March Came In Like A Lion

March came in like a lion
and knocked me
the fuck out.
Love is supposed to be gentle;
but first,
it hits you
like a ton of bricks;
like the stray bullet
you didn't see coming;
like that lightning strike;
like a thief in the night;

there's no way to be
ready for it,
no matter how many times
you've been smitten
or touched,
as it were;
it's best to accept it
when it does come your way,
thank the Lord above
for its manifestation,
in whatever form
that happens to be,
(because love is not limited
to your conception
of what it's suppose to be
or with whom),
and carry on,
in the knowledge
that you've been chosen,
and isn't that
a wonderful thing?

© 2013 Joseph Powell

An Ode To The Chi

From the cradle to the grave,
Chicago,
you'll be my guiding light,
my untamed night;
my big shoulders to lean on,
my city, by the bay;

You're in my blood,
I carry you in my bones,
like valuable cargo
that I guard with my life;
I may live elsewhere,
but you're the mistress
who has my heart ;

Images of you swirl
in my brain,
I smile at your name;
from Uptown
to South Chi;
Hyde Park
to Oak Park;
and downtown,
downtown,
the Loop!
And, don't get me started
on the lakefront--
LSD
never felt so good!
I don't miss your hawk,
though I do remember
that his fierceness
is what helped me
to feel alive,
walking these city streets,
which recently beckoned me home,
on my
too long-awaited,
all-too-brief visit.

But I do know,
I will answer the call,
I will heed your cry,
Chicago,
to return,
to be kissed by
spring's soft, moist lips,
caressed by
your windy fingers,
serenaded by
your jazzy riffs
and your bluesy vocals;
tempted by
your savory delights,
dazzled by
your glowing allure
in all its glorious splendor;

like the man said,
'you're my kind of town',
Chicago;
from the cradle
to the grave,
you will always
be my home.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Faces

I was recently told
that nobody likes
a sad clown--
that they're too frightening.
My thought is,
they're afraid of the truth,
as I think about
the two faces of drama--
a symbol on how life
is a tragicomedy
of epic proportions.

I am reminded
of the phrase,
"laughing to keep
from crying",
and how that doesn't
always stop you
from crying.
That the tears
of a clown
are just as real
and valuable
as the laughter
he can sometimes
evoke.

And that,
if you are frightened
by him,
you are frightened
by yourself,
for we are all
sad clowns,
in a way,
on this elaborate stage,
in this massive circus,
the greatest show
on Earth.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

The Poet

We find our hero,
at it again,
seated,
hunched over,
bleeding profusely
upon blank pages,
writing his life away;
at this moment,
nothing else matters;
he's not even aware
of the music
playing in the background,
Beethoven,
or is it Mozart?

And there's a woman
in the other room,
calling out his name
for the umpteenth time,
but her screaming
falls on deaf ears,
because the only words
that matter
are flowing
on the pages,
in a torrential rush,
to which he feels obligated,
to which he feels compelled,
to which he is utterly consumed;

he will not be moved,
he will not be deterred,
not by love,
not by music,
not by time;

it is his gift,
both his blessing
and his curse,
until the very last stroke,
the very last word,
the very last breath,

he writes,
he writes,
he writes...
I write,
I write,
I write.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Linda, in Spanish, means beautiful

To say the name
is to reflect
on something beautiful,
in a language
that evokes beauty,
that embodies strength;

to say the name,
is to inhale
a breath of fresh air,
to exhale
a cleansing sigh of relief
like a long held,
deeply felt prayer--
actually,
more like a song...
that's it,
like a song
that can't be sung
in any other language;

to say,
her name,
Linda,
is to rest
in the comfort
of having made
the acquaintance
of someone
who is
and means
beautiful
in the only language,
other than love,
possible.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Rhetoric Race and Religion: From the Dream to the Mountain Top and Beyond: Mar...

Rhetoric Race and Religion: From the Dream to the Mountain Top and Beyond: Mar...: by Andre E. Johnson R3 Editor *This is part of the keynote speech I gave at Viterbo University on King Day , J anuary 21, 201...

Boo Radley's Blues

I'm the neighbor
that everyone keeps
talkin' bout,
but no one wants
to know;
the one your good book
tells you,
you're supposed to love;

I don't mean no harm,
nor do I try to
cause trouble;
I lurk in the shadows
sometimes;
mostly,
I just keep to myself.

But,
if you allow me,
I can be a good friend;
maybe even,
come to your rescue
when the timing's right;

for if I've learned anything
in all my years,
is that we're all
lurking in the shadows,
waiting to be recognized,
waiting to be rescued.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

A Kiss, Just

It was just a kiss--
like the song says,
a kiss is still a kiss;
but there's a reason why
fairy tales attribute
great power to it--

princesses are awakened;
spells are broken;

for me,
it opened up
a new chapter;
made real
a new possibility.

Sometimes,
it's the simplest things
that can bring down mountains,
or awaken
a dead and broken heart.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

A Few, Short Declarative Sentences On This Particular Day In January

you can’t stop me
I am,
I am,
I am
a man;

you can’t stop me
I am
gay
and I deserve
to be here;

you can’t stop me
I am
an undocumented immigrant
trying to make
a better life
for my family;

you can’t stop me
I am a woman,
responsible
for my own body
and accountable
only to God;

you can’t stop me
I am a poet,
and my words
are my weapons,
which, like you,
I also have
the right to bear.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Miss Wonder

I miss a caress;
fingertips and palm,
alighting upon
my bald head;
a soft, wet kiss
that lasts more
than three days;
eyes that peer through
to the soul
that is the only one
that matters;

I wonder,
to the God
who created love,
to the soulmate
I guess I
supposedly
haven’t found yet,
if there is a one
who possesses
this caress,
this kiss,
those eyes;

I miss,
wondering,
and go on
living...
go on...
living...
go on...
go.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Favorite Films and Albums of 2012

As is customary with most critics and/or pundits at this time of the year, regardless of the media venue, I've decided to throw my hat into the ring, as we say goodbye to another year(good riddance!), and proffer my picks for what I thought were my favorite films and albums of 2012. Mind you, I missed out on a lot of films and there were several albums that I unfortunately did get around to purchasing and/or enjoying, but these are what I was able to enjoy, for what it's worth. And rather than list them in order of like, as is the norm for most lists, I've decided to list them alphabetically. Feel free to let me know what you think...

Favorite Films of 2012

Argo
The Amazing Spiderman
The Avengers
Dark Knight Rises
Django Unchained
Harper Lee and To Kill A Mockingbird
Hunger Games
Lawless
Lincoln
Looper
ParaNorman
Rise of The Guardians
Skyfall
Ted

Favorite Albums of 2012

Away From The World (Dave Matthews Band)
Blak and Blu (Gary Clark, Jr.)
Blunderbuss (Jack White)
Boys and Girls (Alabama Shakes)
Home Again (Michael Kiwanuka)
Is Your Love
Big Enough? (Lianne LaHavas)
Little Broken Hearts(Norah Jones)
Making Mirrors (Gotye)
Pour Ame Soveraine
(A Dedication to Nina
Simone) (Meshell Ndegeocello)
World Wide
Rebel Songs (Tom Morello)

Between The Garbage and The Flowers

(for the children of Newtown, Connecticut)


Between the garbage and
the flowers,
I saw you standing there,
partially naked
and beautiful;
crying,
you said,
for all the lost children,
for the loss
of innocence;

you told me your name
was Jesus,
then kissed me tenderly,
on the lips;
you spoke to me,
in poetry,
which sounded like
the sweetest music
I've ever heard,
as if angels were crying.

I wanted to give you money
but you refused;
you simply said,
'love', ' love';
you repeated it,
like a mantra,
and then,
danced away,
as if you had been
a vision;
and I was left there,
standing,
almost kneeling,
between the garbage
and the flowers,
crying,
remembering,
and wanting to hug
the first person I saw.

©2012 Joseph Powell

The Bass Player Is A Woman

She strokes my soul
like she strokes her guitar,
tenderly, yet firmly
with every note she plays;
my savage beast
is calmed
by her melodic flourishes,
her rhythmic tempo
massaging my every pain.
Right now,
in this moment,
we are one,
though we are surrounded
by hundreds.
And as she takes a bow
to thunderous applause
she absolutely deserves,
I could swear
I catch
her glistening eye
staring back at mine
and I smile,
as I clap my hands
in return.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

A Poem For Donny (for Donny Hathaway)

I am trying to write words,
inspired by the words
that you sang for me;

I am trying to calm
the screaming in my head,
I am not certain
I am imagining or not;

I feel your pain--
at least,
I like to believe
I understand it.

Like you,
I want to create art;
I want little ghetto boys,
like the ones
we used to be,
to be inspired
for something greater
than themselves;

I am holding back tears
I wish I could have
cried for you
that day
when I heard;

instead,
I am writing this poem
for you, Donny,
in the hopes
that I believe
that everything
is bout to get better.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

Like Jimi's Guitar

I want to write a verse
as good
as the riff I heard
last night
from Jimi's guitar--
I want it to pierce ears,
I want it to shock systems,
I want it to overthrow governments
and make kingdoms fall;
I want it to
make the dead
come to life,
and make blind men
see;

I want it to blow minds
and break hearts;
I want it
to be the very definition
of truth,
to be like
the tablets come down
from Mount Sinai,
like manna from heaven;

I want to write a verse,
unlike any other verse
that's ever been written,
as if God Himself
were speaking directly
into my soul
and
through to the arm
of the hand
that holds the pen
I use to write with;

I want to write a verse
that will be broadcast
through every major media outlet,
from the television
to the Internet;

I want to write a verse
that will make
the world's heart stop
just to listen;
a verse that will not,
can not,
must not
be ignored.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

For The Colored Boy Who Considered Suicide When...

I have kicked the ass of the one they call suicide;
told him to never darken my doorstep again,
"you miserable son-of-a-bitch!"
It is not that I am in love with my life,
far be it,
but I have a few miles yet I still want to tread,
and people who depend on me
(or is it I who depend on them?);
words that no one else will ever write
and that someone out there probably needs to read;
besides,
I've been told
that life is suffering,
and who am I to believe I am exempt?
And the loss of love
is a poor reason for a loss of life.
So, on your way,
you pathetic bastard,
your invitation
is no longer welcome,
for I have the
unenviable task
of living my life
until its logical
and inevitable conclusion.
No sense
in hastening
its impending approach.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

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