"ungifted" poems
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)
Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.
Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Such greatness
With such grace
Bestowing
Worthiness on the Unworthy.
Gifting the
Ungifted.
Loving the
Unlovable.
Welcoming the
Unwelcome.
Turning the cheek
I have slapped too many times,
And responding
With a kiss.
I cry.
I wail for His forgiveness
And at the vision of myself
Strutting,
Cocky,
Totally inept
And inconceivably wrong.
And yet,
Grace.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
These past couple of moments have been beautifully ideal,
I feel carefree talking to you, somehow that brings a lot into question, what's fake and what's real?
Maybe it's due to my unchangeable inability to trust.
Do we actually believe someone is being genuine without expecting anything in return from us?
These insecurities, you didn't cause them.
Still in my eyes you're a flawless, tainted gem.
So perfect, your faults make you perfect.
Only for a second do I believe that maybe we're worth it.
But how do you turn a nonbeliever into a dreamer?
A no-faither into a hoper?
The blind into seers?
The mute into preachers?
The immobile into runners?
The numb into healers?
The obvious answer is you can't,
No ungifted man can.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
Hound-dog swallowing poly-coated pills, filling up, bloated, falling off stage, and into a more permanent and lasting Graceland, to be surrounded by another’s verse.
I only enjoy what comes from my own head, a modern Samuel Johnson, no matter what happenstance brought about to be said, a cage free Bronson. Hearing false verse through a syllable count, hoisted onto adverbs easy to mount. Congratulate a lesser mind, reaching commonalities most could find. Ease in creation, opens floodgate doors, distributing specs of grace through misworded spores. Life, love, and the pursuit of vanity, leaves simplified lumps of prosperous thought riddled with anonymity. The invention of despair overwhelms those ungifted, and leaves them erecting stale forgeries they grifted.
In the wee small hours of escaping light, a crooner steadies his hands as he falsifies his originality, reading off the music from another’s sheet.
A change in topic is something to hold as worthy, though in a modern context of prosaic prose, such good fortune can be exceptionally elusive. Broken hearted symptoms shared through a hash-tag, rerouted and worded, to fit an illiterate youth’s lesser diction, reposted to approach validity, only to be called forth as an original soul, one to revere, and hold as an entitled fraction of logic.
The piano man knocks out a tune, hit in stride with vocal conduct, inspired and laid in pen by a lesser man propelled by better wording, given up for another’s career.
Market’s over-saturated with teenage sonnets, weeping over cut wrists, ended (Victorian inspired) trysts, refreshed and brought back around until sentimentality vomits. Themes used to run rampant with fresh ingenuity, made extinct, occurred in a blink; now every poem has some congruency.
The grapevine got entangled, getting involved with a troublemaker, providing the soundtrack, using another’s words.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Can you
Listen quietly
To the heart beat of
A caring,
Gentle melody
Coming from someone
Can you hear that?
Because
I know
Who can
But
He only have one friend
Not peace and calmness
Only silence
He doesn’t listen to anyone
Only silence
No one understand him
Only silence
Hours, days, years until death
He lives with silence
One day he met someone
A woman
He was loved.
He was forced to hear
Her lovely rhythm
And sweet sound
He listen silently
To feel
Those echoes
Vibrating on his bone
And the compassion and
Genuine intention
She shows to him
A sound of love
Produce sweet loud noises
Orchestrated
Music to his ears
He dance to it
More than you do
The sound of a woman’s love
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 3:04 AM UTC
How many times
Must I open my heart to find
It locked from the other side?
How many times must I open my heart
To be met by lies?
How many times must I cry
Before I realize I'm wasting My?
No, my heart stays open for days
And it will stay this way
I'm not a slave to likes or wage
**** the blind stay out of my way
I have people to save, I say
My words are for those who listen
Whether I like you or not we can have a sit-in
We are all children of love, none ungifted
**** you if you say that by my skin, creed, or *** I deserve no longer to get lifted
Get a ******* grip kid
Whether you're 20 or old and forgotten you're spoiled rotten
Your only salvation is to be honest
Stop lying to impress those most lost
It's your sacred life that be the cost
What a price to pay for mindless talk
But fear not
For if your intent be love you cannot be lost
Wake up, if you forgot
Stay strong, if you have not
I love both sides
The wanderers and the lost
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
there once never was
a man gifted, ungifted
who now lives as both
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Everyday
He shows me his
Folly smile
And sparky
Gullible eyes
Without stain of shame.
He’s innocent mind knows how to imagine
But learns nothing
Without stain of shame.
However he knows how to value
Things seem plain and simple
He makes it incredible
That brings overwhelming joy
Tender and playful heart
An innocent mind that always wonder
But attention that not last a second
What’s wrong with other people?
Sometimes he ask his mother
My child you are different from others
Keep your heads up look above
Know your worth
No matter bad they say to you
It is not true
You cannot be judged by anyone
Except you
People, animals and non-living
Don't judge but understand them by heart
Appreciate what you are seeing
You may find me there when you feel alone
If you smile I will smile back
Then I will hug you and shower you with my love
Words gave by his Mother
He treasure it forever
Then life challenge him
Judge and hurt his feeling
He doesn't fluster
Remembering his Mother’s words
Bring him strength and greatness
It protected his peace and happiness
That cannot steal by someone else
Even others inflict pain to him
Still he shows compassion
To anyone around him
He still give them genuine smile
And good laugh that they will not convey why
Because
He surely knows
Appreciate things even those simple
He’s grateful
More than you do
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 10:11 AM UTC
Rainbow-filled eyes and sin in my heart, watching girls and filling my head with fantasies. It doesn't drag me in straight lines, it takes wavy, wobbly steps. Girls, what pieces of art, so easy to indulge in. No bones and ***** just parts like mine, staring at faces all day, making no regrets. How unfair of God to disable other girls to see this kind of beauty, this kind of attraction. How unfair to have been given such a terrible gift instead of satisfaction at false limits. Desire, my security a liar, for attraction like this does not guarantee freedom from the wrong. Please, Lust, play nice with me. I don't want to have to cup girls' heads in my hands, smothering myself in all their tasteful smiles and tongues. Some would look in distaste, the disabled, the ungifted. Them and I, our uncommon views watch us battle over the love that has been hated since the beginning. Old policies, restrictions, forgotten over time, the rainbow rising after the spiteful thunderstorm.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC