A Requiem For Sister Rosa

Rosa Parks has died. May she rest in peace. Let's stand up for someone who sat down for justice. Let's be the bouquet of roses that celebrates Sister Rosa. A light in a time of darkness; a woman who said no and no more when a nation was still saying yes and wait!; a small, quiet voice in a world of noise. It is because of you (and others like you) that I(and others like me) can sit where we choose, whether on a bus, train or plane. May you not be forgotten, though I doubt that you will be. May you most certainly rest in peace, whereever you now sit--your time here on earth has earned it, as I'm sure that God has now welcomed you with the words, "Well done, my good and faithful servant!"

Def Poet

Below is a poem that is featured in my latest chapbook, "Mofo' Risin' ". It is titled, "Def Poet". Enjoy!




DEF POET



If I were a slam poet
and, I'm not, by the way,
I'd breathe similes
into your nostrils
and give you life;
(w)rap metaphors
around your ears
like the garland wrapped
in Billie Holiday's hair;
I would not lull you
to sleep,
because my words
would be on fire,
shocking you
with
existential soliloquies,
like,
to be
or not to be;
making you
hear songs
in the key of life;
making you
hear rhapsodies
in the key of blue,
if I were a slam poet.

If I were a slam poet,
in three minutes or less,
I'd fire word darts
into your mind,
fire projectile missiles
of poetic wisdom,
like a sermon on the mount
in iambic pentameter;
spin romantic sonnets
that would have made
Shakespeare jealous;
from behind the mike,
my words
would spring forth
like an Ellington tune,
played by Miles Davis,
alongside John Coltrane,
backed by Thelonius Monk,
and Charles Mingus;
like your mama's voice,
when the hurt was so bad
and nobody else's words would do;
make you recall memories
you'd long forgotten;
recall memories
you wish you had;
makin' those three minutes,
a memory
that you will
never forget--
that is,
if I were a slam poet,
which,
I'm not.


© Copyright 2004 Joseph Powell

Bohemian Rhapsody

I'm trying to stay sane in an insane world. Trying to find words that speak truth, conveys pain, and highlights my ugliness. I am Bukowski in his drunken poetry; I am Baldwin, in his fiery rage; I am the savage beast that will not be tamed by music alone; the fallen angel trying to fight my way back into heaven; the poet whose pen is filled with blood. My faith is doubt; every breath I take is on loan and I'm wondering when my balance is due. Suicide...is a last resort and all the other inns are booked up. I'm not crazy--just fucked up and not fucked enough. Am trying to keep the demons at bay, but sometimes they fuel my fire, feed my soul. It matters not who sees this--what difference would it make? No one pays attention to writers anyway. No one cares for the outsider, the monster, the ones who are not like them. But I am you--the secrets you try to keep; the words that you will not say; the skeletons in your closet. You can't hide from the truth--maybe you too are trying to survive, stay sane, live life, breathe freely, trying to get just a touch of grace. But I can't help you unless you choose to acknowledge me or die trying. Open your eyes, open your ears, read between the lines, dare to feel something for this bohemian and his kind--who knows, like they say, the truth just might set you free. But then again, this may be much ado about nothing. You decide.

U2 Sermons Blog for the book "Get Up Off Your Knees: Preaching the U2 Catalog"

U2 Sermons Blog for the book "Get Up Off Your Knees: Preaching the U2 Catalog"

I Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans

I wrote the following poem, "I Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans", prior to the recent tragedy that struck there. It was just a few months ago that my girlfriend, Toni, and I spent a week there and I was inspired to write this poem shortly afterwards as a homage to the great time we had there. And a couple of months later is when Katrina hit, so the poem seems to have a greater meaning, given the circumstances, and so I print it here, and hope that people will feel what I feel about this wonderful city that will hopefully be reborn, like the phoenix from the ashes. Viva New Orleans!





I Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans



French Quarter
Bourbon Street and cool jazz
Cheap beer, 7 & 7’s,
And hot sex in
Third story hotel window.
Dive bars and cable cars
Beads, blues, and voodoo
And Kermit Ruffin,
A modern-day Satchmo,
Tearin’ it up
At the Blue Nile.

Everybody tryin’
To make a buck or two;
Some of them tryin’
To take a buck from you;
Sometimes, we say,
‘What the fuck?’—
voodoo!
Night is day
And day never seems to end.
What happens here,
Doesn’t necessarily
Have to stay here,
For you have to take
Your memories with you
When you check out.
You don’t have to leave,
But if you do stay,
It’s gonna cost you
More than you know,
More than you know.


© Copyright 2005 Joseph Powell

Either Shit Or Get Off The Pot

"I want to be an honest man and a good writer."

--James Baldwin

if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.

-Charles Bukowski

The first statement above is my raison d'etre. The second is one that I aspire to and wrestle with, although in regards to the first statement, the same could be said in that vein. Henceforth, on this fine September day, the 21st, in the year of our Lord, 2005, I am embarking on what will hopefully be a fruitful endeavor and at least one reason to keep me in front of a computer screen and writing, my foray into the information superhighway--my own personal blog. Herein I will try to contribute to the human experience and the literature world at large by publishing thoughts and writings, including new and old poetry that I have written as well as hopefully story ideas. I'm not doing this so much for feedback, though it may be welcome, but for the opportunity of getting my self out there, to speak to whomever will hear, as it were. In the past, I've never been good at consistently keeping up on journals(in a class I once had, I spent an entire week and a half making up three months of journal entries for a project that I had and to which I was surprisingly given full credit for), so I may not always be forthcoming with this venture, but I will do my best as time and inspiration and other outside distractions allow. I hope whoever reads this is enlightened, inspired, and entertained. Ciao for now.