Blue Is The Magic Number

though I’m not one to adhere to,

or be defined by, labels;

nor inclined to be fitted into certain parameters;

if you were to press me,

or choose to dig down,

to my very essence,

to the core of who I am--

you would find

that blue

is my favorite color;

the color

that inspired rhapsodies

and baseball teams;

it is the signifier of a particular mood,

the foundation

of nearly every musical genre

on this planet,

which,

if the pictures from space

are to be believed,

is also blue;

it is the color of harmony--

if you don’t believe me,

imagine our country’s flag without it;

could be one of the reasons,

why we’re called the United States

(could you imagine if we

were only made up of

only red states?);

blue

is the color of life;

it is

the color of God’s glory,

one of the primary colors

in His divine palette;

blue

is the color of this poem,

if its words

could be enveloped

in any particular color,

each letter,

a different shade

or variation

of indigo,

sapphire,

jade,

azure--

even those words

make blue sound beautiful,

which it is.

I give you

blue,

which is,

in a sense,

giving of myself;

and I hope,

that you will accept it,

in the spirit

of which it was given,

which is also

blue.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Joseph Powell-Poetry Open Mic @Priscilla's-Toluca Lake

Man In The Mirror Redux

As I looked in the mirror

this afternoon,

I could swear

I saw my father's face

looking back at me;

I didn't know if I should

smile or cry--

smile,

at the man I've become

and am still becoming;

or cry,

at the man who wasn't there

to help me do so;

I chose to neither

as I walked out

of the restroom

with my head held high.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

let me be--a new poem

let me be the tears you can not shed;

let me be the mirror you can not face;

let me be what causes your screams to dissipate;

let me be what causes your fears to evaporate;

let me be what inspires you;

that which comforts you,

which shows you the face of God;

let me be your breath;

the first thing you see in the morning,

and the last thing you see at night,

so that when you sleep,

all you dream of

is me,

loving you thru the dark hours

and the valley of the shadow

that used to haunt you;

let me be the words that flow from your pen,

and from your mouth when you stand on that stage;

let me be your applause;

the answer to your prayer;

let me be what makes you laugh,

uncontrollably;

let me be the art that knows no equal-

the dance that no one else can dance,

the song that no one else can sing,

the poem that will never be surpassed

or replicated;

let me be what helps you get through this life-

holds your hand,

walks beside you,

kisses your lips,

caresses your brow,

holds you up;

let me be everything…

let me be.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Skin - Joseph Powell

Blood On The Grass (for Trayvon Martin)

Close your eyes

and listen--

Can you hear it?

It’s the cry of yet another Rachel,

weeping for her children,

and refusing to be comforted;

it echoes 

in the cry of Sybrina Fulton,

and Wanda Johnson;

it reverberates even still

from Mamie Till Mobley,

now since departed 

and reunited

with her beloved

and taken-too-soon Emmitt;

can you hear it?

the collective cries

of scores of mothers

who will never see their sons

grow old,

never fall in love,

or pursue their dreams;

listen,

you might just also hear

the cries

of blood from the ground--

cries for justice,

justice that may never come,

because we choose not to listen;

choose to keep our eyes closed

to the fact that our children

are dying needlessly,

senselessly,

and with little

to no recourse.

I’ve heard it said,

that it would be better

if a millstone

was hung around the neck

of one who were to cause 

a little one to stumble;

and yet,

perpetrators are allowed to roam

freely,

trampling underfoot,

blood left on the grass,

having ignored screams 

for mercy;

while we care more for the child not yet born

than for the one who is already

among us.

Now,

I want you to open your eyes

and imagine,

that it was your son,

your daughter,

your brother,

your sister,

pleading for their lives,

begging for mercy,

crying for help,

for justice.

What would you do then?

What would you do?

What will you do?

What?!

© 2013 Joseph Powell

The Writing's On The Wall-A Poem

This is the title poem from the new book, "The Writing's On The Wall", currently available thru Lulu.com...


The writing on the wall
that I drove past
down Barham Blvd.,
read,
“ Do something good today”;
So, I’m writing this poem
for you,
not an abstract ‘you’,
but the concrete ‘you’;
The you,
I always write for;
The you,
I have always written for;

I am writing this
on the wall of your heart,
I am writing this
on the wall of the city ,
a poem that can’t be
taken down
or painted over;
it will be etched in forever,
written in love,
dipped in my blood,
my sweat,
my tears,
painted, carved
in broad strokes
visible to every naked eye
that is willing to see,
willing to look;
in fact,
you will have to look
because you will not
be able
to turn away,
to ignore--
truth is like that,
beauty is like that.

I am writing this
for you,
not because you deserve it,
not because I deserve it,
but because,
it has to be done;
something good
has to be done,
because so much
of what’s being done
is not good,
is not right,
is not true,
not real--
love is being commodified,
the writing is on the wall;
children are starving in the streets,
the writing is on the wall;
people dictating who I can love,
the writing is on the wall;
the have’s still dominating
the have-not’s,
and the writing is on the wall;

people making asses of themselves
on national TV
for millions of dollars,
while people,
who are molding the minds
of future generations,
aren’t making enough
to make ends meet,
the writing is on the wall;
I can’t afford
to take care
of myself
or the people I love
because some insurance company
gets to dictate
how much I have to pay,
the writing is on the wall.

These are not the ramblings
of a mad poet;
these are the words
of a poet
who is mad,
like you should be mad,
the concrete ‘you’,
and willing to do something about it,
something good,
like I’m trying to do
something good,
by writing this poem,
by writing this book;
because voices need to be heard,
because truth needs to be made visible,
because there are walls
that need to be written on,
with the blood, sweat,
and tears
of those who
wish to do something
good.
I have written this,
for you,
and now,
I am handing you
the pen.

Do something good!

© 2013 Joseph Powell

The Writing's On The Wall--finally available in print!

The Writing's On The Wall

Joseph Powell @Open Mic-Golden Road Brewery

The Writing's On The Wall

The Writing's On The Wall

It's Here!!

My new collection of poetry, The Writing's On The Wall, is now currently available in both print and digital via Amazon. It's been a while coming but am happy and proud to say after much deliberation(and procrastination), it is now  ready for purchase and perusal. Thank you all for your patience and support. I hope you are inspired, encouraged, maybe even entertained. Peace.

The Writing's On The Wall

It's been a long time coming, but my new book, The Writing's On The Wall", will be available for download in the next day or so. So, if you own a Kindle, IPad, IPhone, or any electronic reading device, you will be able to purchase and enjoy it at your leisure. I am very proud of this effort and am hoping for it to be perished widely. I thank everyone for their support. Peace.

The Writing's On The Wall

My new collection of poetry, The Writing's On The Wall-I am anticipating its release during the month of July 2013.  Please stay tuned for more details as they become available.

I Simply Wrote The Word...

I simply wrote the word, I. My mind is as blank as the screen before me, though a million words and images are racing through my head, I can’t seem to settle on a single one. I am afraid, I am weighed down by stress, which affects my body, which affects my mind. My one prayer is to make it through the day that is now. I don’t know what tomorrow holds--I do  know that I long for a better life, where I get to do what I want, which is write. In which I can love someone who wants to be with me...period. Where I can see my daughter develop into the woman she is becoming. Where I’m appreciated for the art that I continue trying to make as opposed to the work that someone else thinks I should be doing. I still long to travel--I am well aware that there is a whole world out there and I am hoping, with however long I have to live, to see at least some of it.

I simply wrote the word, I. Because it starts with me. I am fighting every day, not to be held back--by myself or by others, by outside forces beyond my control.  I desire to just be--not confined to some job description or a paycheck; not to others’ perception of me, or what they think I should be doing; not to some vague notion of what it takes to get ahead in this life.

I simply wrote the word, I. I am trying to fight the urge not to call it quits. To keep the demons at bay. I am more than this life I’m currently living. Not sure if my spirit is still willing, though I’m well aware that my body is beyond weak. But for the grace of God go I...

simply write the word, which is where it all begins, where it all began. And God has always been in the details...He or She created them. Whether we choose to acknowledge that or not.

I simply wrote the word, I...am trying not to exercise futility. I do not care if this is not making sense. Nowadays, most of, if not all of it is not making any sense. The best that we can hope for is that we can avoid those who believe that they call the shots, that they get to determine that our life is no longer valuable--whether it’s by plane crash, or bombing, or shooting, or drunk driving. Like the man said, “I would like to live a long life--longevity has its place.” The tragic irony being that he never got to--none of us know if we’re going to. Which is simply why I write the word...

I, because other than the grace of God, and the love of my family, and of a good woman, and a few select friends, my words are all I got. It’s probably all I need in this crazy, beautfiul, fucked-up world. Another man wrote, that we are all terminal cases. This terminal case hopes to make a difference in the lives of other terminal cases until mine is closed and I’ve been filed away and I become a memory that people, loved ones talk about at gatherings.  These words that I simply write, I feel, are all I have control over and even then, I’m not so sure, because I’m at the mercy of whatever muse I’ve been assigned to, and most times, she shows up when she wants to, the bitch!

I simply write the word, I, because I continue to look for truth, whereever I can find it. I don’t know any other way. Because it helps me to understand, because sometimes it gives me peace. Because sometimes, I feel like I’ve given some value to the world, even if no one else ever tells me so. Because there’s so much that is not of value that is being put out there, that someone has to fight against it, like a team of doctors fighting against a disease.

I simply wrote the word, I, because I wanted to fill this small hour of time, with something constructive, perhaps even meaningful, as opposed to filling it with something that would be a complete waste of my time and effort, which I seem to be more wont to do. Yes, it is rambling, yes, it may not be coherent, maybe it might not mean a damn thing, but have you watched the news or listened to the pundits lately? I’m just sayin’. And I’ve just said enough...for now at least.
My time is up, for now. Until next time. Thanks for reading, those of you who have chosen to take the time to do so. I just simply wrote the words...what you choose to do with them is up to you.

When I Write

when I write,
I see visions;
this still-young man
dreams dreams;
when I write,
I hear the voice of God
in a still, small whisper;
I hear my mama talking;
the child I once was,
telling me not to give up,
to not squander the promise,
the talent that was once
fresh and new;
when I write,
I remember women I’ve loved
and the few who’ve loved me back;
the friends I’ve made,
and, unfortunately,
lost,
because of time
or distance
or death,
and I don’t want to talk about that,
for that’s a whole other poem
I’ve already written;

when I write,
I am not restricted
by race,
or color,
or creed,
or sexual orientation;
my muse
is an equal opportunity
employer;
when I write,
I try to stay
outside the lines;
my verse is
and will always remain
free;


when I write,
jazz,
is distilled
from its purest form
and reconfigured
through the words
I try to place
on the page
with as much force
and passion
as I can
possibly summon;
when I write,
I believe
a word
is a terrible thing to waste
and I try to choose wisely.

when I write,
I am trying to breathe life
into chaos;
illuminate truth
where there is darkness;

when I write,
I am trying to destroy prejudices
and open eyes;
spread love,
where there is hatred;

when I write,
I want it to be like the blood
that washes away all sins;
I want it to be like water
in a dry and thirsty land;

when I write,
I’m not writing with anyone in mind,
but with everyone in mind,
because everyone needs truth,
and everyone needs love,
and everyone needs beauty,
and everyone needs light,
and everyone,
everyone,
everyone needs
poetry.
And that what is I think of...

when I write.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

I Don't Do Haikus

I will try to be as concise
as I possibly can be;
try to convey as much truth
within each line,
as can be mustered--
but I don't do haikus.

My verse needs to be free,
in a form that allows it
to breathe,
to move,
to become its own thing.

I want the words to go
where they're gonna go;
to take you,
where you need to be taken;
to caress you,
whisper to you,
make love to you;
or,
slap you in the face,
shake some sense into you,
douse cold water
on your hypocrisies
and lies,
your prejudices
and myopia.

And, I,
personally,
cannot do that
with haikus,
not in the way
that they need to be done;
and not in the way
that I need to say
what needs to be said.

Believe me,
I respect the haiku,
I admire the form,
the simplicity,
the beauty;
and the skill it takes
to create one,
let alone,
several.
But just as haikus
are not for everyone,
neither are
the verses I write,
in whatever shape
they choose to manifest themselves.

My only hope
is that,
whoever chooses to read them,
will come to respect
and admire
what it took to create them
and find within them
the truth,
the simplicity,
the beauty,
as in any haiku.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Face, The Truth

I told the man,
staring back at me,
this:
‘If you hear nothing else,
listen to this;
pay no mind
to the naysayers;
the ne’er-do-wells
and the malcontents,
lost in their own capacity
to bitch and moan;
you are destined for better,
my friend;
you are a genius,
an artist...
don’t shake your head at me,
you are.
They will never understand,
they never did.
This world is not ready for someone
as beautiful as you;
they are not ready for the truth
you have to show them;
but you have to do it anyway;
you have to live it,
you have to create it;
you just have to be.
I see in your eyes,
greatness,
my lovely friend;
if you ever again should doubt this,
and you probably will,
remember,
I am here for you.
All you need do
is to look in my eyes--
I am the only mirror
you are ever gonna need.”
I told this to the man,
as he stared back at me;
I’m pretty sure he heard me
and understood,
because he smiled
as I turned
and walked away from
the mirror.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

In A Moment Of Silence

on a peaceful Sunday morning
I am thinking about grace
I am praying for faith
I want my tired eyes to see
I want my deaf ears to hear
my words are few,
these days,
not like when I was young;
though I know,
my every breath
is a gift from you,
a song of praise to you.
I also know
that I know even less now
than I thought I did
when I was younger.
but truth will always out
and this I cling to
as I sit outside a church
on this Sunday morning
not certain if I can go in.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Happy Birthday, Dr. Maya Angelou

A Hymn For Sister Maya

The epitome of eloquence,
The embodiment of elegance;
Queen‐‐
Mother Africa descended
In all her glorious splendor.
Her voice,
Once silent long ago,
Now springs forth
Like the thunder
Of a thousand rainstorms
And just as nourishing;
Or,
Like the still small voice
Of a gentle angel,
Bearing glad tidings
Of great joy.
Her beauty
Knows no equal;
Her words
Are like fine silk,
Smooth to the touch,
Pleasing to the skin;
Or,
A double‐edged sword
Piercing bone and marrow,
For she canʹt help
But bring forth truth,
The truth.
It is her gift to us‐‐
Her calling,
Her lifeʹs blood,
Her duty
As one raised up from the wilderness,
Not as a reed swayed by the wind,
But a prophetess of the highest order.
She is
That heaven we find in a wildflower,
Our mirror to nature;
But not only that.
She is
The storefront preacher;
The street rapper;
The social worker;
That favorite teacher.
She is
Mother, daughter;
Sister, lover;
Friend;
Our fielder of dreams
And conveyer of nightmares.
She is
The cry of Rachel
Weeping for her children
And refusing to be comforted.
She is
The song of the virgin Mary
In praise to her God.
The world is brighter
Because she has shone her light
In our dark places.
Her candle
Will one day
Blow out,
But the flame
That she has ignited
Will burn on,
Eternal,
For that is
What flames do.

© Joseph Powell

MLK Redux

In commemoration of the 45th anniversary of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I resubmit this poem. R.I.P. Dr. King.



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

Quotes For The Day

"Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind." --Bertrand Russell

"To educate is to create a critical spirit and not just to transfer knowledge." --Archbishop Oscar Romero

A Reposting of Lo, How Two Roses Not Yet Blooming (for Martin and Marvin)

On this day in April
I saw two roses,
not quite in full bloom
just yet,
fall to the ground.
And cried
blood-red tears.
Screamed,
'What's going on?'
Wailed,
'How long?'
Why do the good
always die young?
Always at the hand
Of those who don't understand
or who have not ears to hear
or eyes to see
beauty
and truth
in flesh beholden.
Even God must weep,
I hope,
for creation yet incomplete,
interrupted,
is most assuredly
a tragedy,
for which
there are never enough tears,
blood-red or otherwise
and all we are left with
after the crying and the weeping
is the remembering
and wondering
what might have been?

© 2009 Joseph Powell

She Redux (inspired by the poem, She Walks In Beauty by Lord Byron)

She talks
to me
in poetry
in still small voices
and seductive whispers
and speaks to me
of eternal life
and love unending;
her tone never wavers
but resonates,
soothingly,
giving me chills,
caressing my body,
calming my soul.

She looks
at me
with eyes so fair
and unrelenting
She
of the tender eyes
and darkest hair
She
of the rosy lips
and warmest smile
She
who can caress
with one look,
one touch,
one word.
She
of the giving heart
and sweet embrace.
She
second to angels
made in the image of God
for God too is beautiful,

She
who walks in beauty
like the night
and stirs men’s souls to song.
She
the rarest find
the precious pearl
She
who’s touched me to the very core
She
who walks in beauty
She who walks
She who
She.

© Joseph Powell

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

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