Je Suis Un Poete, Je Suis Paris

Paris, Paris,
I want to shed tears for you,
but that would not bring back your fallen;
I want to be angry for you,
but where would I begin?
And to whom would I direct my anger?
Would that undo another senseless tragedy?
Pray for you?
I don't know that I have other than
meaningless words,
because this shit keeps happening,
in spite of prayers and positive thoughts;
I believe even God is tired
and that would be saying a lot.
One thing, I think I know
is that you, Paris, love poets
and poetry;
so,
from un poete,
who still hopes
to, one day,
fall in love with your city,
like so many before me,
I freely give you this--
my tears are the ink
upon this page;
my anger is hidden between the words
and lines of this poem,
which is the only prayer I can offer,
along with a single, one-word unanswerable question that,
for me, defines all of humanity--
Why?

©2015 Joseph Powell 

A Different Kind of Blue

There's something about listening to Joni Mitchell,
while driving in the rain;
It's the essence of jazz;
It's the essence of all that is
pure and holy;
like the love of three significant women in my life--
my mama,
who makes me feel like a son,
through laughter
and wisdom;
a daughter,
who calls me Dad;
and the woman,
who wants me to be
her husband;
four,
if you believe
that God can be a woman
when He wants to be,
which is more often than not;
then there are my sisters,
who, in no particular order, are
five and six,
and are joy
and light to me,
in that order.

It's funny,
the things you'll think of
when you're driving in the rain,
while listening to
Joni Mitchell.
It's blue,
like jazz,
like the color of an empty sky,
after the storm has passed.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

A Eulogy For An Examined Life

(for Julian Bond)

If not for him,
and people like him--
What?
What would we be?
Who would we be?
America,
the idea of it;
the promise of it;
the hope for it,
to be better than it is;
to be better than it has been.
To see the other,
in ourselves;
to walk in another man's shoes;
to carry another woman's burden;
to accept the different,
not in spite of that difference,
but because of it.
To sacrifice one's body;
to shed one's own blood;
to speak for those without a voice,
and then provide the microphone
and the stage,
to help them find that voice,
and express it.
We have the tendency
to speak of such people
in lofty tones;
as a lover of words,
who likes to express himself,
using said words,
I'd rather speak
in human tones
of a kind
and gentle man
who tried to do good,
so that
a young child,
affected directly
and indirectly
by such a life,
can grow up,
knowing
what is possible.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

Saddest Lines

Like Neruda,

tonight, I can write the saddest lines;

Write, for example--

Young woman, full of life,

Starting new chapter

In a place, once familiar,

Having her book,

Abruptly ended

by those

who did not know her story.

For example--

Eleven people,

on a night on the town,

whose lives

were irreparably altered

for no foreseeable reason

in the history of

unforeseeable reasons;

how,

a few good men,

charged with defending the country

where they ultimately lost their lives,

undefended;

and how,

cries of ‘enough!’

go unheeded,

like so many

unanswered prayers;

how deaf ears

and blind eyes

and closed mouths

describe

so many of us--

that if we ignore

long enough

the senselessness

going on around us,

it will go away.

But,

as commonly

as the sun rises

and sets,

innocent lives

will no longer be considered

innocent;

black lives

will continue

not to matter;

and those who should lead us,

will be passed over,

by circus clowns

and sideshow freaks

who continue to laugh at us,

while the nation burns.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

Kalief Browder Killed Himself Today

We failed you, my young brother;

we were supposed to look out for you;

supposed to take care of

the least of these;

we were supposed to be brave for you,

speak up for you,

carry the load

that seemed too heavy for you;

but we failed you,

my brother.

Weren’t we taught

that justice is swift,

that justice is blind?

Well, we know,

far too well,

and as you’ve learned,

in the most difficult way,

that justice

is oftentimes

slow as hell

and unforgiving.

And blind?

Blind only to those,

it supposedly serves,

like you,

my brother.

You were supposed to live

a long life--

longevity does have its place;

you were supposed

to see visions;

you were supposed

to ascend

to heights,

higher than anyone

had ever achieved;

you had people in your corner--

family, lawyers,

celebrities;

people who believed in

your possibilities;

and yet,

it wasn’t enough,

my brother.

Your spirit

had already been broken,

at an age,

when it needed to be

sustained.

I never knew you,

my brother,

except,

as one more news story

that’s hard to bear;

but as I sit here,

writing this elegy,

that I hope

doesn’t fail your memory,

I offer up a weary prayer,

from one,

who increasingly

finds it harder to pray,

that you find the peace

you were unable to receive

during your brief sojourn

upon this earth,

and that no one else

has to endure

the failures

that were bestowed upon you.

R.I.P.,

my brother.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

Poet Joseph Powell, appearing @2015 Tucson Festival Of Books

Just a shout-out to those of you who may still check this blog periodically--I am still alive, by the way. If you're in the Tucson, AZ area, please come check me out at the Tucson Festival Of Books. I will be performing spoken-word poetry on the Science City Food Court Stage, Sat. Mar. 14, at 1 pm., as well as selling copies of all three of my books--Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies(1989-2009); Poetry Man; and The Writing's On The Wall. I would appreciate all the support and love, especially if you like what I do and purchase a book. Here's the link with a partial schedule--http://tucsonfestivalofbooks.org/?id=64

I hope to see you all there. Peace.