Emmanuel

This is not going to be
one of those poems,
where I claim to see God in nature;
yes,
I do see God in the cloud-filled skies;
in the thunder and lightning
of a summer rainstorm;
in the tree-strewn woods
that is my Tennessee backyard;
but more than that,
I see God
in the man standing at the end
of the interstate off-ramp,
selling a little piece of his soul,
a little piece of his hard-earned work
to maybe keep a roof over his head;
I see God,
in the person
stepping up to the mike,
to share their truth--
no matter how raw,
or profane,
for if I learned anything
in the religion class
I had in college,
it's that truth is truth;

I see God,
in the daughter who loves me
from 2000 miles away,
who I know
is becoming
the woman
and artist
she needs to be;
I see God
in the woman,
who everyday
tells me,
in no uncertain terms,
"I love you",
and
that I am enough--
who I am,
is enough;
in the mother,
who,
with every fiber
of her being,
through hard-fought sweat
and
hard-cried tears,
raised me
to be the man
I still sometimes
have doubts
I'm becoming;
in the brothers
and sisters
who,
even though
we don't always communicate,
are more connected to me
than even I understand;

and yes,
though it doesn't need to be said,
but because this is a poem,
it must be--
I see God
in the reflection
looking back at me
every morning
I awake,
hoping,
praying,
that when others see me,
they too
can see
God.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

Joseph Powell @A Night Of Free Speech

In The Name Of...

If you can no longer cry for the fallen,
and yet,
turn a tragedy into a punchline;
if you are able to look into the face of a child,
and only see
an enemy to your privacy
and complacency;
if your ego has become such,
that you'd rather spend all your waking hours,
fighting those who are trying to do good,
as opposed to,
working together for the common good;
if the suffering of the least of these,
has become a burden you no longer wish to bear
or,
have never ever borne;
then speak to me not,
of your humanity,
or of the God you say you believe in,
who, being merciful,
gives no credence
to your claim;
you, sir or madam,
have lost the privilege
to speak,
of what is good and right;
you have become
as sounding brass,
or,
a tinkling cymbal.

I have chosen to deafen my ears
to you,
as I open my eyes,
wider,
to the plight of those
who are my brothers,
who are my sisters,
whether young or old,
whether near or far;
of whom,
I am their keeper,
as are those,
who do have eyes,
that are willing to see,
what needs to be seen;
and do
what needs to,
and must be,
done,
in the name
of all that is holy,
in the name
of all that is human.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

Joseph Powell @Poetry In The Brew

the brave woman at the open mic I saw the other night...

She stands behind the mike,
vulnerable,
looking a little battle-weary,
painfully,
hysterically naked,
clothed in floral summer dress;
she's never done this before,
she tells us,
as we sit in rapt apprehension,
for what is to come,
from her voluptuous mouth.

But then she recites,
not from printed page,
but from memory,
as if she's been doing this
for awhile,
and her voice,
which, at the start,
seemed slightly timid,
bursts forth
in a full-on,
almost deeply musical blast,
regaling us
with verses,
that,
alternately,
make us laugh,
make us cry;
resonate,
powerfully,
with our shared
humanness
and vulnerability
she has now
left us with,
breathless,
in standing ovation
and appreciation,
as she,
now confidently,
thanks us,
and leaves the stage.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

Joseph Powell @A Night Of Free Speech

We Were Made for These Times

We Were Made for These Times

'What to the Slave is 4th of July?': James Earl Jones Reads Frederick Douglass’ Historic Speech | Democracy Now!

'What to the Slave is 4th of July?': James Earl Jones Reads Frederick Douglass’ Historic Speech | Democracy Now!

If These Walls...--A New Poem

I am standing in history,

where mere mortals

dared to dream;

stood their ground,

when that actually meant something

worth dying for;

images are all around me,

voices speaking their truths to me--

daring me,

pleading me,

not to forget,

not to ignore;

I can’t help

but acknowledge

that I am

because

they were,

they did,

they bled,

they died.

And I can’t help,

as I leave this room,

to promise them,

in my mind

and

in my heart,

to the best

of all that is within me,

that I will remember

this time,

their time

is now

my time

to be,

to do,

to live,

and,

if need be,

die

for something

worth dying for.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

In A Place, Once Unfamiliar--A New Poem

I have recently placed my stakes

in a place to me,unfamiliar;

underneath cloud formations

so unreal,

yet more real

than anything imaginable;

sharing space

with fireflies

on summer nights

and storms gone

as quickly

as they’ve come;

there’s a past here,

both terrible and awesome,

equalled only by

the feeling of being home,

of being present,

that I now have

in this place,

once unfamiliar.

I hope to be able to

add to the tapestry

already woven

long ago;

add the first

of many new chapters,

of many new verses

in this place of music

and storytelling;

not so much

to find fame and fortune,

but to find purpose

and kinship

with those whose dreams

have led them here as well;

I hope to see love,

kindled before arrival here

from distant shores

where I once set root

and still have ties,

blossom into

a magnificent landscape,

matched only

by the artistry

of God’s making,

I see all around me

in this place, once

unfamiliar;

I hope that

what the future,

(which is now to me,

also unfamiliar)

holds,

is more real

than I could ever imagine;

more awesome

than I know how to handle;

more beautiful

than anything I’ve yet seen

in my dreams;

I hope.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

Room 306--A New Poem

I am listening to Mahalia
singing your favorite song 
as I stare into 
the last room
you would ever inhabit;
tears streaming down
cheeks,
that were too young
that day
the earth seemed
to stand still
and time
seemed to freeze--
seemed,
probably to those who were there,
to bear witness
as yet another native son
was taken before his time;
someone who,
in the words that would be spoken
soon thereafter,
of yet another,
"who saw wrong and tried to right it,
saw suffering and tried to heal it,
saw war and tried to stop it".

Were it not for hope,
which often wavers
in these still difficult days,
I would despair
that it does no good
to try to do good,
to try to be good
in this world
that would deem you
not fit to live
any longer--
history has shown
and
continues to show
that this is true;
but I take some comfort,
some solace,
as I stand 
outside a memorial
dedicated
to your memory,
as one beneficiary
of the good
that you tried to do,
that it was worth it
and your death,
like so many before you,
and so many hence,
was not in vain.
Thank God Almighty.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

California Beamin'--An Ode

I want to write something
that encapsulates
what California has meant to me,
these twenty-two years now past;
I have learned much
and forgotten even more;
have found, and lost, love
many times over
to get to the love
I now have
and hope to keep;

like Bono,
I've climbed highest mountains
and kissed honey lips;
I've had my feet baptized
in her salty waters;

friends have come and gone---
because of time,
because of distance,
because of circumstances
beyond anyone's control;
but I've been blessed
by those who chose to,
or have been able to,
stay;

I've even been blessed
to be called father,
by one, not born of my blood--
the remarkably good,
out of what became
an unavoidably painful situation;
which is indicative,
of what California
has often been to me---

the joys
and
the pains;
the triumphs
and
the tragedies;
the sweet
and
the bitter,
which is also indicative
of what life
has often been to me.

So,
it's probably safe to say
that,
as much as Chicago,
where I was born and raised;
and Greenville,
where I was spiritually formed;
and everywhere in between,
California
has been life to me,
and,
hopefully,
preparation
for the life to come
as I leave
her sunny,
yet
bittersweet embrace.

Stay gold,
California.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

God’s Angry Man

In the dark night of my soul,

I pray for rain

to wash clean

my dirty streets,

knowing full well,

they will

become dirty

yet again;

for,

I sin boldly

in the face

of a God

who has shown me

mercy,

and I ask forgiveness,

only to squander it

like money

at a gambler’s table;

perhaps,

it is a good thing

that I am not

worthy

of such

grace;

I choose

to be prodigal,

time

and time

again,

like a spoiled child

who is

never satisfied;

I cannot say

I know not

what I do,

for that

would be

a lie;

and,

I want to be

honest

and

I want

to be

real--

my humanness,

this walking

bundle

of contradictions

made

manifest

underneath

God’s heaven,

upon God’s

earth.

If it is I,

past,

present, and

future

imperfect--

who,

like

so many

before me,

has

been chosen

to be His

representative

here,

then

so be it,

and

to Him

be

the glory.

And

what will happen,

will happen,

because,

in accordance

to His will,

it

was meant

to be.

Amen.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

Joseph Powell @Priscilla's Poetry Night

Here It Is, Your Moment of Zen... - A New Poem

Sometimes,
staring at ducks in the middle of a pond,
in the middle of a park,
in the middle of a busy intersection,
in the middle of a very busy city,
while eating lunch,
made by a woman who loves you
more than words can say,
is the closest to a moment of peace
that you're ever going to get.


© 2014 Joseph Powell

To Be Middle-aged, Gifted, And Black--A New Poem

I am not one to brag or boast,

But I think it’s time to make a toast,

To a brother who,

likes to,

write the double truth,

Ruth;

I have come too far

and

seen too much

to stop now.

If nothing else,

my life

depends on it;

a gift,

that should not be squandered;

for those who’ve come before me,

and those who may

and will

follow after,

need to know,

that what they’ve done,

or

will do,

was not,

has not,

and

will not

be in vain.

My desire

to be a writer,

stems

from a child’s dream,

a best friend’s dream;

and now,

that I’m about to begin

the midpoint of my life,

I want to see it

through

to the end.

Not for fame,

not

for vainglory;

but to,

hopefully be,

the fulfillment

of prayers prayed

and blood shed,

in my own

small way

and

through my own

humble

contributions

to what has,

thus far,

been done,

and what continues to

guide me now

into the future.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

An Honest Man, A Good Writer--A New Poem

Like Baldwin before me,

Like Bukowski even,

I want to be

an honest man

and a good writer.

Like Hemingway,

I want to bleed on the page;

I want the truth

to be laid bare;

quoting Ginsburg,

hysterical naked;

no bullshit,

no chaser;

what you read

is what you get;

I might

and can

create fiction,

but,

if you don’t see yourself

in it,

then I’ve wasted my time

and yours;

because,

the world has enough lies

and liars,

and,

in my opinion,

not enough

with the courage

to say

what needs to be said

in the way

that it needs to be said.

Let the politicians

and false prophets

shut up for a change,

and let the poets

have the floor;

wonder how much more

earthly good,

let alone,

heavenly,

can be done

if the artists

were able to call the shots.

I want to be

an honest man

and

a good writer--

two things

that I will always

want to strive towards,

rather than

achieve,

because,

if I attain that,

if I arrive there,

where else

is there to go?

© 2014 Joseph Powell