somewhere in the front / a sistah couldn’t hold it / and said "Ump!" / In agreement / as only a Black Woman can

And he was speaking…

They say / “I give to charity” / but charities don’t give to the likes of ME… / but people gon be people / so I aint trippin' off that  

I need time and I need help / But I’m a take my time… take… take… my time.  Yeah…

At this point / there is no pretense / we are all actively listening to this accidental poet / this inadvertent incentive to being your brothers keeper / as he says

They act like my mental defect is THEIR disability  

****… that’s ****** up

And so I guess I’m supposed to go downtown / and be all nasty and ***** / just so I can get their little piece of paper / and- smoke- some- cigs- and- smoke- some- crack-and- be happy / is that it?
but they don’t know / In the end it’s not about gettin’ high /  it’s about gettin’ by
Right …? / Yeah…

Here / he finally / mercifully / signals his stop / and prepares to leave his Invisible Confidante with

Thanks for lettin’ me free my mind, baby /  Like inna waffle house… / drinking so much coffee… /  I just wanna be inna room again… / Maybe even a cell… / Where I can read a paper and think deep about today

Wow... / With that one / we collectively exhale / and look at / our hands / or our laps / or out of our respective windows

Changed

By one of our own
Surprisingly well groomed
Oddly articulate
But deeply wounded
Sons

As he
Head hanging
Shoulders slumped
Disembarks from the number twenty-three city bus
And leaves on us
The residue
Of his melancholy…
  

Note:  Usually when the "Crazy" leaves the bus-  a vocal "Whew, I'm glad that's over!" circulates.  But when this broken young man was gone... no one made a sound.  Not a cellular phone or side conversation... nothing. We rode on in silence…

Hypothetical question inevitably comes to mind-

When we are old and past our prime

Should “they” decide that it’s our time and take upon themselves to douse the flame?

While we cry for our beloved… cuz those that are supposed to know…

Say it’s time to let her go… and

Mourn... cuz four legged people, are people just the same…

She’s just old... as most people hope to one day be… So may

She not moan… Or

Be in pain... and

Let her ease away in loving arms with none to blame… cuz

Good four legged people,

Are good people just the same…*

.

Upon being told that I am a poet
Suggested I have my work added
To the local grade school curriculum
Meant well but
I think not...

Emily Dickinson
And
Robert Frost
I truly... am not...

This is NOT what I do

Though I do agree with Emily
who aspires to"Dwell in the possibilities"

And with Mr. Frost I concur that
"The only way out is through"

Like Dylan I
"Do not go gentle into that good night"

That is not what my poems are made of...

Racism
Newly found Love
Motherhood
And children he forgot

Addiction
*******
Loneliness
And working with what you've got

A working man's hands
A homeless man's lot
Betrayal
Destruction that genocide wrought

May not always sound nice...
But Beloved, it's life

Life is what my poems are made of

The man always met the enemy at the threshold
Lays down a carpet… grabs his crooked hand… and
Escorts him in
Clears a space for him to sit… and
Like an apostle
Cleans his busy feet of road dust
Garnered while traveling  to and fro
Seeking whom he may devour…

Then… giving him a high place…
Strained to Listen
As he whispered…
Yet is somehow still surprised
When his world is aflame… and he curses the enemy
Gives him all the blame
And the enemy laughs…
As yet another foolish man
Gives him the Credit, the Glory, the Joy and the Power

It’s okay… in my opinion… to go home to glory… with some things

left unsaid.. cuz some things are better left unsaid… and I may

never run that marathon… that for at least... five years...  

I’ve been preparing for… in my head… and should I meet my maker...

carrying that last twenty pounds… that I’ve been lying about losing … well…

let’s just say… that… since my maker made me… I don’t see a problem… and

if the Creator should call before I learned to play guitar…. cuz

I’ve always wanted to learn to play guitar… I admit it will be a

disappointment… but not as big a disappointment as it would be… if

I died with my bedroom looking like this…

Long ago day on a country porch… cuz
It was too dern hot in the kitchen…
Three generations of women
Surrounded by trees and fields of greens
Snappin a whole heap’a beans…
Swattin at flyin buzzin things…
Laughin big laughs… and
Tellin small lies…
Wavin one hand as the car goin by
Stirs red dirt into the sultry air
Comin from “down yonder”…and
Headin “up ‘ere”…
Touchin giggle tears
With apron hems
Forward thirty years… and
I still see them… although
I’m the only one left…  

All the bean snappin porch ladies
Have gone the way
Of the natural progression of things… but
I can still hear that old screen door slam
I can still hear the old ladies sing…and
I now sing alone,
The hymn they usta bring
“… it’s anotha day’s journey, and I'm so glad, so glad about it… feels so good to be here”