WEREWOLF AVOIDANCE
I’ve never “blogged” before
so this is new
territory for me I do
poet though and that
is always somewhere in
the netherland I think
poetry is employed
by truth I think
our job is to tell
the truth as we see it don’t you
just hate a namby-pamby poem that goes
all over the place saying nothing
Poets should be strong
in our emotions
and our words that might make us
difficult to live with but I do believe
easier to love
Poet is garlic
Not for everyone
but those who take it
never get caught
by werewolves
EXERCISE
I want to ride
On a train
I sometimes fly
In a jet plane
I love to cruise
In a big boat
I’d even float
In a green moat
Of course I could always
Bike
And for health reasons
Hike
But if I had my druthers
I’d get my exercise
In your arms
I COMMUNICATE
I communicate
With you
In the dark
I am a shadow
At eventide
A white piece of chalk
On a white blackboard
I am a blackberry
On a bear’s purple tongue
I am a pebble in your oil tank
Flush me out
You will run smoother
But with not nearly as much fun
Bumping
Moves us all along
I fly away at morning
To await your sleep
I will sneak in
Too dark
Too quiet
Too loving
For you to say
No More
I don’t want a shadow
I want you
THE LONE RANGER RIDES THE LONESOME TRAIL AGAIN
I watched The Visitor
They
Like boys shaking salt on slugs
Chased
Deported
Misunderstood
The pain
Were indifferent to
The lives
They were destroying
They tried to convince
Me
They were protecting
Me
Those boys
Who explained
Why they were throwing
Stones at mother robin
Breaking her wing
And preventing not her flight
But her ability to feed
Her three little hatchlings
Who are condemned to death
By starvation
They laughed
In nazi-ese
They were only doing
Their jobs
What pitiful
Little gerbils
We have
Become
To keep others
From living
I saw The Visitor
Play his drum
While Sarah Palin
Field-dressed a moose
And encouraged her daughter
To have sex
With her oldest son
Sarah was
After all
Too busy at the PTA
Explaining what abstinence means
Oh boy
What ecstasy
I am embraced
With lies
And hypocrisy
Hug me, Baby
Do it Good
I am an American
My life
Is a fucking prison
Hi Ho, Silver
Away!!!!
FOR RUNAWAY SLAVES
Here we stand
Negotiating
That space
Between I’m in love
With you
And let’s be friends
This will not turn out well
I need a guitar
Or a good drunk
Or something ugly
To find
The song
In these blues
Let’s get a twelve-string
Banjo
And sing a song
For runaway slaves
MY DIET
If you are what you eat
I’m definitely having an exciting poem
For breakfast
Lunch will be a mean metaphor
With lots of rhythm on the side
Pounding that baked beat
To say what’s on my mind
Dinner is a more sedate affair
A simile with a little sweetness
For dessert
And that should make for something
Exciting to come
Out of me
In the morning
NICKELS FOR NINA
Saturdays were tedious because there were always chores which didn’t actually take that long but after lunch (which I always enjoyed with Grandmother) I had to go to the beauty parlor. As a kid I didn’t mind but when I got to be 14 or 15 I had other things to prepare for. Of course, many of my friends who were boys would go swimming on summer afternoons and most of us who were girls would sit and watch. Even with swimming caps our hair would get wet and “go back” so we stood or sat on the sidelines. The crazy thing about all that was if there was a dance at The Phillis Wheatley Y you also couldn’t “slow drag” because the boys would be sweaty against your face and your hair would get wet and “go back.” It goes without saying that we were not allowed to slow drag.
But having survived all that, we awakened to wonderful Sunday mornings. We attended Mt. Zion Baptist Church where grandpapa was a Deacon and Grandmother helped with Sunday School and other things. I remember she wasn’t an Usher and she didn’t sing in the choir, though she had a beautiful voice, nor did she play the piano or organ, though she could do both.
I wasn’t actually paid for chores, since I slept and ate there, but Grandpapa would give me a quarter or sometimes a bit more for Sunday School and church. I’m a big fan of “rendering” so I didn’t actually mind putting money in both times but finally my grandmother realized I had nothing left to go for ice cream with the other kids and she kind of directed me to “share” with God but not give it all. Ice cream is important, too. Peach, for her. Vanilla, for me.
Bonnie, Joanne, David, and the rest would leave Sunday School at about 10:30 A.M. and walk down to Carter-Roberts Drug Store. Church didn’t start until 11:00. Carter-Roberts had a jukebox where a quarter would get you six songs which individually would be a nickel apiece. We all chipped in. It was Nina Simone. Live at Central Park I think. She was singing “I Loves You, Porgy.” I already was and remain a big fan of Porgy and Bess. I can understand, though I disagree with, the folk who disliked Amos ’n’ Andy. I could see it was important to see Black folk on TV and, to be fair, it was funny. Maybe not funny in the rerun called Good Times and certainly not funny in the sequel called The Jeffersons but Amos ’n’ Andy worked for me at that time. Porgy and Bess even I, a kid, knew was important. It is classic. And if you loved, as did I, mythology, Porgy and Bess fit right in. Let me confess: I never actually believed George Gershwin wrote all that music.
I believed Gershwin spent a lot of time “uptown” to learn to translate the music that became Rhapsody in Blue. I grant him total control of An American in Paris. But P and B? No way. “Summertime” could be heard anywhere the Black community was giving thanks for another season. The rhythms are all gospel. Even the chants. “Strawberry Woman.” No way. And Nina Simone reclaimed it for us. She brought that southernersness but on a sophisticated level to us
. We all loved her.
Our last nickels, having forgone ice cream, went to Nina. And we were satisfied.
So you can imagine the thrill I felt when I walked into Michaux’s bookstore in Harlem one fall afternoon and Nina Simone was there! I didn’t even try to be cool about it. I love you!!! I gushed. She was very nice about it. That Nina Simone had read my book was beyond compare. I was over the top. My mother was coming to town and I was having a party to show Mommy that I have friends and I’m all right. I invited Nina. My thought was this: Probably most people are fans so they think the star is always busy doing glamorous things so the star never gets invited to do things with ordinary folk. I gave her my address and phone number. And left.
She came. My mother was thrilled. So was everybody else. Nina was good people. I’m proud to call her my friend.
BLUES FOR ROANOKE
We sit like Sally Walker
In a circle trying
To spin something wonderful
On this loom hoping
Maybe a magic dwarf
Will come to show
Us where the gold is
We sit in here together
Not in a square nor
Rectangle
But the triangle between right wrong and really
Who cares
Facebook says I have friends
Friends say strange things
Avoiding my face
There is a star
Which is not me
Though it should be
On a hill
It shines on Henry Street
Where Duke Ellington played
Where Nat “King” Cole sang
Where dancers danced
The blues away:
The segregation blues
The you can’t go here or come there blues
The evil blues played on a stolen banjo
The railroad blues that strummed the lines
While the Pullman Porters called George by some
Called Honey by some
Called Daddy by some
Called Grandpop swayed with the coming winds
And danced the blues away
We sit in a circle
And that story that keeps us warm
Feeds our hearts
Makes us know
This Star city is Mine
That star at that mountain shines
For me
At me on me
Doo wap doo wap
I got the Roanoke blues
And I’m feeling fine
THE SPOTLIGHT IN THE SKY
I am the spotlight in the sky
Some call the moon
I call to the wolves to howl
With me
Sending little red riding girls
In their convertible Hondas
Home
Maybe I’m that girl everybody thinks
They know
I ride these winds
And rap with owls
The bats avoid us
Because I’m out of tune
What is this teenage thing
That we all pass through
This tunnel on the way
To grown-up-ness
Is what I see the grown-
Up world
War . . . waste . . . want
I’d rather be
In that spotlight
At break of dawn
Circling the sun
On my way to rest
Being a good Star
City called Roanoke
THE SPIDER WALTZ
A spider looked at me
And I at her
I thought a spider would be scared
but no
She smiled and sat beside me
in the chair
And handed me a muffin we could share
I thought “a waltz” is what this friendship needs
And so I sang a simple melody:
Come play with me
Come be my friend
And I will give you butter
Come sing a song
And dance a waltz
And I will give you jam
Come sing a song and dance with me
And you will be my friend
And we will laugh
And we’ll have tea
And we will spin together
I WISH I COULD LIVE (IN A BOOK)
(for Charles A. Smith, Jr.)
I wish I could live
In a book
All wrapped up
In my fairy
Godmother’s arms
Or sitting with my Cave
Mother baking dinosaur
Eggs
If I lived
In a book
I could fly
With Ali Baba
And even though it’s not right
To steal
The Forty Thieves are
Pretty cool
Maybe there would be
A book about me
One day
Just a little girl being brave
In a world where water
Is in short supply
But everybody
Has a gun
I don’t think
That’s a good idea
I’d rather be in
A book
Making biscuits
On the frontier
Running with the wind
Following very lightly
On the laughter of the Prairie Dogs
That would be so nice
I think
Living in a book
I WISH I COULD LIVE (IN MUSIC)
I wish I could live
In music
I’d be all
Kinds:
Opera arias
Folk telling news
Minuets
Hoedown dancing
calling square dancers
Whoa! Bring me some
Disco
Yeah I’d be a Spiritual
And then a wonderful
Foot-stomping Gospel tune
Some blues—almost forgot
The Blues
And we need Jazz
I need me “A-Tisket
A-Tasket”
Some little yellow basket
But not a White Horse
I’m never gonna ride
The White Horse
I want to be Little Richard
Even Donald Duck sang
Little Richard
I mean Quack Quack Quack Won’t You Come Along with Me?
Now I’m rappin’
I’m telling the news
Napster freed me
And I can choose
To have it all
For free download
Yeah I want to live
In music
Teach Learn Rejoice
In music
In music I’m free
To be a better me
I WISH I COULD LIVE (IN A PAINTING)
There is something
About a railroad station
Not only the big pretty ones
Like in Cincinnati saying
“Gateway to the South”
or even Boston’s Back Bay with
that heroic Tina Allen sculpture of A.
Philip Randolph
Union Station in DC . . . union being
Not only North and South
But working men and women getting
A fair wage for giving
A hard day’s work
And those greatest of Black
Men . . . the Pullman Porters . . .
Who set the style . . . who took
America from primitive to privilege
Giving service all through the night
Cooking the meals
Setting the tables
Washing . . . pressing so others could look
Like gentlemen
Others sorted the mail
Which arrived
On time in the right city
No ZIP code needed thank you
These men could read
And no machine was invited
To that party
There is something about parallel
Lines moving up
And down over
Horizon and dreams never ever
Touching but rather on
A lonely journey with another
Lonely friend they don’t talk
Though a song is sung
Parallel lines . . . not sea
Nor sky . . . hold the dreams
Of women
I wish I lived
In a painting
DON PULLEN
(for the Jefferson Center)
If dancers danced on their fingertips
Then piano players should play with their toes
The creative process is neither restrictive nor judgmental
It is the search for something
New and different and wonderful
Or maybe the need to make the old