Yes To Year

Say yes to another year
yes
to new possibilities
new opportunities
new memories

say goodbye
to mistakes made
words said
that should not have been said

say yes
to love
say yes
to love
say yes
to love

say goodbye
to what could have been
to what should have been
to those we’ve lost
because their presence
was required elsewhere
and not in the coming year
except as memories
of when you said yes
to love

say yes
to moving forward
though it may be difficult
and your steps not as quick

say goodbye
to resolutions you were never
going to keep and were never
meant to be in the first place

say yes
to what will be
to what must be

yes,
you must dream dreams
yes,
you must see visions
but
you must also live
and
you must also love
and
you must be present
for whatever the future holds
letting the past
be what it was

In this new year,
say yes to life
say yes to love
say yes to being present
say yes to the new
say yes to being human
because you’re going to make mistakes
and you’re going to say things
that should have not been said
and you’re going to lose people
whose presence will be required
elsewhere

say yes anyway
say yes
say yes
say yes
say
yes

© 2018 Joseph Powell

The Spirit of Baldwin Compels Me

Check out my latest release-my newest collection of poetry. At least a couple years in the making. "31 poems from the pen  of a middle-aged, gifted and black writer, inspired by the spirit and words of the writer, James Baldwin..."


 The Spirit of Baldwin Compels Me

America

You can't do that;
You can't go there;
You can't be this;
You can't say that;
The land of the free
and
The home of the brave
Is neither;
But, rather
a nation
of liars
and cowards
who've made hypocrisy
their national motto
and
homogeneity,
a way of life.

America,
where the poor
are in the way
of the rich
getting richer;
America,
where we'll honor
your cultural contributions,
but we stop short
of saying
that your life matters;
America,
where your tired
and huddled masses
are no longer
welcome;
America,
where you can believe
whatever you want,
as long as it's what we believe;
you can say whatever you want,
as long as
it's something we agree with.

America, America,
you who've killed your prophets
and castigate those
sent to you,
those who want better
for you--
how long
must the cry
to come together
as one nation,
out of many,
indivisible,
be uttered
before
we truly
stand united
as brethren,
lest we
make the mistake
of perishing together
as fools.
No one wants
the house to fall,
but we can expect it
to cease
to be divided.
That is
the choice
we must make;
this is
the path
we must undertake;
anything less
or else,
is unfortunate
and
unforgivable,
and God
help us
all.

© 2016 Joseph Powell 

Is It Enough Yet?!

I just watched an interview this morning on the Today show with a 17-year old girl who was one of the survivors of the Parkland school shooting yesterday. A 17-year old girl who bravely and gracefully recounted, at times through tears, her experience including how she was shot; how her best friend who was next to her was shot and didn't make it; how she was more concerned about her parents' concern and feelings than her own safety and well-being. A girl who in some ways, especially in her gestures, reminded me of my daughter, Santi.

Yeah.

Suffice to say, I am writing this with tears in my eyes and anger in my heart that here we go again. That this has become our reality, our "new normal". This endless loop of shooting, thoughts and prayers, repeat. An endless parade of politicians and talking heads telling us that it's still not time to talk about what's going on; and a country that is growing ever more numb.

Numb to the point that we know not a damn thing is going to be done. That we're ok with children being interviewed about surviving ordeals in places where they're supposed to be safe, while watching their friends and classmates near and around them lose their lives. Children! Who will have to live their lives as a statistic; for whom this day will be seared into their memories for the rest of their lives. This is what we've accepted and who we've become. Children.

More than not wanting to see another child go through this or have to be interviewed about what this was like, I don't want to see or hear another politician talk about "thoughts and prayers ", if that's all they're going to do. Thoughts and prayers aren't going to bring those kids back. Thoughts and prayers aren't going to prevent another shooting. If thoughts and prayers didn't do anything since Sandy Hook...

Children!

Say Red, White & Blue 59 Times

In yet another moment of silence
I want to scream
'Enough is enough!'
Drown out the white noise
Of thoughts and prayers
Being lifted up
To unlistening ears
I understand
That if you shoot the flag
The only color it bleeds
Is red
Blue is the sky
The morning after
The last count
Which is 59
Or is it?
Whatever
It's the current high score
In a national video game
That's never ending
And that no one
Wins
And your tokens are
No longer necessary

© 2017 Joseph Powell 

She Prays For Me(A Daily Ritual of Love)

She prays for me,
when I leave the house
at the break of day,
that I will return to her
as the day closes;
unscathed,
unburdened by
unforeseen dangers
that are only visited upon
a select few;
she watches the news,
as I do;
is bothered by the news,
as I am;
and wonders in her heart,
as I sometimes do--
if today
will be the day,
or tomorrow,
or the day after that,
or the next;

so she prays for me,
when I leave the house
at the break of day,
that I will return to her,
as the day closes--
if only,
to be able to tell her
how my day went.

© 2017 Joseph Powell 

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