I haven't written any poetry since 1990, but maybe now's a good time to start?
The Statistics Have Names | Decomposition of Emotion | The Blank Page | Sophia's Lament
The Statistics Have Names Keyonna, surely your name means rebellion; tough like leather, black like anger, sharper than your years should show. Keyonna, a frozen jaw and ice-pick eyes, miniature muscles drawn tight in defense. Yet you beg me to carry you through camp, "tote me" you demand. What will you do when I have to let go? Unshuntra, a grunting, thudding name, so wrong for the tiny black beauty you are, and you know it, too. Sneaking behind bleachers with boys won't get you out of the projects, Unshuntra. Your name could mean "wise as an eagle," so spread the wings of your mind and fly away from this filth. What is it that keeps you here? Sherita, the quiet, favored one, your name means beloved, and you are. Forever eager to help, nearer to me than my shadow, and as silent. What could you be thinking when we tell you your Father in Heaven loves you? Can you show me what scene plays behind those young eyes? Sherita, hush now ... no, don't. Let the tears fall free as rain and wash the scene away. What will you do when I have to leave you? Keyonna, Unshuntra, Sherita: your names echo the freedom and pride your ancestors once knew peacock colors, drum-beats, and rainy seasons. Say your name, and remember who you are, even when you have long forgotten me. -- April 1990
Decomposition of Emotion The straining whisper of tormented angels, Soul-kneading, eye-squeezing (such tiny drops), A brief breath of air, caught midway. "The language Of the inner being" Rubbing across hidden chords, Flowing through narrow metal chambers. Tapping nails of memory Into a bruised conscience. The whole bleeds on those Who specialize in dissection. A Baroque suite, or a Romantic symphony Becomes a mere necessary evolution, A clever scientific succession, An ancestry of ball and chain. Forgotten are the descants of free will and divine spirit. Sounds of dull clucking clogging such human ears. -- September 1989
The Blank Page Because it was blank you believed it begged inscription so you pressed pen upon me covering the page with your ink pleased with the movement of your pen you pushed on until the self-portrait was complete. You clicked on the cap of your ball-pointed pen still wet with black blood and walked away, whistling. -- October 1989
Sophia's Lament She never meant to be the quiet type; wisdom is easily silenced by chattered opinions, believed to be novelties of divine insight. Pride forms a quick moat; storm windows reveal a world chasing the firmness of wind, moving to the rhythm of measured mayhem (the perfection of machinery). She seeks salvation in synthetic art, creator and ruler of private new worlds. The language of self, supreme in her fresh kingdom, fortified against angelic invasion, guarded from the human heart that bled and broke almighty silence. Deep within, Sophia will not listen to the compelling harmony of soul-talk, love's sacred murmur, like the distant promise of a mountain stream. Her iron throne is dry, untouched by the rush of holy water, cleansing the stain of bitter tears.