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