Reflection Of A Bright Light

I wanted to take a moment to share a few personal reflections on the loss of Ms. Whitney Houston. Usually when I've been inspired to write something following the death of a loved one or a famous icon, it manifests itself in the form of a poem. But, aside from being admittedly reluctant to write yet another death poem, I wanted to, in this particular instance, write something a little more prosaic, a little more deliberate, for lack of a better word.

I consider Ms. Houston to be one of the integral elements of my ever-evolving jukebox, during my transition from boy to man, the period I somewhat fondly refer to, as my 20's. From the midpoint of my college years to and through some key monumental life changes and crises at the end of that personal decade, the persona that was Whitney was fairly and uniquely prevalent. From her music videos to her songs on the radio and through mine and my friends' cassette and, eventually, CD players, to her appearances in films, like "Waiting To Exhale", "The Bodyguard", and "The Preacher's Wife", she presented herself as someone who was beautiful, sassy, sexy, self-confident, and irrevocably talented. Also, I might add, to say that I had a crush on her would be a mild understatement.

'The voice of a generation' is a phrase that often gets bandied about in describing certain singular individuals, and arguably so. I would venture to posit that Whitney Houston was, and is, the voice for a whole generation of young people who were influenced and affected by her music at the height of her heyday. Her songs and her ability to interpret them will, I believe, place her in the pantheon of great vocalists who came before her--like Aretha, Gladys, the late great Minnie and the recently departed Ms. Etta; her aunt, Dionne, and mama, Cissy, just to name a few.

At least two of her songs had a deeply profound impact on me personally, during a rather emotionally tumultuous point in my life--that's when you know that you're in the presence of a great artist, when their art resonates so significantly in one's being that it almost defies explanation.

I realize that all this I have heretofore written is a mere hodgepodge of thoughts, a feeble attempt to make coherent sense of what is essentially a tragic loss, particularly for her family, as well as a world of fans. But as I was deeply touched by her life and her music, I am equally touched and saddened by her passing. And I know, given the cynical and rush-to-judgement world we live in, there will be, and already are, the naysayers who will want to solely focus on the negative aspects of her life, her inability to overcome her weaknesses and conquer her personal "demons". And I am reminded of these words, spoken in regard of another woman, who too was chastised and lambasted for her apparent weakness--"let he who is without sin, cast the first stone".

I will conclude by sharing that one of my chief regrets, as an inordinate music lover, and one that invariably comes up whenever there's a passing of a musical legend, is that I never got to see her perform live. But it is tempered by the satisfying realization that her music and her iconic images, chief of which, is her stirring and memorable rendition of the National Anthem, which alone would almost be enough to cement her legacy, will continue to live on and be enjoyed for future generations to come.

R.I.P., Ms. Houston. Keep singing!

Infinite Possibilities--A New Poem

When I look at a blank page,
I see infinite possibilities;
a canvas, a clean slate,
upon which
to paint myself
or,
to draw the world;
the place where my pain
and my ego
can converge
to make art.
It does involve a struggle,
a tug-of-war
against myself---
the need to be vulnerable
and the desire
to retreat;
it's the place
where
peace and war
co-exist;
where there is only room
for truth;
for there is too much
at stake,
to hide behind
bullshit and "virtual reality"--
leave that for
the entertainers.

The blank page before me
is the chance
to fulfill my destiny,
to be that which
I was meant to be
since the day I was born,
to join the pantheon
of those who've come
before me,
who paved the way
for me to follow,
so that I might help
make infinite
the possibilities
of those who
come after me.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Diamonds In The Distance--A New Poem

Glittering lights
on the horizon,
Like diamonds
in the distance;
White streak across
a perfect blue sky,
Or as near to perfect
as I will ever see
in my lifetime.
It is daybreak
and
I am alive
and
Thinking of words
for the new poem
which
you are now reading...


You're welcome.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Who I Am--A New Poem

I have forgotten more words
than I have written;
I have loved more women
than I have been with;
I've shed as many tears
as there are stars in the sky,
I am almost sure of it;
I've wanted more in this life
than I would know
what to do with
and have received more
than I have ever expected;
I have seen prayers answered,
I have seen prayers denied;
I have tasted the sweetest kisses,
I have felt the sharpest pains;
I have heard the most beautiful
of music;
I have seen things
that would break
the hardest of hearts.

Who am I?
I am the culmination
of everything
I have seen and heard,
touched and felt,
spoken and written,
breathed and smelled;
the accumulation
of everyone
who's ever affected me
and who I've been
blessed to affect;
I am the everyday;
I am sacred
and I am profane;
I am that
which is beautiful
and that
which is ugly;
I am my mama's son;
my sisters' brother
and the inbetween
of my two brothers;
I am the lesser half
of the woman
who calls me husband;
I am the fortunate one
whose daughter
calls him father;
I am a poet,
whose best words
have been written,
not spoken,
whether you've read them
or not;
I am a child of a God
I see in the mundane
and
the magnificent--
the homeless man
who asks me for a dollar;
the little child
whose laughter
is as sweet
as any music
I've yet heard;
the mountains I see
in the distance;
the trees I pass by
on my morning workout.

Who am I?
Someone who doesn't
want to be squeezed
into any of
your handmade boxes
or slapped on
by your erroneous labels;
someone who doesn't need
to be defined
by your narrow categories
and myopic sentiments.

I just am
and
will continue to be,
as long as
there is breath
in my body,
as long as I have eyes
to see,
and ears to hear;
as long as I can
continue to write,
continue to love
and be loved.
You have been duly informed.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Because--A New Poem

Because I'm still breathing;
Because I still have things to say;
Because my job does not satisfy me;
Because it's what I always wanted to do;
Because not doing it,
makes me very unhappy
and a little insane;

Because I still miss my friend,
and he was a writer too;

Because, in spite of what she'll probably say,
I'm still trying to make my mama proud;

Because, in spite of the seemingly
overwhelming evidence to the contrary,
there's still not enough
poetry in the world;

Because I don't believe my father did
and I'm trying,
very hard, in fact,
not to be him;

Because, I'm hoping,
in spite of the seemingly
overwhelming evidence to the contrary,
my words might
make a difference,
to at least one person;

Because, it was given me to do
and I'm trying to return the favor;

Because, my daughter needs to know
that she inspires me,
every day,
to be a better artist;

Because, my wife needs to know
that she inspires me
to find the right words;

Because,
there's a whole litany of reasons
that I could probably come up with,
that would fill up several more pages,
but I need to get to
the business of writing;

Because...

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Turntable--A New Poem

Turntable



She plays me like a jazz record—
caressing my grooves,
fingering my edges,
making me sing
under the gentle touch
of her fine needle.

She can’t get enough of me,
playing me over and over;
she’s got me spinning
in ecstasy,
spinning in infinity,
spinning like
there’s no tomorrow;
and I,
powerless to stop her,
not even certain
if I want her to.

For I am the subject
of her devotion;
she shows me affection,
like no other;
and I am reminded,
that love is
a mixture of pleasure
and pain,
as my spinning gradually
comes to a halt,
and I await,
her attention,
her touch,
on my
black-as-vinyl body.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

MLK

A man
Not divine,
But touched by
the divine;
A man,
born of a woman,
and a black woman
at that;
A man,
who was blessed
with a gift
to unite
and to divide;
to comfort the afflicted
and afflict the comfortable.

A man,
just one man,
who helped a nation
open its eyes
and lift its ears
to the cries
of its own people.

A man,
human,
like you,
like me--
no greater,
no lesser,
fallible,
flawed;
A man,
called,
chosen,
like so many
come before him;
like so many
who continue to come
after him.

Is that you?
Any of you?
Someone,
out there,
is waiting
for an answer.

© 2012 Joseph Powell