Quote of the Week

When I write, I want you to see the blood I bled, with each word; I want you to taste the tears I cried, feel the sweat that pored from my brow with each agonizing syllable; I want you to laugh at each joyful remembrance and weep at each assailable tragedy that has befallen me; I want you to swallow the bitter taste of my truth, and devour the sweetness of every lie. When I write, I want you to be faced with the inescapable me and maybe see yourself in the mirror that I am holding up before you.

--Joseph Powell

From The Joseph Powell Archives--In Celebration of Black History

My life is black history. The very fact that I exist. My mama’s son. Third of five. Didn’t know my father. Wanting to be a father. Wanting to be a man, wanting to be a writer—wanting to be James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, the entire Harlem Renaissance wrapped up in one. Standing on the shoulders of those who came before, who kicked down the door, so that I could strut right through, doing the funky chicken and the jitterbug, to Duke’s “A-train”, and Miles’ “Kind of Blue”.

My life is black history. Growing up in high-rise projects. Fat kid with four eyes and crooked teeth. The brain, the Professor, they called me. And sometimes it’s hard to hold your nappy head up, sometimes it’s hard to press on, wondering what it means to overcome, just trying to stay in school and keep mama from “whuppin’ your behind”. Playing in rundown yards and broken down cars, dreaming you were someone else, like the Batman, sometimes dreaming you lived somewhere else, anywhere but where you lived.

My life is black history, but the kind that is still ongoing, that still lives and moves and has its being. The kind that says I can, as one man, make a difference, again like those who came before, especially the ones who aren’t in the history books. You can’t tell me my history—the reason we aren’t in the history books, is because it would take more books than we know what to do with to tell our story-- his story, her story, my story. My life is a song of my people, black people, black and beautiful, black and proud. It is a love poem, to my mama, about my mama, in celebration of my mama—of all mamas. It’s also a love poem to my brothers and my sisters, and to my ‘bruthas’ and ‘sistahs’. It’s a thank you  for wiping my nose and kicking my ass, for giving me wisdom and helping me grow, for showing me God and how to dance with the devil. For the blues and funk. For poetry and the telling of our stories. For teaching me to appreciate myself without having to look down on others, regardless of race, color, or creed.

My life is black history, in all its glorious splendor. The man that I am and still want to be; the lover of my woman that I still aspire to be; the poet and writer, the preacher and the teacher, instilled in me, still yearning to display himself for the world, “for him who has ears to hear”. I share with you my life, my history, but you must accept it on its own terms and not what you wish to make it, for it will not be denied, like the shining of the sun or the brightness of the moon. My life is history in the making, my life is black history.

And I Call The Bastard, Art--A Poem

This is my first new poem of the new year--

My head feels like it wants to explode,

full to the brim, it is,

with ideas,

images,

night terrors

both real

and imagined;

fantasies

that are better kept

unrevealed,

let alone,

put down on paper;

I can actually feel time

slipping away,

I wish I had every minute

to myself

to write down

everything I want to say,

everything,

I need to say;

how many books

could I fill up then?

I am

a frustrated writer,

a musician

who never learned

an instrument,

but I know music

flows through

each word I write;

an artist,

with pages

upon pages

of blank canvas,

that need to be brought

to life,

with the stuff of life

that’s in my head,

which is

making it want to explode.

Mine is

a restless soul,

ever thirsty,

ever hungry,

eyes wandering,

always seeking,

always questioning,

always wanting

more,

and never satisfied.

Do not pity me,

for I need not,

your pity;

do not fear me,

for I am not to be feared;

I am.

like all of you,

human--

an amalgamation

of flaws,

ugly truths,

and

raw beauty,

too much to contain

Coming to this realization,

I believe,

is why God

has both blessed

and cursed me

to be a poet,

for it is the poet’s

duty

to convey ugly truths,

to reveal

raw beauty,

in ways

that those who choose

to see

can understand.

My head feels like it wants to explode,

because my duty,

my cross to bear,

my ordained mission

has not yet been fulfilled.

So,

I will close this poem,

because there is

still so much

that needs to be said,

that needs to be done--

art,

that bastard stepchild

born from the conflation

of my ego

and my pain,

and my penance

is not yet done.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

Madiba--A New Poem

We knew you,
by your love--
love for your neighbor,
love for your oppressors,
love for the world;
a man,
anointed,
appointed
to show us
what forgiveness
looks like;
to show us
what one man
can do,
what we all
can do,
when we are not governed
by fear,
by hatred;

this was your life,
displayed before us;
this is your legacy,
you now leave us;
your long walk
towards freedom
has now taken flight
as angels
guide you safely
home.

Godspeed, Madiba.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Happy Thanksgiving

May we all be thankful for who and what we have. And remember those who have not or who are unable to be with their families and friends. God's peace be with them, and with us all. 

As My Bugle Gently Weeps (11/22/63)

a moment of silence,

for a moment

I will not forget;

for a man,

I will not forget;

I stand,

with eyes closed

and lips slightly pursed,

I raise my bugle,

to emit

one last goodbye;

trying to be still,

trying to be calm,

I choke on a note,

as a tear

falls

from my horn.

© 2013 Joseph Powell

Strange Fruit (Class of 2013) - Jasiri X

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