Author: whodeanny

Hidden, Unseen

 

The city below me

Paints a picture of progress

With unspoken miracles

So commonly ignored

They’re scattered among us

Hidden, unseen

 

This church around me

Painted a picture of peace

With oft-spoken miracles

Uncommon but ignored

I’m scattered among them

Hidden, unseen

 

These lives distant from me

Painting a picture of purgatory

Their soft-spoken miracles

Too commonly ignored

They scatter from me

Hidden, unseen

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2003

 

 

 

Blackface

 

The face in the mirror

Is black

Not brown or cocoa

Or anything else

The too nice people

Might try to tell me

Since it’s about opposition

And the power of whiteness

The power they validate

By denying it exists

Comes only because I am

And must continue to be

Black

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2003

Ferguson Takeaways 11.26

 

Right now, my main takeaway from the many enlightening ‪#‎Ferguson‬conversations happening right now is still this combination:

 

A) Darren Wilson will never have to risk jail for his decision to shoot and kill Michael Brown while Brown was unarmed

 

B) the lack of an indictment doesn't really shock anyone and

 

C) I CANNOT IMAGINE those realities being true if Wilson were Black and Brown were White.

 

 

The gulf between White and Black America is still vast, systemic and clear. I want to feel confident that #Ferguson will be a catalyst for deep, difficult conversations that lead to long lasting changes.

 

If that happens, Michael Brown will be this generation's Emmett Till. If not, we will have failed him, ourselves and our children as our parents have failed us.

 

God bless us. Every one.

 

 

FDO

Justified Use of Force

 

This summer I told a friend that I couldn't write any more poems about police brutality. So here's an old one.

 

I wrote this initially in 2002 and when performing in public through the years have changed/updated the names. Mike Brown is only the most recent addition to the litany of blood.

 

 

Justified Use of Force

 

  

Every year there’s a new one

A Diallo, Bell, Brown or me

Clamoring loudly

Broken faces on TV

We ask so many questions

But no one’s forced to answer

 

With sympathy’s short half-life

Soon most are hoping for the noise to stop

And the questions to disappear once again

Just like us

In our lives

And our deaths

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2014

  

 

Kitchen

  

I walked from the kitchen

Slowly stopped and turned around

The gentle bubble of pots on the stove

Sounded warm and beautiful

Inviting, so I went back in

 

Watching the lid dance over my soup

I noticed the dry, hot smell

Of cumin drowning in the sweet

Black juice of the beans

 

I felt the smile on my face

And wondered how many times

My granddad stood smiling in his kitchen

With the cornbread beginning to brown

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2002

 

 

 

 

Bloodmoon Morning

Today we had an earth shadow sunrise

As the girth of our Mother

Blackened the light

Forcing her daughter Selena

To hemorrhage

Where she stands

Becoming an artist rendition

Of cousin Mars

 

My sister in Tennessee noticed

20 seconds before I did

My friends in Minnesota

15 seconds later

While I stood in the middle

 

In my silent way

Awed overwhelmed

Gratefully surrounded

By a canopy of stars

Standing sentry over the universe

And me too

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2014

 

 

Just Past Middle

 

This isn't the best poem I've ever written about my mother but it's the one I can share today.

 

 

Black female

Just past middle

Age weight height

Okay not height

 

She’s lived through

And fought so much

More than I know

 

Saving me from what life

Might, but never

Would, have been

 

Because she is

My mother

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2003

 

 

Last Train from Overbrook

 

 

I love this tune from James Moody. It’s bright, bouncy and surprising. This is just three minutes of fun. I don’t know anything about the history of the song or the place called Overbrook (although I think Wilt Chamberlain went to an Overbrook High) or even James Moody himself.  The music has always caused me to envision this track as a celebration of an amazing night out. Moody takes the last train because you’d want to linger as much as possible on a night like this one!

 

The title though brought to mind something entirely different though, likely caused by the demise of Central State Hospital near the West Indianapolis neighborhood my grandparents lived in for decades. I began contemplating what it might mean to be on the last train from a place called Overbrook that had a purpose similar to that of Central State; caring for people battling mentally illness.  

 

This poem is the result.

 

                                                                    

The Last Train from Overbrook

 

 

The last train from Overbrook is leaving today

I suppose it’s about time

But this has come to feel like home to me

 

My tiny windows give me just enough light

To see the stream across the bridge;

This really is a gorgeous view

I know that Dr. Baylor was right, now

Rest and some down time made the difference

Thankfully everything is fine

 

This winter will be wonderful

I already can sense it, now that I’m well

The snowy days will be peaceful

With laughing kids reminding me of my own childhood

Not like last year’s taunting jeers

 

And Christmas, wow,

I can’t wait for Christmas

Even though I won’t buy any presents

It will still be thrilling

Maybe I’ll go out some night

Just looking at the store windows and houses

Decked out so lavishly

 

My apartment will be nice

With so many little things that I like

Some books, my pipe

Maybe a couple pictures too

Not the sad kind that make me feel lonely

But happy laughing photos

Filling frames and space

Some with people I used to know

 

The last train from Overbrook is leaving today

I know it’s just about time

To trade a home for home

 

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2014