Sony Holland-Soft Power

Joni Mitchell.

The name of one of many singers I wish I could say I know. An unmistakable voice, like many of the best and renowned vocalists of the last century--distinctive, ethereal, angelic, a voice that can evoke melancholy and joy, sometimes in the same song, like many a jazz and blues singer. I offer the song, "River", as evidence of that sentiment.

Sony Holland.

The name of a singer who I can say that I know. And after listening to her new album, Soft Power, I can unequivocally say I am beyond glad to have made her acquaintance just a few short years ago. Everything I said in the previous paragraph, can be said of Sony, if based just on this album alone. It's no coincidence that I bring up Joni Mitchell's name, because upon first listen, it's the name that immediately came to mind, not least of when, she does a cover of Ms. Mitchell's "A Case of You". But, that in no way means that she mimics Mitchell's vocals, for Sony's voice is all her own, on this song, as well as on several original tracks and her covers of "Streets of Philadelphia" and "Moon River". Listening to her sing is like having a conversation with an old friend, especially if you're driving in your car, which is what I was doing while listening to this album. And I would say that, even if I didn't personally know the singer. But, once again, I am more than glad to say that I do. And I would strongly recommend that you get to know her too, by getting a copy of Soft Power. The title is as applicable to the vocalist herself as it is to the contents of the album. And as summer approaches and thoughts of vacations and road trips loom, you might just want another traveling companion along for the ride. I submit to you, Sony Holland, as evidence of that sentiment.

Sony Holland-Soft Power

What Christmas Means To Me

What Christmas means to me—
                        that somebody loved us enough to care; that somebody stills loves me enough to care. That family is not always about blood. That it’s not about the size of the gift, but the size of the heart of the person who gave the gift.  It means not caring about a particular greeting, but that you took the time to acknowledge the receiver of the greeting, regardless of however you choose to say it. That no one has to feel alone; that no one has to be made to feel guilty if they are not feeling the joy of the season. That said joy should not be dependent on what the calendar says, which might make the season, when it does come, that much more meaningful.

It means we still need light in the darkness. It means “peace on earth and goodwill toward men”, should not be a sentiment on a greeting card, but a dominant concept that we are all striving towards. I wouldn’t have a problem listening to carols or hymns all year long, if it meant that our lives reflected the words that we were singing. It means that we don’t have to believe the same things, but we should see the other as needing of love and recognition of each other’s humanity.

It means that many of us might require ghostly visitations, a la Scrooge; that, like the Grinch, be reminded that “Christmas doesn’t come from a store; that it perhaps means a little bit more”.

It means that for many of us, like George Bailey, we need to be reminded that each of our lives touches so many others; that it would leave an awful hole, if we weren’t around.

It means that the refugee, the homeless family, the hungry child will always have a place to be, even if it’s a dirty and smelly barn.

It means that wherever there are cracks, the light will always get in; that the broken will always be blessed; and the imperfect, holy.

It means love, and if I never give you anything else concrete or tangible, something you can taste, smell, feel; whether you are a stone’s throw away or thousands of miles away;
whether we communicate via Facebook, email, by phone, or if we are fortunate to do so, in person, I sincerely hope, with every fiber of my broken, imperfect, cracked being, that you know that you are loved—

you who’ve recently lost a spouse, or child, or parent;
you who may feel that no one understands you;
you who feel that no one sees you because of the color of your skin, your sexuality, or your religion(or even, lack thereof);
you who may not even have anywhere to go this time of year;
you, who just needs to hear that someone loves you, even if you don’t want to believe it right now.

I hope that what Christmas means to you, if nothing else, is that you are loved, from someone who cares. Peace be with you all.

Shoot

Don't ask me anymore,

where I'm going

with that gun in my hand;

it is my right to own it,

it is my right 

to do with it

as I please;

this is America!

The whole country

is the Wild, Wild West,

2016!

Where we shoot first,

then ask questions later--

maybe.

You see someone suspicious?

Shoot them

before they shoot you;

doesn't matter

if they're armed 

or not,

they had it coming.

Hell,

we've all got it coming, kid.

Someone playing loud music?

Doesn't matter 

if they're driving away,

shoot them down--

it's called

volume control!

Someone looks at you funny,

or talks wrong to your woman?

Shoot

before you see 

the whites of their eyes;

someone in your way

in a darkened hallway;

or talking back at you

on an elevated platform?

You've got  a gun

(which is your right),

USE IT!

Don't hesitate!

Hesitating

will get you killed.

It's survival 

of the fittest, baby,

and he who owns the gun,

calls the shots

(pun intended).

So,

know what time it is!

Arm yourselves!

You never know

when shit 

is going to go down.

It's best to be ready

to shoot,

then reload,

then shoot,

then reload,

then shoot,

shoot,

shoot!

Oh,

and in answer

to your question

from earlier,

well,

you know

where I'm going.

© 2016 Joseph Powell

     

When The Purple Rain Stops Falling

You taught me
that doves cry;
you made your guitar
gently weep,
under a purple rain;
you were sacred
and profane,
all in one song;
nothing,
and no one
compares to you;

you took funk
to a whole nother level,
just when
we were starting to take notice;
you redefined music,
like true geniuses do;
like those few before you--
like Miles,
like J.B.,
like Michael;

you showed it was possible
to tap into
your feminine side
and still
be a man;
you showed that black folks
know how to rock--
like Jimi,
like Chuck,
like Richard;

there will be tears shed;
there will be a host of tributes
and more words than these
to extol your praises;
there will definitely be those
who will come after
to copy and emulate
and to further build upon
the foundation
that you've laid;

me,
I'll be the guy
in the club,
misty-eyed,
nodding my head,
and marveling
at what you've just done.

© 2016 Joseph Powell

Je Suis Un Poete, Je Suis Paris

Paris, Paris,
I want to shed tears for you,
but that would not bring back your fallen;
I want to be angry for you,
but where would I begin?
And to whom would I direct my anger?
Would that undo another senseless tragedy?
Pray for you?
I don't know that I have other than
meaningless words,
because this shit keeps happening,
in spite of prayers and positive thoughts;
I believe even God is tired
and that would be saying a lot.
One thing, I think I know
is that you, Paris, love poets
and poetry;
so,
from un poete,
who still hopes
to, one day,
fall in love with your city,
like so many before me,
I freely give you this--
my tears are the ink
upon this page;
my anger is hidden between the words
and lines of this poem,
which is the only prayer I can offer,
along with a single, one-word unanswerable question that,
for me, defines all of humanity--
Why?

©2015 Joseph Powell 

A Different Kind of Blue

There's something about listening to Joni Mitchell,
while driving in the rain;
It's the essence of jazz;
It's the essence of all that is
pure and holy;
like the love of three significant women in my life--
my mama,
who makes me feel like a son,
through laughter
and wisdom;
a daughter,
who calls me Dad;
and the woman,
who wants me to be
her husband;
four,
if you believe
that God can be a woman
when He wants to be,
which is more often than not;
then there are my sisters,
who, in no particular order, are
five and six,
and are joy
and light to me,
in that order.

It's funny,
the things you'll think of
when you're driving in the rain,
while listening to
Joni Mitchell.
It's blue,
like jazz,
like the color of an empty sky,
after the storm has passed.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

A Eulogy For An Examined Life

(for Julian Bond)

If not for him,
and people like him--
What?
What would we be?
Who would we be?
America,
the idea of it;
the promise of it;
the hope for it,
to be better than it is;
to be better than it has been.
To see the other,
in ourselves;
to walk in another man's shoes;
to carry another woman's burden;
to accept the different,
not in spite of that difference,
but because of it.
To sacrifice one's body;
to shed one's own blood;
to speak for those without a voice,
and then provide the microphone
and the stage,
to help them find that voice,
and express it.
We have the tendency
to speak of such people
in lofty tones;
as a lover of words,
who likes to express himself,
using said words,
I'd rather speak
in human tones
of a kind
and gentle man
who tried to do good,
so that
a young child,
affected directly
and indirectly
by such a life,
can grow up,
knowing
what is possible.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

Saddest Lines

Like Neruda,

tonight, I can write the saddest lines;

Write, for example--

Young woman, full of life,

Starting new chapter

In a place, once familiar,

Having her book,

Abruptly ended

by those

who did not know her story.

For example--

Eleven people,

on a night on the town,

whose lives

were irreparably altered

for no foreseeable reason

in the history of

unforeseeable reasons;

how,

a few good men,

charged with defending the country

where they ultimately lost their lives,

undefended;

and how,

cries of ‘enough!’

go unheeded,

like so many

unanswered prayers;

how deaf ears

and blind eyes

and closed mouths

describe

so many of us--

that if we ignore

long enough

the senselessness

going on around us,

it will go away.

But,

as commonly

as the sun rises

and sets,

innocent lives

will no longer be considered

innocent;

black lives

will continue

not to matter;

and those who should lead us,

will be passed over,

by circus clowns

and sideshow freaks

who continue to laugh at us,

while the nation burns.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

Kalief Browder Killed Himself Today

We failed you, my young brother;

we were supposed to look out for you;

supposed to take care of

the least of these;

we were supposed to be brave for you,

speak up for you,

carry the load

that seemed too heavy for you;

but we failed you,

my brother.

Weren’t we taught

that justice is swift,

that justice is blind?

Well, we know,

far too well,

and as you’ve learned,

in the most difficult way,

that justice

is oftentimes

slow as hell

and unforgiving.

And blind?

Blind only to those,

it supposedly serves,

like you,

my brother.

You were supposed to live

a long life--

longevity does have its place;

you were supposed

to see visions;

you were supposed

to ascend

to heights,

higher than anyone

had ever achieved;

you had people in your corner--

family, lawyers,

celebrities;

people who believed in

your possibilities;

and yet,

it wasn’t enough,

my brother.

Your spirit

had already been broken,

at an age,

when it needed to be

sustained.

I never knew you,

my brother,

except,

as one more news story

that’s hard to bear;

but as I sit here,

writing this elegy,

that I hope

doesn’t fail your memory,

I offer up a weary prayer,

from one,

who increasingly

finds it harder to pray,

that you find the peace

you were unable to receive

during your brief sojourn

upon this earth,

and that no one else

has to endure

the failures

that were bestowed upon you.

R.I.P.,

my brother.

© 2015 Joseph Powell

Poet Joseph Powell, appearing @2015 Tucson Festival Of Books

Just a shout-out to those of you who may still check this blog periodically--I am still alive, by the way. If you're in the Tucson, AZ area, please come check me out at the Tucson Festival Of Books. I will be performing spoken-word poetry on the Science City Food Court Stage, Sat. Mar. 14, at 1 pm., as well as selling copies of all three of my books--Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies(1989-2009); Poetry Man; and The Writing's On The Wall. I would appreciate all the support and love, especially if you like what I do and purchase a book. Here's the link with a partial schedule--http://tucsonfestivalofbooks.org/?id=64

I hope to see you all there. Peace.

Auld Lang Syne

As we come to the close of yet another year, I am struck by the effect that choices, even one singular life choice, can have on, not only one's life, but on the lives within the realm of that one life, which can dramatically alter the courses of those lives, for better or for worse. Not that this was a suddenly new revelation or epiphanic moment. Outside of my two marriages and, subsequently, divorces, the last major life-altering decision I made was the decision to remain and set up stakes in southern California, 22 years ago, after deciding to part ways with the job that had brought me there in the first place.

This year, on the cusp of my celebrating reaching the mid-century mark(presuming, God willing and the creek don't rise, the possibility of living to see the full century mark), I made, what is, ostensibly, another life-altering decision, which involved pulling up those aforementioned stakes and setting them down in a place that, as was southern California(none too familiar)--Nashville, Tennessee. And with such a move,
the prospect of new opportunities; new friends; new highs and, most likely, new lows. With such a move, I have left behind lifelong friends and a stepdaughter, who now, with the rarest of exceptions and special occasions, I will get to see via phone calls, texting, and Facebook; memories, great and small, tragic and comic; missed opportunities and roads not taken, for good or ill. With such a move, I have benefitted from a closer relationship with my girlfriend, Cindi and gotten to know her family better; I am closer in proximity to my own blood family, many of whom, I had the pleasure of spending time with and look forward to doing more in the coming year; I have become steadily involved in the growing poetry community here and look forward to not only expanding my horizons within, but also branching out into other arenas(literally and figuratively), both within and without, along with the prospect of becoming more prolific and diverse in my literary output.

As I look forward to a new year and the second half of my life's journey, I leave myself open and welcoming to the experiences that will inevitably come, both within my control and outside of it; hopefully letting God lead the way without too much interference on my part, aside from only what is necessary and warranted. I look forward to more visits with my mother and other members of my family; to re-engaging and reconnecting with friends not seen in many a year; to my daughter's graduation from art school and her budding emergence into the art and animation world and all that that entails, as well as her continued development into the woman she is steadily becoming; to the ever-growing effect that my girlfriend will have on my life and the course it will take, as well as her effect on the company of her employ, whose growth has become dependent upon.

And on a much broader perspective, as I look toward this new year, I can only hope, pray, and wish: for more understanding between the citizens of this world; that greed and reckless power are trumped by compassion and a better grasp of the needs of others, no matter where they are or come from; that the role of the artist(regardless of medium) supersedes that of the politician and those who think they have control over us; that truth and love shine brighter than the sun; and that violence, in any form, is no longer a necessity--whether you're a cop or a soldier; a husband who just lost the means to care for his family; a mother who has exhausted all avenues of caring for her children; or a young man or woman who's never been taught or shown the value of life.

As we sing auld lang syne to the year just passed, and hosannas to the year about to be birthed, I wish us all peace; I wish us all hope; I wish us all beauty; I wish us all truth; and, above all, I wish us all, love. Happy New Year!

Intifada (for the family of Michael Brown, Jr. and the people of Ferguson, MO)

I want to start a riot...
with my words;
I want to be the language
for the unheard;
release Molotov cocktails
in a barrage
of free verse;
explode word bombs
of lyrical meter
into the faces
of the unjust;
I want to be
what the powers-that-be
are unable to hear,
when mothers
are screaming for children
they will never see again;
be the blood
that cries from the ground;
the truth,
they're unwilling to see
when they're face-to-face
with another young black man,
another young black woman,
who,
doesn't deserve to die
at their hands...
at anybody's hands;

I want to be the change
that we need to see in the world,
that says,
that every life matters,
every life matters,
EVERY...
LIFE...
MATTERS!
from the womb
until
it is time
for the tomb;
I want to be
justice,
for Mike Brown;
for Tamir Rice;
for Vonderrit Myers;
for Akai Gurley;
for John Crawford;
for Tanesha Anderson;
for Eric Garner;
for Renisha McBride;
for Jordan Davis;
for Trayvon Martin;
for Oscar Grant;
for the ones we don't hear about,
and the ones, that,...;
I want to be justice,
for us all.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

The Summer Of Our Malcontent(in memory of Michael Brown...et al)

Here's a revolutionary act--
how about,
I'm not going to write
another damn poem
about,
or in tribute to,
or in memory of,
another young black person
gunned down
before their prime,
before their time?
I feel
I've written enough about that;
in fact,
too many
poems, songs,
essays,
and polemics
have been
exerted forth
on the subject.
And you know what?
It hasn't changed
a damn thing!
Hell,
we've passed laws
against discrimination
and police brutality,
and guess what?

You know what I'm saying!

So, no,
we don't need another poem,
another ballad,
another talking head,
or poisoned pen,
extemporizing
and
philosophizing;
expounding and
profounding
on lives lost
needlessly
and unceremoniously;
we need
intelligent,
unpretentious,
non-biased,
no agenda,
malcontents
in law enforcement
and government;
in our schools
and,
by God,
in our churches;
in our communities
and
in our boardrooms;
from the President
down to
the janitor
cleaning toilets
in some
non-descript
building,
in some non-descript
neighborhood--
to have the courage,
the intestinal fortitude
to say,
'It's been more than enough,
for far, far too long,
and damnit,
we're doing something about it;
from shoring up
and storing up
our communities,
to demilitarizing
and retraining our police;
from taking the money
that's going into the pockets
of corporate shareholders
and putting it into the pockets
of neighborhoods
that feel that nobody cares,
that nobody sees,
that their lives don't matter.

But you know what?
I've lived as long
as the Civil Rights Act
has been in existence,
and I've seen over that time,
more blood of innocents spilt;
and I've seen
the righteous forsaken;
and I've seen
promises broken;
and I've just done,
what I said at the outset,
I wasn't going to.
So,
I will lay down my pen,
close my eyes to the light,
and pray,
to a God
I hope is listening,
in spite of my doubt,
in spite of history,
past and present,
that another young black child
lies down safe tonight
and awakes
to a new day.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

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