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