Thoughts On Turning One Year Older--A New Poem

Upon turning one year older,
I am entertaining mortal thoughts,
Which is slightly preferable
To harboring
Suicidal tendencies;
I am thinking of things
I've not yet accomplished;
Of women I have not loved...
Or ever will love;
Of women I've loved and lost;
Of friends no longer here;

I am still comforted
By the thought of being
One of my mama's three sons
And being my daughter's father;
Of the God-ordained ability to
Fuse a few words together
Into something
Resembling beauty,
Resembling truth;

I don't know how many more years
I have before me of turning older,
But I hope
They are filled with
A mama's love,
A daughter's growing adoration,
The continued camaderie
Of a few friends,
The abundant support of family,
Maybe a woman's
Tender and graceful touch,
More poetry
Than I can put to paper,
More beauty,
More truth.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

I Dreamt Of Picasso-New Poem

In my mind's eye,
I envisioned myself
talking to ol' Pablo--
talking about art,
talking about women,
talking about life;
at one point,
he told me
that he dreamt of me, too,
to which I laughed.

'No, no', he said,
'I dreamt of you,
that you are destined
for great things;
you're an artist,
and such is
the fate of all artists.'
And then he smiled;
and then, I knew,
in spite of myself,
he was right.

And as I awoke,
I sat down to write this poem,
thinking of him,
staring down at me,
with that knowing smile,
knowing that he was right.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Golden--A New Poem (for Gabby Douglas)

They're going to try
to steal your moment;
They're going to say
you're not good enough,
or pretty enough;
They're going to call you names
or talk about your hair;
that you don't deserve
the accolades,
or your place in the sun,
your place in history;

I would say,
your response should be--
to stand your ground,
with the already sure footing
you've shown,
smile that megawatt smile of yours,
as bright as any sunshine,
and simply say,

'I'm golden.
How are you?'


© 2012 Joseph Powell

Questions--A New Poem

Am I so hideous?
Is it me you find repulsive,
or my appearance?

Are you content to judge me
not by the content
of my character rather?
My bleeding heart,
my poetic soul,
my ecumenical intellect;

are you callous
to my already wounded ego
as to not open your eyes
to the possibility
of me?

Am I that disgusting?!

These are questions I have,
that I wrestle with,
that I have to posit
now
as I move forward in life--
questions,
that I submit to you,
daring you to answer
truthfully,
if you even have
the courage to do so.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Anonymous

I have become synonymous
with anonymous;
persona non grata,
to the ones
who used to call me,
friend;
a simplistic
statistic,
a shadow
of my former life,
another somebody
who used-to-be
body,
now trying to find
a place called
home.

And the mantra of
'it's going to be better',
'it's going to get better',
is sounding like
a broken record,
which,
even if it was played
digitally,
or projected
subliminally,
would still
amount to
a lot of white noise
against the black void
of my now empty
and broken heart.

But,
ain't nobody tryin'
to hear this,
because we live in a time
where love can be bought
on the internet
or competed for
on reality shows;
where you're only as good
as the last time
you said, 'I love you'
and meant it,
which now,
you can't remember,
because the memory
has been replaced by,
'I don't need you anymore'
or,
'I don't love you anymore'
or,
I don't want to live with you...
anymore
or,
(use any variation of those
aforementioned phrases,
followed by 'anymore')

Love is more than just
in need of love today--
it needs to be reprogrammed
or
rebooted
or
repackaged
or
recycled
or
better yet,
lived up to
its original intent.

In the meantime,
I'm not sitting around
waiting for a revolution
or an evolution
of said love;
or a parking validation
for my time
here on earth;
I've got healing left to do
and more writing;
'get busy living...,
that's goddamn right';
continuing to try to walk
proudly,
slightly bowed,
bent,
not broken,
'announcing my presence
with authority'.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

A Shameless Plug for Poetry Man

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Boxer, Get Up--A New Poem

trying to breathe
through bruised nostrils
and shattered dreams;

trying to remember love,
a woman's touch
that mattered,
to the core
of a now
battered soul;

trying to see through eyes,
swollen shut
by anger and pain,
left by
the surprised sting
of
a failed love affair;

trying to stand,
under shoulders,
weighted down,
by an uncertain future
and an all-too-brief past,
rendered moot,
by present misery.

The boxer,
left alone in the ring,
save,
for a few loyal diehards,
come to his aid,
mutters,
nay, whispers,
a short prayer,
to a God,
he's not sure
is listening anymore,
to somehow,
have the strength
to get up
and fight
another day.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Othello's Deathbed Curse-Redux

I originally wrote this poem after a painful breakup some years ago...in light of recent events in my life, it's amazing how this still holds up.



Loved too well—
Nay, accuse me not.
For I have loved enough
And then some;
But never too well.
For my heart,
Blinded by love,
Fails at discernment—‘tis true.
For this crime,
I am most guilty certain;
Punish me most severe.
For the severest penalty
Cannot equal the pains I’ve suffered
Or loves unrequited;
Nor match the bitter pill
Or sourest medicine
Of unwarranted affection
Or unmerited scorn.

Oh yes, curse the day—
Love made its acquaintance
Of me,
Only to make me a fool;
Or worser yet,
A wretched pawn
With wounded ego
And battered heart.

Oh yes, curse the day
I first set eyes on that
Which is called woman
And felt the first spark of desire,
Only to have it snuffed out
By unrecognized eye
Or unreturned affection.
Oh yes, curse the day
And again, I say, curse,
With ever-fervent zeal,
The day, not that I was born,
But that I have not died,
From Cupid’s arrows flung;
Only to have their mission aborted,
Their intent gone astray,
Leaving me naked and ashamed,
Empty of all feeling,
Numb,
Having drained the well of tears dry.

Loved too well, nay,
I have loved well enough,
Only to be haunted time
And time again.
Nay, I repeat the aforementioned curse.
Curse, I say,
Love and all its vile affectations
Or affections, if you will,
Or not, it matters none.

Curse, my already bleeding heart,
For availing itself to be made vulnerable;
Made susceptible to love’s deceits
And woman’s charms;
I say, curse the woman,
The weaker sex indeed!
Only in stopping short of inflicting pain
Rather with dagger sharp or poison sweet
Or bullet swift;
Than with the pains of scorn or rejection—
Which, in contrast, last the longer
And inflict not death.
Yes, all of this and more,
I say, curse,
And I say it again,
With all that is within me,
Curse!

© Joseph Powell

Poetry Man-The Book

Poetry Man-the book-is now available for purchase, both in print(Lulu.com) and E-book(Lulu.com, Barnes & Noble NOOK store, and the Apple IBookstore)versions. 30 poems conveying the heart of the poet. Whichever format you choose, get your copy now. You will not be disappointed. Thank you for your support.

Just Like Pagliacci Did--A New Poem

I am crying private tears--
apparently,
a man is not supposed to cry in public,
'it's not manly',
they say;
well, I say,
my tears are more real
than anything you can ever imagine;

my tears,
are tiny pieces of my soul,
yearning to break free,
from inflicted damage
and emotional turmoil;

responses to
being told,
a life with me
is not worth living;

they're all I have to offer
to express spiritual pain,
because uncontrolled rage
is also not acceptable
in polite society;
and laughter,
when it does come,
only masks it for a time--
like a clown
who thought he knew
what love was,
and found it more elusive
than the face of God.

So,
I will cry my tears
as they come,
and I will write my words
because that is what I do,
knowing that I'm as much a man
as any,
and that love
is an unwinnable game,
best left to those
who can stay in it
or are allowed to;
but for me,
I'm drawing up the bridge
surrounding my heart,
buttressing the fortress,
so that I can face
the inevitably rising
sun
in guarded peace.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

somewhere

somewhere,
in the distance,
a mournful sax is wailing;
somewhere,
I hear a baby crying
its little heart out;
somewhere,
a police siren
is blaring down
a dark and lonely street;
somewhere,
a woman is screaming
in orgasmic ecstasy;
somewhere,
a man is pleading
for his life;
somewhere,
a preacher
is channeling God's voice;
somewhere,
a mother
is yelling at her children;
somewhere,
a poet
is about to take the stage,
to loudly proclaim
the words of this poem.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Just A Man

I’m just a man,
nothing more,
nothing less;

I’m not a hero,
not a role model,
not your latest celebrity;

I’m not your cuckold,
your whipping boy,
or the butt of your stupid jokes;

I am a man,
nothing more,
nothing less.

I don’t dance
and
I don’t sing,
but I will write you a poem,
but only if you want the truth;

I am not perfect,
so stop expecting me to be;
I fuck up,
just like everybody else,
some days,
even more so.

But I am here,
until you tell me
to go away,
and then,
I’m like the wind.

I’m just trying
to put one foot,
in front of the other;
just trying
to keep
my head above water;
just trying
to
make it to the finish line.

I’m just a man,
nothing more,
nothing less;

There is no other way
to say it,
and there’s no other way
to acknowledge it,
so there you go…
nothing more,
nothing less.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Remember When We Used To Sit...

I'm watching water flow by
in the marina just beyond,
while listening to Marley,
singing about sitting
in Trenchtown yards;
am thinking nostalgia
is a strange
and beautiful thing,
as I'm reminded
of sitting in
south side playgrounds
near housing projects
that no longer exist;
sitting, often playing,
sometimes dreaming...
of what?
I wish I could remember--
maybe it was enough
that I was dreaming;
it meant that
I was moving forward,
it meant that
I wanted
to be somebody,
that
I was somebody
as Jesse said,
as the Bible
of the storefront church
I went to, said;
as my mama is
still saying,
in her own unique way.

Yes, Bob,
I too remember when
I used to sit
in government yards,
but not quite like
the ones you remembered,
but I do remember when;
pretty sure,
I'm not the man
I probably dreamed
of becoming,
but I still became
a man,
and I still became
somebody,
who still
remembers when.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Irrespective--A New Poem

I will continue doing what I do,
regardless of whoever is watching,
whether God or the neighbor next door;
living my life,
writing my words,
... loving my woman,
loving my neighbor--
in other words,
being a human,
irrespective of color,
which is black
(and I wear it proudly,
thank you very much);
irrespective of religion,
which in today's world,
has become a plaything,
by those who don't know how to play
(but if you must know,
I still do believe in God,
in spite of His followers);
irrespective of my sexual orientation
(which means, I am oriented
to like sex
and like it as often as possible,
again thank you very much).

These are the facts,
written in the only way
I know how to write,
which is poetically,
even provocatively,
irrespective of your willingness
to read it
or to agree with anything
I just wrote.
I will continue to do what I do,
but for now,
in this context,

I am done...
nuff said,

until next time.

©2012 Joseph Powell

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 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,
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

Not That It Needs Any Explanation

This is my first poem of the new year--here's to many, many, more.


I am writing for my life,
trying to find the right word
or words
that will, somehow,
make it all make sense.
I don't wanna repeat myself
and I've grown tired
of explaining myself--
the time for explanations
is passed;
what you have before you
in word and in deed,
is someone
who is simply
trying to hold on,
just simply
trying to be
in a world
that seems to be,
more and more,
rejecting authenticity;
rejecting raw honesty
and naked truth.

I am writing for my life,
because i know nothing else,
because I don't want anything else;
the jobs I've had,
the job I now have,
they are not who I am;
even the education I pursued,
though an integral
and meaningful part
of my life,
is not the sum total
of my existence.

At the time of this writing,
these are the facts
as I understand
and accept them to be--
I am a poet,
successful,
not because
of monetary gain
or
wide renown,
but because,
I continue to be
able to
put word to paper
in some sort of
coherent sense,
regardless of audience
or venue;

I am a husband,
still struggling to,
on a daily basis
to figure out
how to do that;

I am a father,
still amazed
that I get to be one,
having never really
had one
and still trying,
on a daily basis,
trying not to
repeat his mistake;

I am a man,
black and proud
of that fact,
given
all that that entails--
blessed by a God
that I don't always
acknowledge.

I have loved much
and hurt more;
I have friends
from a long-ago
shared history,
and I have friends
who know me
as I am now
and count myself
fortunate
to say so.

These are the facts
as I know them;
as real as
any that can be expected
to be;
take them or leave them,
that is the only choice
allowed.
And, as for the entirety
of this poem,
the same choice applies
here as well.

End of story.

Draw curtain.

Fade to black.

Fin

© 2012 Joseph Powell

A Cry Made Flesh

I want you to notice me--
I am not invisible,
I have so much love inside me,
you have no idea.
I want you to notice me--
I am made in the image of God,
so I know,
I am not ugly.
I want you to notice me—
so much heart,
I’m wearing it on both my sleeves.
Notice me,
please,
I am just like you—
wanting to be noticed,
wanting to be “got”,
wanting to be seen
as I am,
not as someone else’s projection,
someone else’s prediction,
dismissed by
someone else’s predilection
or prejudice
or misconception.
Please, please
notice me—
as I try to stay true to myself,
as I seek to give myself
to you
as I long to be received
by you.
Please, please,
please
notice me.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

this is a hate poem

this is a hate poem—
in these interesting times
we live in,
it will probably be
the first of many—
no holds barred,
unabashed,
unashamed, unadulterated,
gloves off,
no more Mr. Nice Guy,
in your face,
unprotected poetry
(thank you, Mr. Jaffe).

first off,
I hate ignorance—
in this world we live in,
that covers a lot of ground
and describes
a lot of people
(you know who you are!);

I also hate hypocrisy—
this ‘do as I say,
not as I do’mentality;
the ‘what’s good for the goose
is not good for the gander mindset;
the inclination of those
who have money
and fame
and power
to tell those of us
without
how to live our lives.

I also hate the proliferation
of those who have no talent
being spotlighted
and celebrated over
those out here
with talent to burn,
struggling to create
their art
and
struggling to put
it out there.

I hate that
a very minute
minority of individuals
has far more wealth
than a very vast
majority of individuals
lucky enough
to just have
a roof over their heads,
if even that much.

I hate that
the concept of
love of neighbor
is defined by
sitting in judgment
of other people,
different than they are.

I hate that
poetry continues to be
looked down upon,
like it’s the bastard
stepchild
of all the arts,
when it’s one of
the few places
you’ll find
the truth.

I hate mediocrity,
in all the guises through
which it rears
its ugly head;

I hate that
there is hatred
in the world
and that people
are dying
because of it;

I hate that
there’s a need
for a hate poem
(if only in my mind)
and that,
having written it,
it’s most likely
not going to change
a damn thing,
in this world we live in.

I hate to bring
this poem to a close,
because I’ve only scratched
the surface of things
I hate about
this world we live in
(or maybe I don’t),
but my hope is
that,
having read this,
you might be spurred on
to hate
some of the same things
and led to
do something about it,
as I can only hope
I’ve done
by
the writing of
this poem.
‘Nuff said!

© 2011 Joseph Powell

love as thick as blood

“we’re not bad people, we just come from a bad place.”

--Cissy to Brandon,
from the film, “Shame”


you’re my brother
and I love you,
and I want you
to love me too,
for that will be
enough for me—
that love will cover
over a multitude
of things
that were done
to us
and that we have done
to others.

we are not bad people,
the bad place we come from
does not define us,
will not define us,
if we choose
not to let it.
I want our love
to be as thick
as our blood;
let it wash over
the pain,
wash over
the shame;
make us free
to be
who we need
to be
for ourselves,
for each other,
even
for other people.

say you love me
and share your love
with me—
let us be
each other’s burdens,
bear the weight
of each other
on our backs,
on our souls;
together,
we can rise above
this crazy,
fucked-up world
we’ve been left
to live in
and
find our way through.

say you love me,
brother,
share your love with me
and that will be
enough.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

starts with a ‘t’ and ends with an ‘h’(can you handle it?)

I’m gonna speak the truth,
the whole truth,
and nothin’ but the truth—
if you are easily offended
by colorful language,
taken aback
by raw, graphic detail,
or just can’t handle
bold, in-your-face,
naked truth,
you might want to
step away from the page,
close the book and
walk away,
because you’re not ready;
and for all that matters,
may never be ready.

because herein these words,
I’m about to come…
(let me finish)
correct:
I’m about to strip away
all the bullshit
(yes, he did!)
and fuck(oooo!)
with your preconceived notions
of what is true
and what is real.

so, if you’re not ready to deal,
if you’re incapable
(or unwilling)
to pay attention,
then go ahead and
turn on another episode
of “Jersey Shore”;
pop on that Katy Perry song
you have on your Ipod;
or continue reading
the latest issue
of InTouch magazine
to find out
what Charlie Sheen is up to
or,
if Brangelina
are on again,
or off again.

I will direct my words
to the 99%
who have a brain;
who have ears to hear
and eyes to see;
and aren’t subject to
force-feedings
of sugar-coated “placebos”
every 4-6 hours
between meals.

I have written far too many words
to stop now
and I have got
far too many more words
yet to write,

I don’t care
if you like it
(the truth is often unlikable);
I don’t care
if you find the words
beautiful
(I’d be happy
if you found them ugly);
I don’t even care
if they make you
laugh or cry
or angry enough
to do something
(that’s what poetry
is supposed to do!)—
the truth will out
and it will always
will out,
in every word
that I write,
in every turn
of the phrase
and every flow
of a verse.

Can you handle it?
Are you ready for it?
‘Cause if you’re not,
walk…
away.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

a blues for Nina(for Nina Simone)

Sister, sing me a song
and speak the truth;
do not hold back,
because no matter what,
your story needs to be told;
and they won’t understand,
they never have—
because they don’t want to.
You still have to go on
telling it,
for the ones who have ears to hear,
for the ones who don’t have a voice,
for all the sisters
who don’t have someone
telling their story
or who are afraid to tell it
themselves.
Sing, sister,
and make it plain—
it needn’t be sweet
or
beautiful,
truth rarely is.
Sing, sister,
and pour your soul
into that song;
yeah,
let them see you sweat,
let them see you cry,
let them see you bleed,
for it’s not blues,
if there’s not
a little blood,
sweat, and tears.
Sing, sister,
for it may not ever know it,
but the world needs you
to sing.
Sing, sister,
sing your song.

© Joseph Powell

preach goes to Hollywood

I wanted to be a writer--
just like that skinny,
four-eyed dude
in the movie,
“Cooley High”;
like him,
I too
wanted to make it
in Hollywood;
like him,
I grew up
in the projects,
without a father,
with a best friend
who got
all the girls;
at least
that’s how
it seemed.

But,
unlike him,
it would take
me a little longer
to make it
to Hollywood;
unlike him,
I’m still struggling
to make it
in Hollywood.
Like him,
my best friend
is gone—
but I don’t know
if he’s dead
or alive.
All I have
are memories of him;
memories of
walking
tough city streets,
of storefront churches
and backyard BBQ’s;
of fights with brothers
and wanting to protect
baby sister,
while older sister
had a life
of her own;
while trying
to stay out
of Mama’s way
of keeping it
all together.
Memories,
that I try to
incorporate
into my
writing
as I continue
to struggle
to make it
in Hollywood,
to be
a successful writer,
like that
skinny, four-eyed kid
in that movie,
“Cooley High”.
I’m gonna make it,
I got to,
because he did,
and others have
and are continuing to;
and because,
there’s likely
a skinny(or fat),
four-eyed kid
on some
inner-city street
somewhere
who needs
to know
that it
can be done.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

a poem for he who shall not be named (and no, I do not mean Voldemort)

you think
because
you have
wealth, power,
and fame
that
you can
talk to me,
without
a modicum
of respect;
treat me
not like
the
human being
that
you probably
consider
yourself
to be.

fuck you
and the horse
you
rode in
on,
motherfucker!
you don’t
know me—
who I am
or
what I am
about;
what kind
of
day I had
or
am having
(not that
you’d
probably care);
the people
I have
to
take care
of
and support
(by which
means
would be
a drop
in the
bucket
for you,
by comparison,
if you
even gave
a shit,
which
I know
you don’t).

you don’t
know
my pain
or
the fact
that
I deserve
better
than to
cart around
your
lame ass
and
the bullshit
I had
to put
up with
for
the amount
of money
I made
that
wouldn’t support
you
for two days.

this poem
is
for you,
because,
you see,
I am
a poet
and this
is what
I do,
if
you had
bothered
to
find out,
other than
my name,
which is
Joseph
and
my last name,
which
you’ll
also need,
is Powell,
because
one day,
hopefully,
by the
grace of
God,
I too
might have
a little bit
of wealth
and
a little bit
of fame
and
you might,
in a
strange
juxtaposition
of circumstances
that
sometimes occur
in this
thing
we call
life,
look to me
for
a modicum
of respect
and,
like me,
the other
night,
find yourself
wanting.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

shelby lynne(a new poem)

the blonde at the microphone,
with guitar in hand.
is making me
fall in love with her;
she's breaking my heart
with each song she sings,
cause she's singing my story;
each lyric, filled
with the cold truth
that is my life.

I seem to have a knack
for falling in love
with women
I can never have,
or,
who don't want me.

she and I
will most likely
never meet
and I'm okay with that--
which is why
I'm writing this poem--
it's my way of saying,
'I love you'
and
'thank you'.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

precarious(for Heavy D and Smokin' Joe)

I didn’t know
this would be
goodbye—
if I did,
I would’ve rapped with you
a little longer;
told you a joke
or
a funny story
that you liked—
just to see you smile,
just to see you laugh,
if I had known
this’d be the last time.

if I had known
this was goodbye,
I would’ve listened
a little more closely,
because I know you had
some words of wisdom,
some knowledge
I could’ve used
right then and there;
even if it didn’t
come across that way,
I would’ve still
listened closely,
like a student
to his teacher,
if I’d known
this was the last time.

but one never knows,
does one?
tomorrow is not promised
and any word
could be the last;
any deed, good or bad,
would be the last one
remembered.

so now, I’m forced to say
goodbye,
though I hardly
knew you;
am compelled
to hold on to
some memory
of you
that one day,
will make me smile,
will make me laugh;


compelled
to pray for those
you left behind
who did know you,
but who also didn’t know
this was goodbye;
compelled
to make every word
count,
to make every deed
matter,
so that when
it is my time,
which,
quite possibly,
could be
as unexpected
as yours,
that I might be
remembered
in words
such as these,
not in tearful regrets
or sad goodbyes,
but in
lasting memories
of what once was
in the hearts
and minds
of those
I left behind.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

the art of not caring

I don't care anymore,
for what does it really matter
anyway.

The wheel continues to go
round;
the sun continues to
shine,
and the rain eventually
falls;

the innocent are found
guilty,
and then executed,
while the guilty
laugh all the way
to the bank;

wives and husbands
cheat on each other
in the name of love;
priests and preachers
abuse children
in the name of God;

children have to become
their own parents
or parents
of their own children;

and today, it's ok to be racist,
because we call it,
social commentary.

and, why do I even bother
writing another
fucking poem,
because people
don't give a shit
about poetry,
unless
it's got a beat
you can dance to...
and not even then.

but I would dare
to put up any one poem
against any Hollywood
movie currently showing
on any screen,
for sheer audacity
in storytelling
and the conveyance
of hearts and guts,
for there is often
more truth
in one line of verse
than in 90 minutes
of utter celluloid bullshit.
and that's the double-truth, Ruth!

but like I said,
it really doesn't matter
anyway,
because nobody wants
the truth
in a world
of reality shows
and fake celebrities--
where you're only as famous
as the last crime
you committed.

and I don't even care
if anybody reads
these words--
I wrote them down
and now they're out there-
my job is done.

'nuff said!

© 2011 Joseph Powell

Melancholera--A New Poem

There are feelings
for which,
words cannot express--
an overwhelming plethora
of sensations
so indescribable,
the mind reels
as to what to call it;
a mixture of heaviness
and sickness
so profound,
it's a wonder
anyone can endure,
that anyone can bear
the brunt of it;

the eyes go blind,
from the seeing of things
that no one else can see
and would be hard pressed
to understand;

the heart aches,
nearly to the point
of explosion,
so full it is
of a remarkable sadness
that almost
can't be contained;

the limbs are fraught
with palsy,
spastic-like
in their inability
to operate
with any reasonable
semblance of dexterity
or fluidity.

Oh, I imagine
that many
have been afflicted
by this amalgamation
of physical anguish
and mental
and emotional torment,
crying out to the heavens
for solace and mercy
and lucky to receive any;
searching near and far
for any modicum of respite
or relief;
or,
at the very least,
to be sated by
the knowledge of
what this seemingly foreign
ailment is,
and why,
and how,
it lingers so.

I,
on the other hand,
who has knowingly
been afflicted
and find myself
even still,
believe,
in my ever-present
misery,
I have conjured up
a word
that seems
appropos for this
nagging and
oh-so-insatiable ailment--
I choose to call it,
Melancholera,
and those
who have ever taken
a breath,
are susceptible to it
and far from immune
to its effects.

The best
that you can hope for,
my friends,
is to strive
and endure,
for as surely
as you are living,
you will never be
beyond its reach,
or free
from its snares.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

A Tree Falls (for Troy Davis)

Last night,
a tree fell in the forest--
the sound it made,
is the cry of innocence
extinguished,
mixed,
with the collective cry
of those screaming,"no!";
of those pleading,"have mercy!";
of a family crying, "please!"

When a tree falls,
unbidden,
without warranted effort,
I believe even God hears
the sound it makes
and I think
it pisses him off--
the unnecessity of
an early uprooting.

When a tree falls,
it cannot be replaced,
no matter how many seeds
are planted;
no matter,
how much time is allowed
to elapse;
no amount of sun
or rainfall,
or careful nurturing
will bring this tree
back to fruition,
to bloom and prosper
where it was planted
to provide shade and comfort
for those nearby.

One can only weep
at the loss
and pray for the day
when innocence is acknowledged,
when mercy is given more freely,
and every tree is given
a chance to stand tall
and live.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

Hard Tears Are Gonna Fall

She cried hard tears--
tears that seemed to say,
love hurts more
than the lack of love
and asking why,
why,
the hardest question
of all,
and the one least answered;
and I remembered,
remembered those same tears
streaming down my face,
remembered
the asking why;
and like her,
not receiving a satisfactory answer;
but the lack of said answer
is what drives me forward,
to try,
and try again,
because love does hurt
sometimes--
but the hurt,
like all pain,
lets me know
that I'm alive
and I can still feel
and I can still fight
through another day;
fight through
all the whys
that may
and will continue
to come,
and hope that
she,
and others like her,
will know
that hard tears
are gonna fall
and whys
will continue
to be asked,
and through it all,
the most important thing,
is,
you're alive,
you...are...alive.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

9-11 Redux

As we approach the 10th anniversary of that fateful day, here is a resharing of my remembrance...


9-11 Redux

Echoes of F.D.R.
Ring in my head—
“A day which will live
in infamy”;
Ringing,
Like the phone
Which awoke
Me from sleep.
Asleep,
While somewhere,
Scores were dying.
And now I find it harder
To sleep
‘cause now I hear blood
crying from the ground.

People will ask,
‘Do you remember where
you were when?’
And I will say,
‘Yeah, in a state of shock,’
which turned into
a New York
state of mind,
wishing I could stop
the madness
that crashed into
the twin brothers
in this first year
of the new century
on the 11th day
of the 9th month—
a day whose numbers
are linked
with the number
for emergency;
a day when chaos ruled
and the news became
a liturgical obituary;

when my bloodshot eyes
were red, not from lack of sleep,
but from the carnage
that filled my TV screen;
when the local news
battled the world news
for body counts.

They say in space,
‘No one can hear you scream’,
But on this day,
I think I heard
The whole universe
Screaming,
A sound matched only
By the falling of teardrops
In a forest of humanity.

© Joseph Powell

the reasons why

because she fought for us when I didn't think I had the strength to fight;
because a little girl needed to show a man that he could be a father,
when I didn't even know what that was;
because God works in mysterious ways;
because I needed two more muses to help me write;
because 2nd chances don't always come along, and when they do,
you got to grasp 'em and hold on to 'em with all that is within you;
because she chose this man(I'll say it again because I don't think you heard me),
because she chose this man, to be her husband;
because love really is that simple sometimes;
these are the reasons why.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

swimming to pass the time

and so it goes--
life,
creeping ever onward;
a puzzle
wrapped in an enigma;
the knowing
and the unknowing,
thousands upon thousands
of small moments
and, of course,
large ones, too

I don't even like
these words
I'm writing;
just writing
to be writing,
because
it's too much time
that passes
between the writing,
too much
that goes
unwritten

I need to find
a stream of consciousness
to swim in,
its calming waters
soothing to my soul,
the freedom it allows
me
to feel,
the opportunity
to be as nakedly real
as can be
possibly allowed

right now,
I'm being distracted
by people walking by
and the disparate sounds
of flowing water
and 40's jazz
and honking horns
and the cacophony
of conversations
I could care less about

but,
of course,
nobody cares about
the words
that are being
put to paper
in a haphazard fashion
to pass the time
until I have to
go back to work

to pass the time
so I don't fall asleep

to pass the time
as I fill out
the remaining pages
of this writing pad
that has recently
become useful
to me

and how many pages
are there left?
do I have enough
words to
fill them all?
I should--
I would like to
believe that,
as long as
I have breath,
there will be
more than enough
words
to fill
a thousand pages
and
a thousand more after that

but for now,
I think I'll stop
because
this sun
is starting to
make me feel
like I 'll melt
and the words
are starting to feel
forced--
it's like sex,
you can't force it,
it has to come
naturally
(and yes,
I did say come)

but it's just
a temporary pause
in the proceedings
I will be back
with more words
that will allow you
to do more than
pass the time
as you read them.

a declaration

if you can't
feel my heart
on the page;
can't read
my blood, sweat
and tears
between each word;
glimpse my soul
within each line,
then
I'm not doing
something right
and then
it might be
time
to stop writing,
to cease
and desist...
and I will
never be
ready
to do that.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

sunrise, sunset

I have seen
the sun rise
and
I have seen
the sun set--
never aware
that somewhere,
in some part
of the world
I will
probably never see,
a man,
whom
I will
never meet
is wishing
for one more sunrise
with his son;
a mother,
one more sunset
with her daughter.

somewhere,
in another part
of the world
I will
most likely
never see,
Jesus is
still weeping.

yes,
for the loss of that son;
yes,
for the loss of that daughter, too;
yes, even,
for the grief
of the mother,
the grief
of the father;
but also
as much
for my
lack of awareness.

and now,
as another
sun sets,
I find myself
unable to look,
unable to see,
because now
I am
weeping.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

saga of the preacher man

from the pulpit
to the street
the man
is making it plain,
making it sweet;
he wields
his bible
like a sword
preaching
like his life
depended
upon it,
like
a blues song--
this is
the saga
of
the preacher man.

He is
a preacher
and yet,
he's still
a man
consumed by God
and yet,
consumed by desires
beyond
his control.
He is
given to drink;
smokes incessantly;
beds women
other than
his wife.

and yet,
like
King David,
he is
probably
an apple
of God's eye,
if not
the apple.
for God
is said
to
work through
men and
women
such
as these.
like
a blues song,
the truth
is made
plain,
the truth
is made
sweet.
this is
the saga
of the
preacher man.

do not
judge him,
lest
you yourself
be judged
as well.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

in dreams begin...

sometimes
my dreams
are better
than
my reality.
in my
dreams
begin
irresponsibility.
there are
no rules,
no judgments--
like jazz,
scenes
are improvised
and seem
disjointed;
people
I haven't thought
about
in years
become characters
in my
immorality play,
alongside
people
from various stages
of my
current life.
were these
dreams
to become
reality,
it would
not be
believed--
better left
to be
material
for a
graphic novel
or
an adults-only
movie...
now,
if I could
only
remember them.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

mofo' rises again--a new poem

the beautiful
fucked-up man
is at it again:
having risen
once again,
he sits
at the keyboard,
writes another
poem,
peanut butter
sandwich
at his side,
his woman
nearby,
and a child
just this side
of womanhood
laughing
to beat
the band.

it’s another day
of ‘I love you’s’
and misbegotten
dreams;
another day
that the sun shines
on the just
and the unjust;
another day,
just to get
a few more words
down on paper,
just to
get
through
another day,
so as
not to feel
like another day’s
been wasted.

a mofo
will not be
beholden
to mundane
existences
and on-the-job
drudgery;
will not be
contained
by the whims
of others
who think
they know
better than
he;
like
a caged bird,
a mofo’s
gotta sing,
even if
it is
only on paper;
even if
no one else
sees it.
other than
the love
of a good woman
and a child
more talented
than he,
other than
perhaps
the camaderie
of a few good
friends
and the
acceptance
of family;
maybe even
other than
the unmitigated
grace
of a
silent God,
it’s the only
fucking reason
to rise
and face
another day.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

for your eyes only--a new poem

your perception
of my reality
is an
overrated
underestimation;
you are
blinded
by the mote
in your left eye
and the
blurred vision
in your right;
you can’t
handle the truth
of me;
you need
to go
back to school,
where I will
be your teacher
and learn
you some knowledge,
cause clearly
you’ve not
been educated.

what you have
before you
is a
containment
of multitudes;
the culmination
of blood spilt
and wisdom
passed down
from centuries;
the sum total
of what
a village
can produce.

recognize,
son;
listen,
for truth will
only be
spoken once
and if
you miss it,
you have
no one
to blame
but yourself.
you’ve been
duly notified
and put
on record
for being
contacted
with
what should
be obvious.
if you
can
comprehend
the meaning
of these
words
you are
reading,
if in fact,
you are reading
them,
then
I will
give you
more credit
than
you deserve,
for this,
your
first lesson,
which hereby,
is now
ended
until further
notice…
stay
tuned.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

this is what's real--a new poem

I haven’t given up the ghost
just yet.
I’m a poet
in an age
of fake reality
I’m more liable
to be killed
in an accident
on the 405
than I am
for speaking
truth to power
with the stroke
of my pen.
no one
gives a damn
about the beauty
in the ugliness
of poetry—
it’s a fool’s
quixotic quest;
and yet
here I still am,
wielding
my ink-ed sword
at windmills
both real
and imagined.
even fools
have to be
listened
to
some time.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

The Word Was And Still Is God

"and you can't force the word
to do anything it doesn't
want to do.
you can't overwork it.
and you can't awaken it
when it decides to
sleep."

"the word will treat you well
at times,
depending upon what you
ask it to
do.
other times, it will treat
you badly
no matter what you ask
it to
do."

"the word comes and
goes..."

Charles Bukowski
from his poem, "the word"

"Anyone who says he wants to be a writer and isn't writing, doesn't."

--Ernest Hemingway



I am writing to save my life. The reason probably why I feel that I am suffocating is that I'm not writing. Writing should be as breathing to me. It's all about the word, stupid. Even God said it--"In the beginning was the Word." The word was and still is God. It's the lifeblood of any writer worth his or her salt. There is nothing else. There's no reason not to be writing. No one else is going to do it for me. No one else is going to push me to do it. I have to be the one to cut the vein; to puke out my guts; to exhale. Whether it takes me all day(what a glorious possibility I wish that was) or an hour or even 10 minutes, there is no excuse. None! I should be prolific. I could be prolific. Even if a lot of it is just crap, I should be utilizing every possible space available to get the word out. Whether it's in prose form or free verse. I should be consumed by the same fire that allowed me to make up three months worth of journal entries in a week and a half's time for a class project. Be reminded of the young man who frequently visited the student lounge of the University of Illinois-Chicago Circle campus just to jot down his thoughts and impressions. Be infused with the same inspiration that caused me to write such poems as "Apple and Rose", "A Hymn For Sister Maya", and "Resolved: To Be Seen And Heard". If not directly influenced by their genius, at the very least, motivated by the output and prolificacy of writers such as Baldwin and Bukowski, Hemingway and Shakespeare, et al. Compelled by the very notion that God in His infinite foolishness decided to bestow upon a wretch like me the talent to string together a few words into some kind of coherent shape. And even though I, like most writers, will continue to strive to make my words available for public consumption, that will not be the be-all, end-all for my writing. If another living soul never, ever sees my words, so be it. I am a writer, dammit! If I had a chalkboard at my disposal to write upon it 100 times or a billboard to post it, I would convey this truth. As much as I am a son, a brother, a husband, a father(the degree to which how good I am at each of these, you'd have to ask those who benefit from these roles), I am a writer and I sum up by humbly acknowledging that I believe I'm only as good as the willingness and effort to be one.

A Poem For Bukowski--A New Poem

A Poem For Bukowski


hey, Hank—
this is me
not trying;
putting one word
after another
after another;
keeping it simple,
shooting it straight.

maybe not
like you did—
I didn’t have
a whiskey bottle
or even a
beer bottle
next to me
as I write
this,
just the desire
to put it
all down
whether anybody
cares to read it
or not.

I don’t even know
if you would
have read it
or not
when you were
alive.
even then,
it wouldn’t have
mattered.
you always said,
it’s all about
the words
and as with you,
for me,
that is
enough.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

Not Just A Passing Phase--A New Poem

Not Just A Passing Phase
(for Santi)



the girl-child
has become
a woman
right before
our very eyes.
it was expected,
but it still surprises.
that’s what time
does, even
when you’re not looking.

she has graduated
from one phase
to the next
and seemingly
unknown one.
soon,
she will put away
childish things;
but hopefully,
not the child
we’ve known
and loved
all these years
as she becomes
the woman
we will get
to know
and learn
even more.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

She Walks In Beauty by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

In Honor Of National Poetry Month 2011

"Poems are like clouds on a June morning or two scoops of chocolate ice cream on a sugar cone in August...something everyone can enjoy. Or maybe poems are your cold feet in December on your lover's back...he is in agony but he lets your feet stay...something like that requires a bit of love. Or could it be that poems are exactly like Santa Claus...the promise, the hope, the excitement of a reward, no matter how small, for a good deed done...or a mean deed from which we refrained. The promise of tomorrow. I don't know. It seems that poems are essential."

"Poems know no boundaries. Poems fly from heart to heart, head to head, to whisper a dream, to share a condolence, to congratulate, and to vow forever. The poems are true. They are translated and they are celebrated. They are sung, they are recited, they are delightful. They are neglected. They are forgotten. They are put away. Even in their fallow periods they sprout images. And fight to be revived. And spring back to life with a bit of sunshine and caring."

--Nikki Giovanni
from the Introduction,
The 100 Best African American Poems

All In A Single Sitting

I'm listening to birds chirping in the background
There's water falling in a fountain nearby
I'm surrounded by people sitting at patio tables
People walking about, going about their business
A slightly gentle breeze blows in
From the marina across the way
A U.S. flag flies at half-mast
I've just put the finishing touches
To a poem about the loss of someone
Life and death,
Considered in one sitting
I choke back the urge to cry
As I get up and walk away.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

A Black Man's Lament

'My man, look what they did to my man'
I've heard this cry
Too many times to count
I've cried it myself a few times
Another brother,
Somebody's son,
A child's daddy,
Felled by an assassin's bullet;
Felled by a cop's bullet
"Bang","bang",
"Bang","bang","bang"

Too many streets have been covered in blood
Like a ballroom's stage
Or a motel's balcony
And the mothers cry
And the wives and sisters moan
And the whys are hurled to the sky
Screamed in anger,
Screamed in grief
Only to go unanswered
And the silence is deafening
Outdone by weeping
Drowned out by sorrow

I write this as a man,
Somebody's brother,
A mama's son,
A father
And a husband,
A man troubled,
A man searching,
A man hoping
And praying
That no one has to endure
Me being taken away unjustly,
Taken away violently,
Taken away senselessly

Maybe someone will read these words
Maybe someone will heed these words
Maybe God will hear my cry first,
...maybe.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

A Review Of Joby, Uninterrupted: Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies

This is a new review of my book, Joby, Uninterrupted: Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies, taken from The Poetry Market Ezine, Vol.10, Issue #2, written by LB Sedlacek.


POETRY REVIEW



"Joby, Uninterrupted -- Bittersweet
Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies
(1989-2009)"
by Joseph Powell
ISBN 978-0-557-10424-6
Copyright 2009
133 pg.
To order:
http://tinyurl.com/2br6mol

Review by LB Sedlacek

Poems taken from his past poetry books
"Mofo' Risin'" and "Blood on the Page"
plus new selections make up this new
collection from Joseph Powell.

Powell's subject matters range from
personal heroes to writing poetry or
being a poet to love poems. Mostly
free verse, Powell's poetry reflects
his own probable reverence for life
and, of course, writing.

Powell's poems are written in such a
way that most readers can get what he's
getting at or they can impose their
own perceptions and possibly arrive
at the same point. I read at least
one poem by a different poet nearly
every day and to me the straightforward
ones with something to say are the ones
I remember.

Joseph Powell definately has something to
say. His works resonate with a local
prescence, a suburban habitat, and
grounded themes.

In "Blood on the Page," Powell laments
trying to get words down on the page
and to survive life as a poet.

From "Blood on the Page":
"...My pen's getting duller by the
minute/So I stick it down my throat,/
Hoping something 'll come that way/
But all I get are dry heaves...."

"Face" is a sweet delicate love poem:
"The sun rises/Just to greet your
smile." "Season of the Poem" is a
rhyming poem about writing that
plunges on into reading (or the
lack thereof) and other current events.
"Cut my finger on a razor blade/
My baby just ran out of Kool-Aid/
And I'm still waiting to get paid,/
or laid, which is better/ When it's
wetter./It's the season of the poem./
Don't mind me/or try to find me/lost
in a haze/gone for days/(or however long
it takes/to finish this poem)/this
poem is wack/but not for lack//of
rhyme or reason--/It's the season/
of the poem;..." The poem
"Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn" about
Gwendolyn Brooks is reminiscent
of something you might read by her.
From "Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn"
(for Gwendolyn Brooks)
"She real cool. She/ Old school.
She/Wrote truth. She/Fool proof..."

While Powell's poems may be too
contemporary for some, they provide
an opportunity for the every day
reader to see it, to get it, and
to most likely like it and that's
what you want if you want your
poetry to be read and heard. Powell's
got that voice that will stick in
your head, and linger a bit in the brain.

To Be Young, Gifted, And Black

Sometimes I come across words or lyrics that speak for themselves. Those below are a case in point. Co-written by Nina Simone for her friend and fellow writer, Lorraine Hansberry(author of the classic, "Raisin In The Sun") and recorded by such artists as Donny Hathaway, Aretha Franklin, and even Elton John, it's one of those songs that will stand the test of time and continue to speak volumes for generations to come. 'Nuff said!


To Be Young, Gifted And Black
(Music & Lyrics by Nina Simone & Weldon Irvine, Jr)



To be young, gifted and black,
Oh what a lovely precious dream
To be young, gifted and black,
Open your heart to what I mean

In the whole world you know
There are billion boys and girls
Who are young, gifted and black,
And that's a fact!

Young, gifted and black
We must begin to tell our young
There's a world waiting for you
This is a quest that's just begun

When you feel really low
Yeah, there's a great truth you should know
When you're young, gifted and black
Your soul's intact

Young, gifted and black
How I long to know the truth
There are times when I look back
And I am haunted by my youth

Oh but my joy of today
Is that we can all be proud to say
To be young, gifted and black
Is where it's at

A Few Words, Some Tears, And Waiting For A Kiss That May Never Come

The words never come fast enough
I want my fingers to bleed from typing them
My eyes filled to overflowing with tears that burn
My throat constricted with the scream that won't ever be loud enough

I want God to kiss me full on the lips
And tell me to my face that He/She loves me
I want to know why my father was never man enough to care
Why I had to learn on my own what I feel I still don't know
I want my dreams to be my reality and my reality my dreams
At least then I'll understand why I yell during the night

I want to live in a world where truth is not based
On what side of the tracks you live on, or
How much money you have, or
which party you belonged to, or
what label you choose to wear.
I don't give a damn what you want to call me,
unless you want to call me by the name my mama gave me.
That's all I will allow you.

I would love to live in a world where poets commanded the same respect
As presidents and heads of state, kings and queens.
Where their words were considered in decisions that affected our societies.

These are just some of the words I have
I'm sure there are more but
They don't come fast enough
It probably doesn't matter
Because the right people will probably never read them
And even that doesn't matter.
But for now, I'll continue to try to make my fingers bleed
And let my tears fall
And let loose the loudest scream I can possibly muster
And wait for a kiss...

Thoughts While Sitting On My Couch On A Saturday Afternoon

So, I'm sitting here on my couch, pen in hand, yellow notepad on my knee, blues playing in the background on the TV--the air is chilled and my mind seems blank. Actually, that's not true--there are words and images flowing through like a strong current, but they're muddled and blurry and I'm not sure which one I should grab and put down on paper. Writing, like a lot of things in life, doesn't come without at least a little bit of effort. Sometimes, I have to remind myself that I am, more than anything else I could possibly be, a writer. It would probably help tremendously if I adhered to that old adage--that a writer writes. Probably just as much if I remembered what a TV producer added to that statement at a screenwriting conference I attended some years ago--"assholes talk about it." I think I'd prefer to be the former rather than the latter, though I'm sure at one time or another, by at least a few people, I've been considered to be the latter. Not that I care to know. Probably safe to say that any one of us, at some point in our lives, has been an asshole.

But...I digress, though from what I have no idea. Right now, I guess I'm just stream-of consciousness-ing it, which can be fun and sometimes produces some really good stuff. I know it's been difficult of late to sit down and write much of anything, because my focus has been on trying to find a job, which is also frustrating, not to mention soul-draining. I'm of the mind that there's nothing more taxing on the soul than to be able-bodied and willing to work and not being able to find work, regardless of how much effort has been put into securing a job. Talk about the blues!

I find myself living vicariously through the writers I read and the works they've produced, whether in the newspaper, magazines, books, and/or the Internet. Although, I continue to aim for the reverse to be true. It would be gratifying to know that there are people out there who are living vicariously through my work or, at the very least, are being inspired and entertained by it. But again, this leads us back to the earlier point that writers write and, though I've produced some work of note, I hope, I could and should be producing more. But then again, the impetus of such an action should be, first and foremost, to my satisfaction and fulfillment of the desire to express myself, before I consider anyone else's benefit from it. As noble as the concept of producing art for the masses is, the artist has to be able to find contentment in the expression and the fruits of that expression before it is subjected to an audience.

So, as I sit on my couch, pen in hand, yellow notepad on my knee, blues playing in the background on the TV, surrounded by the chilled air, my mind starts to fill, along with the words and images swirling to and fro like a strong current, with the notion of me--the writer, the artist--in his daily struggle to create art, to express himself, to live, vicariously, through his own work. 'Nuff said.

A review of Joby, Uninterrupted -- Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies [1989-2009] by Joseph Powell :: The Compulsive Reader :: A Haven for Book Lovers

A review of Joby, Uninterrupted -- Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies [1989-2009] by Joseph Powell :: The Compulsive Reader :: A Haven for Book Lovers

Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies(1989-2009) Redux

A Letter To My Father, Whom I Never Really Knew

Dear Edward,
I am writing this letter with the understanding that you will most likely never see it. It's been over 25 years since the last time I saw you and it wasn't, if memory serves, under the best of circumstances. You were chastising me, if I remember correctly(I am at an age where my memories aren't as clear as i would like them to be), for ditching school. It might just as well have been for something else--our relationship, such as it was, was such that the only times I ever saw you fell into two categories:(1)when I needed money(for movies, ball games, etc.), and (2)when Mama was either too tired or beside herself to punish me and felt that you needed to be involved. Which brings us to the irony involved in said relationship--that other than being able to provide money when I needed it, the fact that you felt needed or responsible enough(or whatever) to be involved with my disciplining, but yet, didn't have the same urgency or leanings to be involved with me at any other phase of my growing up or my development into manhood.

You probably never knew this, and I've since only ever expressed it to a select few people, but because of the infrequency of our times together, I thought you were my uncle. I think I was around 10 or so, when during one of my frequent visits to the clinic, Mama had written your name on the line marked "Father" on my medical history form. I wish I could say I was shocked, surprised, dumbfounded or at the very least, curious enough about this bombshell of information to broach this subject with Mama. But I wasn't--I don't know why--and I didn't--again, I don't know why. Needless to say, I wish I had been and I wish I had. But more to the point, and central to the reason that I'm writing a letter that will probably never be seen by its intended audience, I wish with every fiber of my being, from the vantage point of a man still struggling to find himself all the while trying to be a father himself, that you had been man enough, gave a damn enough, to reveal yourself to be the father that I needed, at the time that I needed one.

Looking back, I wonder what could have possibly gone through your mind all those years, through your heart, developed in the very pit of your soul, that led you to not being there for me. Never teaching me about sports or playing catch with me; never being present during any of my school functions--the times I won certificates or awards; being there when I started being interested in girls, to tell me how to treat them and how to be confident around them; to be there for many of the crucial decisions I would have to make in my life, including where I went to school and what I wanted to be.

Actually, I do remember a rare outing with you and your family, but again, my memory gets cloudy when it comes to filling in the details and, truth be told, it obviously didn't leave a lasting impression on me--the way the aforementioned key points and your presence therein would have.

You know, for the life of me, I don't even know what you did as a job or for a career. What your interests were, your likes and dislikes, what your growing up was like, how you met my mother. You see, I mention these things because they're some of the things my stepdaughter knows about me--she knows me so well that she can draw me from memory and place me in any context to where it is unmistakable. Because I made it a point from the first day that I started dating her mother to get to know her, from our first game of Clue to watching cartoons, to going to most of her school functions, and getting to know her friends. I know I haven't been perfect and probably made many mistakes, but you know what. The fact that she was able to stand in front of over 125 people at our family commencement ceremony three years ago and express how I stood out over the men her mother has dated(which to this day is remembered as a highlight of the event)and how she sees me as a father, over the one, like you, helped to bring her into this world, leaves little doubt in my mind that I must have done something right, in spite of my lack of knowledge and experience.

Maybe you and Mama didn't get along; maybe you weren't meant to be together; maybe...maybe...there's a lot of possible maybes. The maybe that stands out in my mind is that maybe, in spite of any ill or hurt feelings, of pride, of whatever the hell it was, that maybe you could have been the man I needed and the father I wanted and not the man I'm trying so desperately not to become and the father I never really knew.

I can't honestly say if, after all these years, I want to see you. I don't even know if you're still alive(which, if you're not, some would say would render this letter a moot point--I'm inclined to think otherwise, because, if nothing else, I needed to write this letter, for catharsis as well as giving me something to write. Not to mention the lost art of writing letters, but that's neither here nor there). I almost wish a letter was unnecessary, if it could be replaced with the memories of a father who was there. But if I've learned anything in this life is that wishes are for fairy tales. There is more I could write here, but it wouldn't scratch the surface of what I feel any more than what I've already written here. So I will close this letter, with neither forgiveness(don't know if it's warranted or if I have it in me) or forgetting(which I know I can't). This will just have to be. 'Nuff said!


Your...son?,
Joseph

cooley high - part 1of 12

A clip from one of my favorite films, "Cooley High", written in 1975 by Eric Monte and the inspiration for the TV series, "What's Happening?". I'm still inspired by and seek to aspire to the dream of the lead character, Preach, played wonderfully by the great Glynn Turman, to be a successful Hollywood writer, which is what happened to Monte, the writer and creator of the film.

Re: Passing Strange

When film meets theater, enhanced by rock and roll, it becomes a uniquely magical experience. Such is the collaboration of filmmaker Spike Lee and musicians Stew and Heidi Rodewald in the theatrical film version of the Tony-Award winning, Broadway musical, Passing Strange. Highly recommended! Check it out for yourself.

In Honor Of National Poetry Month...

In honor of National Poetry Month starting up tomorrow and running through the entire month of April, I am recommending(actually, begging and pleading!) that those of you who read my blog, order a copy of my book, Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies. It's 79 poems, written over the last 20 years and running the gamut of topics from love, jazz, family, faith, doubt, death, and how I've seen the world during the course of that time frame. They range from whimsical to intense and intensely personal--I can't do it any other way. The poems are inspired by and influenced by my literary muses including James Baldwin, Maya Angelou, Marvin Gaye, Langston Hughes, among others. I can say, with almost absolute certainty, that you will not be disappointed and it will be a welcome addition to however you celebrate National Poetry Month, if you celebrate it at all and I hope you do. If there are any artists in our nation that should be celebrated, it's poets. They are literary filmmakers, whose words are mini-movies for the mind and soul(God knows, it'd be nice to be compensated like most filmmakers!). So, do yourself a favor and those in your sphere of influence who may also love poetry, and direct yourself to the attached link and buy my book. And if not me(WHY NOT?!), then celebrate a poet, any poet, this coming month. Check out a local reading(there's literally one almost every day of the week at any coffeehouse or bookstore in any major city); borrow a book or two from the library; and there's plenty to discover via the Internet(hint, hint). In any event, happy National Poetry Month. Accept some verse into your life--you'll be the better for it. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was life. Peace, shalom, as-salamu alaykum, shanti.

But You Still Call Me...

This is a new poem, just written this morning, and inspired by recent events. It may be revised or retained as is. Let me know your thoughts. They might be taken under advisement....might be.



But You Still Call Me...



I fought for your right to freedom of speech,
But you still call me nigger;
Fought for the right to live in your neighborhood,
But you still call me nigger;
I’ve taught and raised your kids,
Cleaned your houses,
Mowed your lawns,
Made your lives easier to manage,
But you still call me nigger.

I’ve fought in all your wars,
Sacrificed myself on the battlefields,
So that you could live,
But you still call me nigger.

I’ve marched in the streets for freedom—
For yours and mine, and our children’s children;
Been stoned and beaten, spit at and cursed,
Without fighting back,
But yet,
You still call me nigger.

I’ve brought laughter into your homes,
Entertained you on stage and screen,
Given you reason to cheer on the fields of play,
And you still call me nigger.

I’ve discovered advances in medicine
To help prolong your life;
Fought for health care for those of you
Who don’t even have it;
Even attained to the highest offices in the land,…

But you…

Still…

Call…

Me…

Nigger.

© 2010 Joseph Powell

Man Of A Certain Age

I'm trying very hard not to become that guy. You know the one who wakes up one morning and realizes that half his life is gone and he has nothing to show for it. That the dreams he once had and the goals he had planned have fallen by the wayside and become all but distant memories. You know, that guy. Maybe one of you is him. But I know I don't want to be, in spite of the seeming path leading in that direction.

I'm four years shy of 50; almost 23 years have passed since my college graduation, where I was supposed to have the whole world in front of me. Like many before me, I had bought into the whole dream of going away to college(of which I was the first in my family to do so), meeting the woman who was going to be my life-partner, raising at least 2.5 kids in a beautiful suburban home, outside of a major city, working several years at a job I loved, was qualified for, and couldn't imagine not doing. But, as fate would have it(or, as was often said in the churches and the Christian college I attended, "it's all part of God's plan for your life"), the dream gave way to certain realities of life. Like John Lennon so eloquently put it in song: "Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans." Job instability, unemployment, a succession of dissatisfying jobs in three different states, missed opportunites, a series of failed relationships including one that ended in divorce, the fatal loss of a best friend--the list goes on and on, leading me to where I sit now.

Yes, there have been a few bright spots along the way--a second marriage to a woman who wanted to make a life with me; a young daughter who, though she was spawned by another, could've been of my own making, and who, in spite of the evil that's called "teenage", makes me proud and swells my heart everyday; I just recently released a complete volume of 20 years worth of poetry. These are things that I do not take for granted or consider lightly.

But I hunger for more and I'm not talking about wanting to belong to a certain class or attain to a higher status. I've rekindled my dream of wanting to be a writer, full-time and successful, like so many of the ones that I look up to and whose works have inspired me. I would love to see something of mine on the big screen(and it wouldn't even have to be a blockbuster--just knowing that people are watching and enjoying something that I created--there's nothing like it). I've even dreamed, from the time I was a child, of walking the red carpet at the Oscars, nominated for an award that everyone has buzzed I was certain to get.

I still would like to get that house, though maybe not necessarily in the suburbs, but maybe close enough to walk to the ocean. I'm envious of people who get to do that. And I've always wanted to be the son, who having attained success, is able to parlay some of that into the form of a house for his mother. I'm also envious of those who get to do that.

I would love to travel more--there are scores of places that I've never been to, that I would love to visit--Africa, Paris, Rome, Australia, the Holy Land, just to name a few. I'm envious--you get the picture.

To boil it down, I would love to be able to live beyond my expectations and my life experience up until now. To have my life account for more than what it has at this point. There has to be more to my life than working jobs that I hate, paying barely a living wage or one that can hardly sustain a family, and never being able to venture beyond one's parameters or environment. To know that people, other than your family and friends, are benefitting from the fruits of your creative labor. To live a life worth celebrating and remembering. To become that guy, who at a certain age, is able to look back and say, what a life I've lived and what a difference I've made.

Re:Joby, Uninterrupted...

If any of you have bought a copy of my book, Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies(1989-2009), please leave a review at the site of purchase(whether Amazon, Lulu, or Barnes & Noble). I'd certainly appreciate it. And for those of you haven't purchased a copy...what are you waiting for?!

We Are The World 25 For Haiti - Official Video

This is as amazing as it was 25 years ago, with a few additional twists and changes. 'Nuff said!

Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies(1989-2009)

This is my baby. The culmination of 20 years of blood, sweat, and tears. Of words found and lost; of love found and lost and found again; of lives lived and lost. Just shy of 80 poems depicting my ever-evolving worldview; my love of jazz and black history; celebrating the dichotomy and paradox we call life, in all its beauty and ugliness--in all its truth. I would even be so presumptuous as to call it my masterpiece. If I never wrote another book, and I hope that won't be true, I would be satisfied with this one.

I'm hoping as we say goodbye to 2009 and hello to 2010, that this book will be the start of something big, not least of which, my goal of becoming a full-time writer and not a slave to people who want to work me to death, yet pay me so little for busting my ass doing the best possible work that I'm capable of. While I hope to write more poetry, I also want to venture forth into writing screenplays, short stories, and maybe even a novel or two... Not to mention continuing this blog, which I realize, given the date of the last entry here, I've been rather lackadaisical in doing. But anyone who knows me, knows that I've not always been the most disciplined when it comes to this sort of thing. As always, I hope to be become better at this, as with other areas of my life.

In a society where seemingly anyone who draws breath can become a celebrity for doing virtually nothing, I at the very least want to put myself out there as trying to contribute something meaningful into the ether--something profound and creative and inspirational; in short, art, that will hopefully stand the test of time. An unobtainable goal? I don't know--those who we consider to be great artists, thinkers, etc., all started out with a dream and the desire to be something greater than themselves--many of them never getting to reap the benefits of their work before they passed on. I at least want to try; I at least want to become more prolific, like some of my favorite writers, both living and dead. To get to the point where I am able to write something, anything, every day, even if it's crap. To continue spilling my blood and guts on the page; to create characters that come alive in people's minds as they read my words; to hopefully inspire kids and adults alike to create and to dream bigger than themselves.

I'm not one for resolutions--they never seem to be kept anyway. But my goal for the new year is what I've just written and I hope whoever reads these words(and-- shameless plug--buys my book) will encourage and spur me on to continue putting words to paper--to speak truth into the wilderness; to show us ourselves; provide a different way of seeing, which is what great art does. If I may one last time, please consider starting your new year off by getting a copy of my book of poems. I can guarantee that you won't be sorry.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Thought For The Week

"...As I grew older I questioned a great many of the things that I knew very well my grandmother who had brought me up had taken for granted. And I think I might have been a quite difficult person to live with if it hadn't been for the fact that my husband once said it didn't do you any harm to learn those things, so why not let your children learn them? When they grow up they'll think things out for themselves.... And that gave me a feeling that perhaps that's what we all must do--think out for ourselves what we could believe and how we could live by it."

--Eleanor Roosevelt

Thought For The Week

"The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just."

- Abraham Lincoln

Thought For The Week

"God has made of one blood all nations under heaven. No man can suddenly become my enemy just because he happened to have been born on the other side of a river or a boundary line, and his government has issued an ultimatum against mine. Is it not time that we refused to fight?"

- Muriel Lester,
social reformer and pacifist (1883-1968)