Angry Streets

Soweto was once like this--
cried like this, with rumblings from her belly;
streets like this-- bent, strained and gray;
hoarse from her angry pleas,
when dancers were swayed by the echoes
of war drums, hungry for change
and the villager's nostrils grew weary
of air, stained black with greed.

Soweto once heaved like this--
dry, from forced fed oppression;
fingers shredded from scratching the soil
for scraps of a bountiful harvest--
blur tears in the eyes of her children,
from the burn in their empty bellies;
anger in the eyes of her elders,
from a void left by heartless leaders.

Soweto once died like this,
when the voice of the village grew stronger
and the sound of the drum echoed louder,
only to fade into stained, black air--
then dancers became fighters,
guns replaced drums
and tears turned to blood in the children's eyes
and red nights bubbled hatred,
as they wept in their sleep,
with screams of change as their lullaby.

Soweto can speak of this,
in the remembered voice of students slain
and the sound of life lying down in sacifice
in exchange for liberty.
we would be wise to remember her story--
lovely Soweto, where the sun sets in peace,
for both her destruction and resurection
were born from a rumbling in the streets.

The Queen's King

And he has never troubled her for favor,
or anything that would cause her brow to furl,
or begged of her bones to bend to discomfort,
or her eyes to well, in reflection of his quest.
He would just as soon melt into the sun
before he would suggest a single bead of sweat
and walk alone, through mud-filled fields
and infested streams,
and past the Demons in the bush--
focused on the promise of the pasture,
for this is the only way he knows:
short-sighted, secluded and strong;
stubborn and proud to a fault,
until blessed by the kiss of his Queen--
his load, lessened by her touch;
his path, illuminated by her smile;
his vision, made clear through her wisdom
until seclusion blends into the dark

Beautiful Apocalypse

And if the old oak in the yard
should never again blossom life
and cede its soil for a bed of death--
if the sea shone, mirror-like
without hint of a ripple;
its tide lost in the breath of a burgundy dawn.
If the sun should collapse in the zenith sky
and spew fiery rains of indignation,
or if the rosebuds lost forever,
their ambition to bloom
and grew inclined to ignore spring's whispers.
If the midnight sky, with its thousand points of light
turned aphotic, as it swallowed the moon;
if the Earth dared to shed its chimera of calm,
opened up and belched hell to her surface
and creation was raised to the heavens
and all things were made to face truth,
standing amidst the rubble, unscathed,
is love-- impervious love.

Alabama Skies

It has been such a long time
since you looked at me with knowing eyes,
shaped in southern cotton fields
and baked by the years.
Many suns have faded
since you rained yellow smiles
on gray days, made by way of my own madness.
And those nights I staggered past you, drenched in the Devil
with eyes strained to focus on the tilted floor,
or anything that would keep me from glancing your disappointment--
what I wouldn't give to live those nights, once more.

It seems like a lifetime has passed
since you told me late-night stories
of skinned knees, from climbing Peach Trees
under Alabama Sky.
You painted vivid portraits
with milky laugh and southern drawl
of fresh catfish meals and peach cobbler pies,
and how the sparkling lake's ripples
were like the shine in Papa's eyes
and of the crumbling shack in the woods
where Gran'Ma Dicey gave you life.

Angels have arrived and Princes have been born
from the breath of your touch--
pulled from the womb by the sweet sound
of southern hymns sung from your bosom,
'till their eyes knew the color of comfort
and the calm in the crux of your clutch
and the scent of strength was familiar to them
as was to us, who came before.

I remember it all, Gran'Ma,
although I know sometimes you forget.
I can still taste your grace in the city
and feel your love in the darkest night
though the stories have been ripped away,

like faded pages of calendars past
and the draining sands of the hourglass
have blurred the vision of knowing eyes
and muted the yellow smiles.
I have come to understand
the fading suns are numbered
'till the day you make your way
back home.

Star Gazing

I watch you through secluded eyes;
affixed to the heavens to account for your distance
and call for you with muted prayers
that dissipate into the vastness of night.

Celebrating your celestial dance--
my shooting star in my night sky,
apprising the trail left in your path
that speaks to my dreams in sweet whispers.

You come to me on beams of moonlight;
kiss my taut face with soft rays of hope;
bathe me in inspiration, making clearer my vision
to ponder the intent of your season.

I watch with loving eyes;
you find comfort in my gaze,
as it blushes from your beauty.
Reluctantly, I acknowledge the obvious reflection
of my answered prayers in your presence.

The Eclipse

We lay together, to watch the moon--
it blushes orange, before our eyes;
holds us captive beside pulsing stars,
as we witness its slow trasformation.
                                                                     
From pale yellow, to orange hue,
to crimson heat, in winter sky;
leaving the night dark for the stars
to speak loudly of God's presence
                                                            
and as we lay to watch the moon,
it recaptures its gift to reflect the sun--
we embrace this celestial kiss
lying together
in seperate locations

Southern Comfort

Angry woman
bakes away days in lonely fields;
hopeless,
with bitter in the back of her throat.
Curse that man and his sun-kissed promise--
fickle heart will keep him runnin’.


Broken woman
suckling independence with her sweet bosom;
ain't got plans to pack for no man
to leave for greener pastures,
cause tha’s what Massa’ said he’d do
a long time ago.


Shattered woman--
no place to stand beside her.
Demons got her enclosed;
afraid of the southern sun--
front door locked tight
with a rear window open;
Fixin’ for her quick escape.

Precious woman,
I’d be obliged to love you.
Come sit down beside me
on the old porch swing.
Leave your fears to rest
on my able shoulder,
to melt with the color
of the southern sunset.