Poem Before Dying
Lorca wrote of roosters,
of eating cemetery grass,
of weeping little boys,
of snow, of guitars, of murder,
of women dropping off to sleep,
of a resurrection that will never come,
and he makes me weep.
I write of barking dogs and feral cats,
of trash on asphalt courts,
of weeping little boys,
of warm summer nights,
of thumping bass and staccato beats,
of blue light custodians of violence
who sweep streets for casings
to put in envelops and file away,
of women dropping off to sleep,
of the resurrection that came
as a thief in night,
and still I weep.
Who will write our vignettes of revolution,
let barking dogs and feral cats come inside,
gather trash in the park,
comfort weeping boys,
organize funeral processions
on country roads where bodies lie hidden,
sip liquor from red plastic cups
at candle lit memorials,
clean the house and feed the children
so women can sleep at night,
sing the songs of freedom,
live scriptures left half-open on the night stand
revealed on scraps of light
before the rooster crows, again,
and who will dry our tears.....we will.
~~~
In My Veins
In my veins,
my parents walk hand in hand
reading letters written
across the ocean of a world war.
I look out with my father’s eyes
remarking on the country he fought to preserve
and the sad state of his Grand Old Party
or with my mother’s eyes
to see what season it is
and what flowers and vegetables
she needs to plant.
I see with grandfathers’ eyes,
two farm boys pushed from the land
now gardening their backyards.
My father’s father talks of fishing
and how Lake Okeechobee
is a fisherman’s paradise.
My mother’s father sees again
after decades of being blind,
still blames FDR for the loss of his farm,
ignores the greed of his brothers
and that he was going blind.
One grandmother looks in a mirror
to see how tall I’ve grown
and offers pastries.
The other stares in a mirror
no longer angry or judgmental,
but I still don’t know what
or how she sees the world.
In my veins,
run my parents’ blood
and their parents’ blood
and their parents’ blood
on and on through generations
I can’t decipher
and only blood knows
~~~
Chain Link Fence
She lives on a corner, her back yard a chain link fence Walks alone each morning six times around the park Cocked arms pump right angles, rapid short steps, eyes ahead, speaks to no one I don't know her name; someone told me once But I am horrible with names and forgot
She goes in her front door, lets her dog out the back If he barks too much at walkers, she comes to the door Hollers his name, goes back inside What she does all day in her house I don't know
This morning, I thought I'd go stand at the fence Call the dog's name, tell him he will be alright But I am horrible with names and forgot
~~~~~
The Jasper Project thanks board member Al Black for generously sharing his poetry with our readers. Watch for more in the Al Black Jasper Project Poetry Series in days and weeks to come.
Al Black is a writer, poet, host, and social activist. He is the author of two poetry collections, I Only Left For Tea (2014) and Man With Two Shadows (2018) and he co-edited, Hand in Hand, Poets Respond to Race (2017) and his work has been published in several anthologies and periodicals. Contact Al Black at albeemindgravy@gmail.com.