Ivory, after WC Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow"

So much depends upon
The feeders and planters and givers that sleep on
Long grains that stood filtering blue harvest light
Onto fesue and shed
Wheat and barley and seed in a trough;
Roosters that start rural ritual from hazy dawn,
White hens' smooth ovals of ivory and brown
Cracked for sustenance
Or treasured for the sake of dependence.




*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!

Eleven Shades of a Black Girl

Against the heated sands of a summer beach,
She is bronze.
And in the shade of a summer tree,
She is cinnamon.
With cherry blossoms in her midnight hair,
She is honey.
And with roses in her caramel palms,
She is chocolate.
When the falling leaves of autumn lay against her legs,
She is almond butter.
And by the glowing blaze of a winter fire,
She is coffee.
By the light of morning's rays,
She is brown sugar.
And by the pale moonlight of night,
She shines toffee.
And when the moon is new,
Her silhouette is black
Against the radiant stars.




*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!

Building the Line

“Chain ten more” nanny says as we sit,

And I watch as her hands
single crochet, double, treble, popcorn and
Cluster stitch lifeless yarn into lustrous intricate design.
Watching is part of the process, as did my aunts
And so mother as well.
We are learning to grow with her on our shoulders.
Small, damp fingers fumbling with sticky wool
Until they move steady and the string flows like water through my palms.
When I have one-hundred chains
I teach cousin how to chain
And we sit quietly as time grows on
She, watching my hands
I, watching nanny’s hands
As we slowly build her up.



*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!

Isabel, Daughter of Abra

The space in time won’t thwart your aging cries,
Her flesh, like fire, it seemed a sin to hold.
And though your hearth in embers ever dies,
Your babe remained unguarded in the cold.

Your daughter’s cinders grew and flamed in anger,
Forever veiling frost too chill to bear.
And now to her you will remain a stranger,
Begging He to spare her in your prayers.

He says you must see Him before your child,
So her His way you showed as best you could.
But her soul remained as dang’rous as the Wild,
So you to her will stay misunderstood.

His path you step to enlighten all mankind,
The one you cherish most forever blind.


*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!

Already Sleeping

Daughter,
I am jealous
Of your beating heart
For you say I have none
And that is why I am awake
Standing at the foot of your bed
And you are already sleeping
Fighting me in your dreams
Your heartbeat keeps me awake
At night
It pounds, gently until the darkness
Shakes with it
And I watch you, jealous
My old feet, cold on your mahogany floor,
Jealous
Because you sleep at night
Without knowing that I have none
Because I gave it away, for you.


This poem is in Volume 49, Edition 1 of the
University of Puget Sound Crosscurrents Literary Review.
*All Rights Reserved*

Collateral

Not a father, but a dad.
I think sometimes
You take this act of charity too seriously.
Maybe this bastard child
Would rather be
A bastard child
Than remain the object of a love that hurts:
Unconditional, unwarranted…
Unwanted?
Your kind of love,
Is the catalyst for war
Because no one can change
My blood into yours.
This war makes a casing out of your heart
And I your only collateral.
Your arms warm and open for always,
I come weeping to them,
Before the smoke has cleared.


*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!

Three Generations of Soul Food

Grandaddy’s on the porch,
chewin’ tobacco in front of little cousin Eva,
talkin’ ‘bout old ways to work and old ways to make things and old ways to raise things.

Big Ma’s in the kitchen,
bakin’ remedies and fryin’ corncakes with the lard
from yesterday’s bacon.

Pa’s in the study,
sweatin’ hard-earned figures onto coffee-stained pages,
sweatin’ food into our bellies.

Mama’s in the garden
Tearin’ at ‘bama’s red soil,
So that tomorrow we can have some collards with our chops.

And I am listening,
To wet tobacco hit dry earth,
To hot grease sizzle in a 60-year-old cast iron pan,
To money put food on the table,
To the rip of root from soil,

And my spirit grows with it.


*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!