“i saw it filled with roses and butterflies”
the poet wrote
while sitting on the patio of her suburban ranch
looking out over her garden
she writes laments over her favorite
coffee cup/ the ridge chipped/ handle now broken
and she worries/ if coffee drinking
will ever be the same again
she documents the lines on her face
watching as they intersect and deepen
each day noticing a new line
writing panic poetic introspectives
on her aging face
she notices/ the sweet texture of chocolate
adhering to her fingers
and she write of its finite
yet/ necessary existence
and i
a poet myself/ read
her verses of polished and tainted metaphors
and wonder what life is like in a suburban ranch
locked behind high fences and security systems
while i live in the world of shots in the dark
and freshly freed convicts living
next door and down the street
turning my street corner into a cell block
i don’t have time for a favorite coffee cup
and the lines of time on my face are welcomed
there is no preference of gourmet assorted chocolates
but/ i do have dreams
of fields filled with roses and butterflies
Dreams and Reality
i'm a revolutionary
who missed the revolution
its by no fault of my own
its all in the timing
when it came my time to serve
all the visible enemies had taken cover
and those before me retired
i never heard who won/ though i believe
it was not the revolutionaries
i was born too late
too late to march with my people
during the time of:
black power
black panthers
black muslims
black and i'm proud
i remember those slogans
though i was too young to know
a revolution was going on
years passed
and the retired revolutionaries woke
from their revolutionary dreams
to find reality (they didn't bother to tell me)
reality is a hard master
dreamers have little place in its presents
King/ was a dreamer
reality killed him
i think that's what happened to the revolution
we had too many dreamers
and not enough in reality
For The Night Comes When No Man Can Work
night draws nearer
with the passing twilight
a sleepless night awaiting the dawn
how i long to rest
from hours of work
long days of sun and sweat
yet/ my eyes see the thin thread of night thicken
and know ‘day’ is exiting the stage
so that ‘night’ may perform
but on this night the stars dance too loud
O, sweet sleep, bitter is thy taste
my soul stirs with eyes heavy
till the thin thread of morn thicken
and the day comes, and the sun, and work,
and the sweat that pours as tears from my face
stinging my eyes/ my sleepless eyes
O sweet sleep, O bitter night
Sing
O, how the world glides through space
and ocean waves flow at will
and all things free/ move and have their being
but not so/ this caged bird
not so/ this lone solitary soul
all that’s green and gay
golden and clothed in purple
parade outside my reach
while sweet winds breathe gently beneath wings
with no room to fly/ no space to soar
O, that the stone within my heart can be lifted
made light though not removed
that thorns embedded in flesh sting less
and joys truly come in the morning
to outstretch my wings to embrace liberty
and not be pierced with nails in order to bear a cross
O, how I must sing and sing and sing
to a world outside my bars
singing all the day and night
hoping life will not forget me
sing.
