Ode to the Girl in the Red Shoes, Suffering and the Life I know Now, From Dust to Diamond, The Scuttlebutt on How an Ex-Trophy Wife's Ship Came In

Ode to the Girl in the Red Shoes


She had wind-tousled hair and make-up applied with care.
Her skirt was freely moving in the gentle night air.
Six feet tall she seemed from her hips to her knees.
Only her true height those shoes did deceive.

Her ruby red platforms, with two inch thick soles
and their six inch heels first caught my eye,
but then those tight shoes made her squirm from side to side
and shift her weight from shoe to shoe.

The pain on her face and the slouch in her stance
seemed to document an exquisite pain,
for those shoes were made for sitting,
not even for walking and certainly not for a dance.

They made me think of that old saying that beauty is pain.
She’d paid six hundred dollars for those stylish red shoes,
but considering her empty pocketbook
and her cursing feet, just what did she gain?
 

Suffering and the Life I Know Now

Red hot, gut-searing pain, projectile vomiting, and diarrhea doubled me over into the fetal position. Sweat mingled with the tears that dripped off my chin.

When I arrived at the emergency room, the nurses started an IV, attached EKG leads to my chest and legs, and injected a heavy dose of morphine. STAT X-rays showed nothing, and the pain intensified in spite of the narcotic. A cardiac event had to be ruled out, so I was admitted to CICU (the cardiac intensive care unit).

To make sure I was getting the necessary treatment, a nitroglycerin patch was stuck just under the front of my left shoulder. This maneuver only added skull-busting agony that made death seem a welcome alternative to the agonies I was experiencing. Percocet, another pain killer, provided the welcome oblivion to all sensations.

I drifted in and out of fitful sleep, for every few minutes, it seemed someone came in to draw blood, to take my blood pressure, to ask how I was feeling. Machines beeped all around me as more and more uncomfortable tests seemed to be invented just for me.

What was the matter? Why couldn’t the cause of so much agony be found? An alphabet of tests followed; no cardiac event was found. The agonies abated until I returned home and ate a healthy meal. Then the previous scenario repeated itself with an even greater intensity, until an elderly doctor diagnosed my gall bladder inflammation, ordered STAT emergency surgery, and declared me but fifteen minutes away from a catastrophic event, one that probably would have proved fatal. It seemed a gallstone was hidden behind the bile duct and had not been discovered by any of the tests.

I woke to a different kind of pain, one which came after half of the front of my body had been opened for the emergency surgical procedure. It seemed I had cheated death, and would have to go through a healing period at home. I spent the next six weeks in the recovery mode, away from my job, at the mercy of the kindness of family, and welcoming the periodic doses of pain killer. After the first week, I was afraid of becoming addicted to the drugs, so I lengthened the time between doses. By the end of the second week, I was taking the prescription only every twelve hours, once in the morning and again at bedtime.

I slept, healed, worried not about anything, and learned that for the first time in a long time, I could not be everything to everyone else and nothing to myself. Considering past suffering and the life I know now, I do not feel selfish or guilty for taking time to care for myself. I realized I had always been the dutiful daughter of, student of, wife of, mother of, teacher of, and the family Ms Fix-it of everyone’s trauma drama that had multiplied until I was forced to learn that whether I was all things to everyone, the sun would still come up and lightning would not strike me if I dared to say NO.
 

From Dust to Diamond

Though it was not my business, I was intrigued by what I thought I had just heard. I did not want to seem to be eavesdropping, but I could not help but take a seat on a nearby bus stop bench. I did not know what had transpired between them before I happened upon the elderly man and the disheveled teenager, but I was struck by what the elderly man said. “You are not dust. You are diamonds,” was what I heard him say to the grime-covered, matted hair teen-ager who was sitting on a cast-off milk crate near the Metro stop. The skinny boy’s face was scarred, his clothes tattered, and his hands were trying to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun as he glanced up at the old man, who was perched on the edge of a wooden park bench. He was the color of dark chocolate and weighed maybe a buck twenty with all of his clothes. His cottony hair formed a halo around his head and curled in ringlets over and between his ears and glasses.

As I sat on my bench and tried not to appear too obvious, the lunch hour rush of pedestrians and traffic intensified. The frantic honk and screeching brakes of a camel-colored Mercedes were followed by a woman screaming at a jaywalker who had nearly provided her new Benz with an ugly human hood ornament before it even had permanent tags. The jaywalker smiled an “I’m sorry” and hurried on across the street against the red light. The old man’s, the boy’s, and my eyes followed her as she ducked into an office building.

Then the old one said something I did not hear, but the boy shook his head “no.” This time, I clearly heard the man say that he was hungry and wondered if the boy would like to share his lunch. It was the same negative head shake reply, but I saw the wishful look on the boy’s face as he eyed the older man’s lunch—a hunk of chocolate cake, a fat ham, lettuce, and tomato sandwich wrapped in tinfoil, apple slices in a fast food restaurant’s still unopened plastic bag, and a peppermint patty. Once he had spread everything out on a napkin, at the end of his bench, he again asked, then beckoned to, the boy, who was obviously hungry. Like a street-wise cur, the boy inched closer, still shaking his head no, as his hand tentatively reached out. Again, “You are not dust. You are diamonds,” was what I heard him say to the boy. By now, the boy was eyeing the candy, but the man held out half his sandwich and the peppermint.

Finally, the boy dared to speak. “Mister, I can’t take your food. What do you mean about my being diamonds? I can’t even afford dust, not to mention diamonds! If I could afford diamonds, do you think I’d be living out here on the streets?”

By now, I had named the man Grandfather. He was obviously concerned about this castaway child, but it was also apparent he seemed but one step away from being a castaway himself.

“Son, I see the potential for greatness in you. You are polite, your posture is erect, and you are not a nuisance beggar. What would you want to do with your life if money were no object?”

The teenager’s eyes filled with tears as he said he would like to be a doctor who ran a free clinic for the homeless, a clinic that would provide a place to bathe and to launder their clothes, a place where they would not be regarded as though they were invisible, a place where people like him could feel human. Grandfather nodded in assent, a small smile playing with the corners of his mouth. He slid toward the opposite side of his bench, pulled the napkin toward the center, and patted the opposite end as he invited the boy to have a seat. The teenager shuffled closer, eyeing Grandfather cautiously, ready to run if he sensed danger.

“Son, let me tell you a story that someone long ago shared with me. She said I was diamonds and not dust, but I did not believe her. She was my mother. We were so poor that when I returned home from school one day, I saw all of our things on the sidewalk, being picked through by human vultures. Imagine my shame at our being evicted! I began to ball my fists, ready to fight anyone meddling with our belongings, but my mother repeated her quote about dust and diamonds. I thought she was crazy, but she said there were blessings hiding behind our temporary challenges. I couldn’t see any blessings through my frustration. We lost all of our material possessions that day. Between the human vultures and the fierce thunderstorm’s winds and rain that evening, there was nothing of any value left. I let anger rule my behavior for more years than I’d like to remember, but one day, after I had reached the bottom of the ditch I’d dug my life into, I remembered my mother’s words. It was almost as a revelation when the thought occurred that only through extreme pressure or hardship, could dust become a diamond. I had been dust long enough. I needed to polish my diamond—just as you will surely polish yours. You see, you already have a dream. It took me much longer to realize mine, but when I did decide to forge ahead, my life took a positive turn. Now, I’m not by any means wealthy, but I have enough to spare and to share. My church is a couple of blocks from here. We serve the homeless, the hungry, and the spiritually adrift. I’m the sexton there, and if you are in need of anything, please don’t feel ashamed to avail yourself of our help. Who knows where you or I will end up? We’re only passengers on life’s boat. We don’t hold the tiller, but we can make the most of where we are and what we have. Do you…?”

Before I could hear the rest of what Grandfather was saying, an emergency vehicle’s Claxton air horn and a nearby jackhammer simultaneously shattered the crystalline silence. When I looked again, the old man and the teenager were quietly eating a shared lunch.

My bus came, and as I boarded it, I wondered how that little vignette of lives ended. Did the teenager ever go to the church? How had the Grandfather acquired “enough to spare and to share?” What had he finally realized his dream to be? Would the teenager ever polish his dusts into diamonds? “You are not dust. You are diamonds” was what I took away with me that day. I also started to wonder how I could turn my dusts in diamonds. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what Grandfather said to the street urchin. He saw beneath the grime and encouraged the diamonds to emerge.

It was not until my curiosity pricked at my consciousness about his church that I made the time to visit Grandfather’s church near the bus stop on my way home. It was only then that I learned that he had been a lottery winner of five million dollars. He was a volunteer sexton now, had seen to it that his church had gotten a new roof to replace the old one that cried whenever the earth received a facial of rain or snow, and was a tither. He had also funded an education scholarship to help any person with a dream but no means. It was only then that I remembered the small smile when he had when he told the teenager he had “enough to share and to spare.”

When I left the church, I still did not know if the teenager had accepted the old man’s offer, but I would like to believe that he did. I certainly hope he polished his dust, that his diamond will help someone else to pay it forward.


The Scuttlebutt on How an Ex-Trophy Wife’s Ship Came In


Delphine sits, rifle across her lap to dispatch errant rattlesnakes. She rubs her face, where her wrinkled skin shows evidences of the sun’s ravages over the last twenty years of her self-imposed isolation. She twirls wispy strands of her long gray hair that escaped the single, mid-waist length, disheveled braid. After her nasty divorce, she just wanted to be alone, away from the scandal, and in a place where she did not have to be or to do anything for anyone other than herself.

For too many years, she’d been the obedient daughter and dutiful wife, but now, she felt the freedom offered by her stretch of desolate dry land, where tumble weed disturbed nothing except an occasional dust devil or a rattler trying to escape the broiling sun. “After nearly twenty years of traveling the world with him and the military, that news of his affairs nearly drove me to suicide. How could he leave me after all our years together? Why did he have to drag me through the muck and mire of a nasty divorce?”

The bitterness and anger had stayed fresh in her mind ever since the divorce. At fifty-nine, she didn’t bother to go to the beauty parlor to get the upswept hairdo he said he liked—even though its upkeep had been a nightmare of rollers, pin curls, and holding spray. She didn’t worry about her once red hair now streaked with few red strands but mostly gray. “No more do I have to endure having to look for the Clairol shade to cover my gray roots.” As she looked down at her hands, she noticed her nails, which no longer wore the manicured lipstick red polish he bought; they had nicks and ridges and the cuticles were ragged. The last manicure was a long ago memory.

Since no farmhand or another person lived within fifteen miles, Delphine did all of the chopping of wood, the mending of fences, the hunting for meat to augment her vegetable garden. She could not release the recurring thoughts that were never far from her mind. “How many of our friends had known about his affairs, his other life, and laughed behind my back? Did the Navy have any inkling of his impending divorce intentions? Why hadn’t I been aware of what was going on instead of trying to be the perfect and dutiful military spouse? Once the affairs became public knowledge, I heard the titters every time I entered a room of our so-called friends.”

She imagined everyone talking about her naiveté to what had been a well-kept secret for so many years. No one had bothered to voice their suspicions, and she never thought to question their “perfect” marriage.

A jack rabbit cast a long shadow as it sought the shade of her front porch. She fingered her rifle, rubbed its stock, and let it rest. It would have made perfect sense to kill it, but its presence somehow provided companionship, if only for a brief moment. Besides, there was plenty of meat already in her small freezer, and she didn’t want to be wasteful if the power died and the generator failed to kick in. The last bad storm had left her without power for a week, and the generator had quit after the second day, leaving her with a freezer of spoiled food. She rocked back and forth, enjoying the movement and the silence. “Critter, today is your lucky day. I’m not in a shooting mood. You get to go back to your family, or wherever your home is.”

Suddenly, she felt uneasy. Was that dust on the far horizon, or was it smoke? There was not much to burn around her, but she knew of dry woods a ways away. She watched and waited. Finally, she could see dust coming as the result of some vehicle stirring it up and coming fast toward her.

“Who in the world could be coming here?” came to mind, but she felt both uneasy and anxious for company. As the dust grew closer, she recognized the silhouette of a Jeep with its top down. Her husband, Vernon, had always favored Jeeps, but why would he be coming to see her? A lump began to form in her throat, and her stomach felt the presence of butterflies out of control. The drone of the car’s engine competed with the silence, but still Delphine didn’t, couldn’t, move.

It was evident now that two people were in the car, but she couldn’t see who they were. “Oh, well, just wait and see. They’ll be here soon enough.” The Jeep was almost close enough to yell a greeting, but Delphine still remained silent, seated, and wary. She didn’t recognize the people. “Who are these people? Are they lost? What could they possibly want with me?”

The car pulled up close to the porch, and a short, bald man dressed all in black was the first one out of the passenger side. She noticed his expensive, fancy boots. The metal-covered, extremely pointy toes made her wince as she sympathized with his cramped and probably painful toes. The gold crosses outlined on each instep had a suede insert, but the rest of the boots were made of ostrich. Delphine thought of someone religious as she continued to scrutinize the boots.

“Are you Ms Delphine Atkinson who used to be married to Admiral Vernon Atkinson?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m John Schwartz, an independent arbitrator trying to settle the late Admiral’s estate, and you are still listed as his next of kin, which is causing quite a stir with his latest liaison. You see, your name was never removed from his insurance papers, and there is quite a sum on the insurance policy. His long-term love is upset that there is nothing covering their new family. I’ve been retained to ask your cooperation in relinquishing claim to the insurance since you have been divorced for so long and since he had been cared for through his series of illnesses and disabilities by his common-law spouse.”

“I have had no contact with Vernon or his doings since I left him, and I thought he had married, now that the laws have changed.”

“No. ma’m. He never got married or changed the beneficiary on his life insurance. In all fairness, don’t you think it only right to agree to sign off on his estate?”

“Look, I don’t know about any policy or anything about his estate, but I do know anything with my name on it is mine. I’m not signing anything. Whatever is left to me is rightfully mine, but it could never be enough to compensate me for the pain and shame his affairs caused me.”

The driver exited the car, and approached the porch. Delphine noticed the facial skin lesions, the halting walk and bony frame, and held her rifle even tighter. Still, she did not stand, but her back straightened and she leaned forward to be able to look more closely at the driver.

“As hot as this sun is today, why y’all riding with that top down? Sunburn is going to be a painful thing once y’all get home tonight. Did you both know Vernon?”

“Only I knew Vernon closely and for a long time. Mr. Schwartz learned of him only after his death and the reading of his will. Didn’t you receive the notification of his death? He died three months ago.”

“No one notified me of anything. How did you know Vernon? Were you friends or his latest conquest?”

“Ms Delphine, I know you are still angry about how things happened, but you need to release the past. It won’t do you, or anyone else, any good to keep on replaying old hurts and disappointments. Right now, the only reason we came all this way was to ask you to do the right thing and sign off on the insurance. Vernon just overlooked changing the beneficiary, and no one realized it until his will was read. Won’t you please consider…?”

“I don’t know who you are, and right now, I don’t really care. What I do know is I’m not signing anything, not today, tomorrow, or ever. Vernon owed me whatever he left. When we divorced, he took everything. He said since I had never worked, the assets were his, that I needed to move on and get a job and stop depending on him for everything. So, you see, if there is anything with my name on it, it is mine, and mine alone. Let his trick get a job and move on with life.”

“Ms Delphine, you don’t understand. Yes, Vernon could be hard, but he was fair. To leave the last person caring for him with nothing is just not fair. He died calling out for a person; it was not you, but me. There is no way I can get a job and move on. Yes, Vernon was my long-time, common-law spouse, but we could never legally marry.”

“Why couldn’t you marry? The laws have changed. Even out here, I know that. Why should I care one little bit about you? I gave Vernon the best years of my life. I pulled up and moved whenever his orders changed. I didn’t have children because he said he didn’t want them. I smiled and made nice-nice and pretty-pretty in our homes and with those I thought were our friends. As you can see, I’m living here, isolated, in an efficiency house, with only a cell phone and shaky life conveniences. I do everything to survive here. I’m the cook, the plumber, the gardener, the handy person, the exterminator, and the woman scorned and cast away. Why should I care if you cannot get a job and move on? You took my husband. You ruined a perfect marriage, and now, you want me to do the right thing?! I suggest you might want to leave now. Leave before I start to shoot the both of you! If you see one tear, you had better start to run, because right now, I’m mad enough to cry, and when I get this mad, I start to want to shoot something or someone.” She stood and leveled her rifle in her visitors’ direction.

The arbitrator rubbed the sweat dripping into his eyes. “M’am, could you spare a drink of water? It’s so hot out here. I know you’re upset right now, but people who knew you when you and the Admiral were married said you had a good heart and a loving disposition. Could you have pity on someone about to collapse in this heat? All I want is a cold drink. We can leave shortly so you can have time to think about our request. We might even be willing to try to agree to your splitting the inheritance once you understand the gravity of this situation.”

“Mr. Schwartz, I’m not heartless. Excuse my lack of manners, but I have not interacted with another person in a long, long time. I will get you both something cold to drink, but you must leave as soon as you get it. I’m not willing to share anything from the will with anyone.”

Just as she turned to go inside, she glimpsed Schwartz try to keep his companion from falling. It seemed the heat had taken its toll on the driver, who sank to the ground in a rumpled heap. She noticed that the breathing seemed labored and shallow, and Delphine went to help the arbitrator get his companion into the shade on the floor of her porch.

“Ms Delphine, you can see how sick my client is. There is no way gainful employment is a possibility, and since no marriage ever took place, no military spousal health care is available.”

“Mr. Schwartz, I’m sorry your client is so ill and uninsured, but that is not my concern. What’s the nature of this illness that prevents gainful employment? Y’all drove all the way over here, in the heat and with the top down, like two complete fools. And now, you want my sympathy? What kind of fool do you think I am?”

Before Schwartz could answer, his companion stirred, moaned, and feebly tried to sit up. Delphine bent down, offered her hand-held fan, and retreated to her well to draw water. Schwartz and his client sat in silence, wiping sweat, trying to come up with another approach to convince Delphine to relinquish her claim.

Schwartz finally said, “Your only hope is to appeal to her sympathy, but as angry as she is still, you’re going to have to level with her about why you’re sick and unable to work. She might take pity on you if you level with her. Anything is worth a try to soften her heart. You can’t afford to keep secrets now.”

Delphine came back with the water and offered to get glasses, but the driver asked if she would just refill their thermoses. They did not want glasses.

“Ms Delphine, my client has something to tell you that might influence your final decision. We’re willing to give you ample time within the next week or so to let us know your final decision. Please listen and then do the right thing.”

“Delphine, Vernon and I were lovers for the last fifteen years. I did not take him from you, but I did love and honor him. When he had his first stroke, I never left his side for three months. He recovered, but we learned that he had a peculiar kind of pneumonia, one that left him weak and debilitated. Then he developed Kaposi’s sarcoma. Tests showed his T-cell count was abnormally low, and the diagnosis was that Vernon was HIV positive. We had lived together, worked together, had unprotected sex, and as a result, I contracted the virus from Vernon. It seems he had had other affairs on the side, lovers I knew nothing about, so I can sympathize with how you must have felt when you found out about his adulterous affairs. Vernon died from complications of AIDS, and now I also have it. I cannot work. I have no health insurance. The house we shared is in foreclosure, and the only thing I have is Vernon’s vintage Jeep. Its top does not work. That’s why we drove out here with the top down. I beg of you to have mercy on me. If you ever loved Vernon, know he did not hate you. He simply said that your marriage had been a big mistake and that he regretted ruining a good woman’s life and reputation. Delphine, Vernon was trying to do what was expected of him. He loved the Navy, but he knew he could never advance in rank if anyone found out his secrets. Marriage was what was expected of a ‘normal’ man. He said he loved you as a companion, but his heart knew he really had no romantic interests in you. He kept you on a pedestal because you were his trophy wife. He admitted he had been with many partners, even before he married you. He did you a favor by ending your marriage when he did. At least you got out before he made you sick. You lost material possessions, but you are the lucky one. You’re healthy.”

“Look. What is your name? I’m sorry you’re sick and that you were infected by Vernon. I’m sorry that he had to disguise what an adulterer he really was. I’m sorry that you are in such dire straits, but mine is the name listed as his beneficiary. Mr. Schwartz, how much is the estate worth anyway? You never gave any amounts.”

“Ms Delphine, Admiral Vernon Atchinson’s estate is worth approximately a million dollars, but all of his assets, like the palatial house and his insurance policy, are tied up until we can settle his estate with your help.”

Delphine’s voice did not reveal her astonishment. As she looked at Vernon’s latest and last liaison, whose name was Chris Wellborn-Atchinson, all she could say was, “I’ll think about your request, but I can’t give you an answer right now. I’m sorry you are so sick, but Vernon should have made provisions for you. Come back after I have had a chance to consult with a good lawyer. It may take me a few days.”

Mr. Schwartz and Chris left, and Delphine sat and rocked and cried. Finally, everyone knew Vernon’s secret. She had kept it all these years, and now, she had to make a hard decision. She had always stayed to herself after she found out that Vernon was only using her, that the reason for their divorce had nothing to do with her, but rather with Vernon’s wanting a relationship with another naval officer. Now, she had the opportunity to profit from all the years she had been his cover, his convenience. Yet, Chris was sick, deserved something, had been as deceived as she had been, and was maybe dying.

Two weeks later, Delphine had decided to let Chris have the house and to split the insurance policy. She called Mr. Schwartz to share her decision, only to learn that Chris had taken a turn for the worse once they returned home and had died exactly nine hours before Delphine called with her offer to share. Delphine would be the sole beneficiary, and the assets were hers. Schwartz told her the estate’s lawyers would be contacting her to make the final arrangements. She felt bad about Chris and offered to provide for the funeral. She told Schwartz to put the house up for sale, for she would never live there. Chris had left no family survivors.

“Imagine, after all these years, Vernon’s secret was his disgrace and not mine. He lived his life as he wanted, and now, he’s dead. I’m going to use some of his inheritance to fix up my house, get some indoor plumbing, and maybe take a trip around the world. This time, however, I’ll not be the dutiful military wife, but rather the independently wealthy woman who can finally let go of her anger at being dumped. I may even go back to getting a weekly manicure, cut my hair, and buy some lady-like clothes. I’ll consider hiring someone to do the heavy chores around here. Dear Vernon, may your soul finally rest in peace. And by the way, dear, thank you for being so occupied with being an adulterer that you neglected to change your beneficiary or to notice that I was so unhappy or hurt when you dumped me…for another man.”

Soulful Rock

Unnoticed Melodies at Tinmouth Pond

Barbara D. Parks-Lee

Birds line up on the wires
like black notes on a staff.

A rock, older than time,
softly hums its music
not only to itself but also
in concert with other rocks
around it—and also with me.

The crunch of gravel as the car approaches
beats a percussive accompaniment
to the morning’s rhythm,
while clouds crescendo
against the mountain’s crest,
waiting for the imminent tympani of thunder
amidst the chirping of birds,
like high C’s from a coloratura soprano.
The lowing of Guernsey cows
provides the sound of cellos,
and the whispers of winds through trees
resemble the sweet sounds of a harp.
The squeak of a table
brings in the violin
as well as the flute and the piccolo.
Mountain peaks seem like chests that inhale,
then exhale rhythms in nature’s cathedral
of emerald, chartreuse, and hunter
while an occasional outcropping
of whitened trees, long void of leaves,
stand as soldierly conductors
directing the concertos
I seldom take the time to hear.
To take the time to appreciate nature’s music
influences my breath, sharpens my hearing,
massages my eyes, and reaffirms
my connectedness to everyone and everything.

It allows me to rejoice in the essences
not only of people but also in the soul
of a rock beside the road,
at the entrance to Tinmouth Pond, Vermont.

Getting Through the Going Through

Getting Through the Going Through

Only dust under great pressure

can become diamonds.

The human pressures make

our dust into diamonds—

Diamonds hardened and annealed

in the hot bowels of

love and anger, hurt and disbelief,

joy and pain, and losses

that seem too great to endure—

Only to come out from under

untold pressures to emerge,

sparkling diamonds—

humans who cried, survived,

loved, endured,

caretakers who triumph,

able to use our diamonds

to cut through the pain of loss

and inevitable change.

Ancestors to Generations Burlap to Velvet

From Burlap to Velvet
Life is not always velvet.
Often, burlap moments define the spirit
by scratching away the rough edges.

Those things that are painful make us more aware
of the things that are pleasant,
for we can then appreciate the heights
after having been in the valleys of despair.

Burlap symbolizes the things we need to do
to grow into our fullest potential.
Burlap can be an irritant or a stimulant;
only we can decide which it will be.

Velvet smoothes the spirit,
massages the soul,
shows the results of many years
and more than the results of countless scars.

When the velvety darkness of depression
o’ertakes the core of one’s being,
it is the scratchiness of burlap moments
that revives the grit, the will to fight.

No, life is not always velvet.
It is sometimes burlap
as rough as sandpaper.

The choices we make
decide the textures we experience,
but going from burlap makes velvet
the rough edges of the soul.





Annapolis

The slave, my ancestor,
may have stood here—
scared, shackled, for sale—
on Annapolis’ dock.

No one commiserated with
or cared about
the feelings, the frustrations, the fears
of one now regarded as less than one.

One human being whose
dignity was stolen
by the duplicity of another
may have breathed fresh air—
free from the fetidness
of the slave ship’s accommodations—

but not freedom, no, not freedom.


















Family Heroes

Some arrived aboard slave ships.
They worked from “can ’til can’t,”
rising before day and falling into hard pallets
for troubled slumber
long after the setting of the sun.

Money was in short supply,
but love was always in abundance
for family and adopted family alike.
If someone dropped in at dinner time,
a miracle meal or watered-down soup appeared.

Children were nurtured and taught the manners
that would help them make their ways
in the hard world that reality and experience would bring,
once the safety of home had been left
and the protection of parents could be no more.

Simple pleasures built one atop the other,
making a solid framework of mind memories
that would grow and twist like grapevines in the mind
as everyone sought to make a way out of no way
and to survive to smile in the sun.

No one told them the way would be easy
or that their humanity equally valued.
Yet they, whose ancestors came on slave ships,
dared to work, to struggle, to raise families,
to survive in the accomplishments and in the memories
of those who came behind.

I marvel at their tenacity and the strength of their spirits.

February 4, 1999




Ancestors

Along the centuries, my ancestors, have worked
and learned and taught.
Some had it easy; most did not.
Many cried, and others died while
trying to make life better for their children
and their children’s children’s children.

Today, I wonder if what I’ve done and what I’ve taught
will make any difference to those of my
family that has grown to include the world.
How many will cry because someone died
a senseless death, a sacrifice to the new slavery
that binds us to addictions and to material things?

I wonder just what the missing links in the chain
of humanity that have preceded me think
about what we think and where we go and
with whom we talk and how we obsess about
that which, in the long run, will lie in tatters before we’re debt-free.

What must these predecessors think when they see
the lack of love we show for ourselves and others
when we practice, “me first” and violence on a grand scale?
Do they wonder if all they endured went for naught,
Or do they see a brighter day coming about which we know not?

February 4, 1999








Remembrances During February

I know Carter G. Woodson chose February
because it was the birth month for
Abe, the Great Political Emancipator,
and Frederick who freed and personalized
his slave name with an extra “s.”

Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass were men
who did what they each had to do,
but what about all the unsung, unlisted,
unknown-by-all-save-a-few, but not unappreciated,
heroes and sheroes whose lives and
very beings demanded FREEDOM?

What about Harriet and Malcolm and Thurgood and Sojourner?
Aren’t their birth months important too?
What about ancestors with scarred backs and stooped bodies
whose labor and blood and sacrifices built America?
Who declared their existence worthy of remembrances?

Do we allow ourselves to forget
that, yes, we, too, have had our historical holocaust—
or do we even fail to learn about our physical
and emotional strength during times of horrors
too unimaginable to speak, too unthinkable to remember?

There’s a new holocaust now.
What better way to keep a people enslaved
than to help them to exterminate themselves?!
The new oppressors we harbor unto ourselves:
Crack, Smack, Booze, Brand names, Competition for material possessions—
All of these possess us instead of just the reversed.

Instead of our things being our toys,
we become the toys, wound tighter and tighter
by our things until
something or someone has to give!

The body count rises
as surely as did that in all the previous wars ever fought.
Violence no longer comes equipped with a name.
It permeates our beings, darkens our lives,
and hangs like a time bomb.

We become callous to the continuing carnage.
Oh? Just another young Black man (or woman)
for the body bag carriers, and the vultures
that hawk the bad news in the media
who circle, camera and mikes in hand, ready to give a fast,
but fleeting, recognition to a person
whose life’s accomplishments
will never call for a holiday or a special occasion.

They who destroy themselves
and help others to destroy us
do not need just a February remembrance.
There must be an unending, always vigilant awareness
lest Black History Month be a long ago memory
in the world of tomorrow.

2-5-90














Frederick Douglass


He shakes his hoary mane and raises himself
to the full elegance of his stature.
A piercing flame-like stare startles those
who thought him to be long dead.

“How dare you regress to a point even before my time!
You, who maim and kill and rape each other,
make everything we endured worthless, absolutely futile.
Being a slave was not a condition I chose;
rather, it was thrust upon me, and upon many like me.
Today, I am appalled to see you voluntarily enslaving yourselves.
You sniff the white powder
or refuse any but the latest brand names,
pump young girls’ bellies full of babies
with so-called African-sounding names,
Then you disappear,
not sold like the slave master sold us,
But rather like smoke in a fast-driving wind.
Another conquest, another game—
Your attitude, however: ‘Oh, well, whatever.’”

“We followed “the drinking gourd” to get to freedom.
Too many of you follow the cult of a forty and a blunt
Straight into the oblivion of temporary forgetfulness.
Learning to read, for us, was a capital crime.
Today you seem to think reading is a waste of your time.
We struggled with a language not really ours,
But we know what you disdain.
Speaking and writing distinctly helped us answer our prayers.
For to get money we weren’t, and you are, afraid to train
Ourselves for a better life to come, but you----”

Again, he shakes his hoary mane, raises himself to his full stature, glances over his shoulder, and settles back into his grave.

The New Slaves

The new slaves wear golden chains,
not those of forged iron.
The new collars proclaim for all the world
the voluntary nature of their owners’
SLAVERY to substances designed to

Control the mind and kill the body.
A people turned against themselves
exterminate themselves just

As long as they can wear trinkets of gold
and are allowed to enrich Gucci
and Used and Guess and all the other hustlers

Who laugh, on the way to their banks,
while an endangered species sequesters its coins,
incarcerates its men, and buries

Its future with the bodies of its children!
The new slaves worship at the altars
of materialism and greed and instant

Gratification of the self.
They think not of the anguish of
the wives and the mothers whose

Lives are forever torn asunder.
There is no value placed on strong men
and innocent children

And those wizened by age
shake their heads at the carnage
the new slaves inflict upon one and all alike.

The new slaves, dressed in the finest cloth
and arrayed in the finest of the fine,
wear what they wear and do what they do

With the abandon of those who know that their time
is numbered and that their kind is expendable.
After all, there is no need to worry the family

about the new slaves’ shrouds,
for these slaves are dressed finer
than the slaves buried with the pharaohs,

and the silken folds of the finest clothes
and the gaudiest of jeweled chains
that hang around the necks of the new volunteers

are but a small price to pay
when the slave takes the vow that says,
“I might die young, but I will have lived well,

even though mine will be a closed-casket funeral.”

10-10-90























“At Risk” Black Child

Black child, you lay, dead, under a sheet.
Only your hand grasped at the life you had so suddenly departed.

Black child, you of so many promises
but of so little accomplishment,
took the “at risk” title to heart,
and now you lay dead,
under a sheet, your hand yet grasping
at dreams you’ll never dream,
at aspirations you’ll never accomplish,
at life in a society that condemned you to
DEATH.

2-28-90





















Negritude
(Dedicated to Dunbar Senior High School students killed
on the streets of Washington, D. C.)

Black man-child,
Sprawled you lay under a sheet
on the sidewalk, your left hand
grasping at the last moments of life.

Some “he-said, she-said” nonsense
had snuffed out your life,
as quickly as a candle’s flame dies.

Now people gawked at your remains
as the insensitivity of the city
left you for over one hour where you fell.

No one stopped to think of your African lineage
or your American potential.
Automatic weapons fire knows no lineage, pride, or culture.

Black woman-child, almost a week to the day,
you followed Black man-child
into the next transition.

Gunfire closed your eyes
and stilled your lips forever.
Had you seen or talked too much?

No one stopped to think of your African lineage
or your American potential.
Bullets to the head know no lineage, pride, or culture.

Each of you was just another Black child dead,
and the city cared not that you were a descendant
of queens and kings who civilized the world before history was written.

2-5-90
A Woman’s Hands Like Stone
A woman’s hands like stone
rocked the cradles, tilled the soil,
planted the crops, and soothed my anguish.

Hands like stone rubbed salve
On a fevered chest,
spanked my out-of-control behind,
yet loved us all.

Hands like stone baked the cakes,
made the pies and wiped away
the tears the world caused her to cry.
























The Mule’s Got A Mind of Is Own

Call me “America’s mule.”
Think of me as untiring and stubborn and unfeeling.

Water me with unkept promises.
Feed me with the venom that’s left
after you have loved everyone else
except yourself.

Keep me juggling problems you created,
and watch me grow stronger
and stubborner
and smarter

until I love myself enough to
live my life without you and
Be Happy.



















Death Song for My Sister Friend
(for Clara M. Rodgers)

The lump I felt, I ignored,
ignored.
I knew, knew what it was,
but my fears would not
let me admit
that I needed, needed
to act now, sooner than now
if my life were to be spared.

Mom survived her mastectomy
and lives
a full and healthy life.
Can I?

How can I leave,
leave my job, my children,
my responsibilities
to take time for myself,
for me?

Too long I procrastinated, haunted
haunted by what was yet to come:
The surgery, the burning radiation,
the poisonous chemotherapy
Wrought changes I knew,
knew would come.

But, surprisingly, losing my hair, my breast, having my skin turn dark
didn’t affect me as much--as much
as having my nails turn black,
a harbinger,
a harbinger of my death
soon to come.


Death Song Part Two
(for Clara M. Rodgers)
It is snowing now, not much
but in wisps like your shallow breathing.

We’ve come a long way together you and I,
and now we face yet another journey.

There is a joy at having been a part of your life,
yet there is sorrow and pain for those of us left behind.

Your essence is eternal.

I’ll never see an icy street without laughing aloud
at the memory of us playing Abbott and Costello
on the street in front of your house.

In difficult situations, I’ll see your electric smile
and hear you saying, “Let me work a little magic.”

From red-afroed Warrior Woman
to calm and stately Silver Fox and “Grand E Ma,”
you have been your same crazy,
but always sane self.

I watch you breathing, and I rejoice for you,
now that your work is nearly o’er.

You have sown seeds of love and laughter.
All that is left from me to you
is a death song for my Sister Friend.

(Written January 26, 1994, four days before Clara’s death)



A Sister’s Response to e. ethelbert miller’s Rebecca

I am not ashamed of my nakedness;
I am thankful to be healthy and alive.
Rebecca, you have a husband who loves you.
My husband looks not on my scarred nakedness,
for long ago,
he decided to cast his lot with another—a woman white of skin and blue of eye.

No man has provided support in my life;
only women have beheld my scars, shared my fears, soothed my pain.
Do not fear your mirror or your reflection in a window.
Stand tall, knowing that you are loved—
not because of what had happened to you.
Your husband looks at the essence of who you are,
beyond the nakedness and the scars.

Rebecca, I have no fears,
and I transcend my pain.
A loving husband would be nice,
but I shall survive, secure in the knowledge
that the best revenge is not just living, but living well.

6-4-90











Acrostic for Barbara

Books make up her world, and
Art satisfies her need for grateful expressions.
Religious groundings never leave her, for she sees God the good in all.
Beneath her calm exterior lies a soul that has had to learn to survive
An array of challenges and growth experiences,
Ranging from childhood economic poverty to
Adulthood’s learning how to overcome adversities by faith and work.

Determined, diligent, and duty-bound are adjectives to describe her.

Personal quests for knowledge, goodness, truth, and beauty mark her days.
Always observant, she writes about her world; her word pictures
Respond to experiences, both real and colored by remembrances.
Kindness was what she has had to learn to give to herself, because
She was always expected to do for others.
Little did she know that loving herself was necessary in order to
Experience all the joys that come with being a cheerful receiver.
Excellence in every endeavor is what drives her life.

February 4, 1999
















Above Salt Lake City, Utah

I sit here, a small dot in the enormity of the universe, at 39,000 feet,
Looking down at an earth-toned patchwork quilt
buttressed by gentle rounded peaks
and a blue Salt Lake.

The towns and people below
are but models placed on the infinite vastness
of a landscape made when God wanted to hear us exclaim,
“Wow! What beauty!”

7/25/01

(Put in drawing from hand-written copy.)






















Above the Clouds

Above the clouds
the ground below is
a wintry pastiche of white, grays, and dun.

Occasionally, a glare of silvery ice on water
reflects skyward,
transforming the landscape
into one of winter’s own.

In Charlotte,
the crisp coldness from the skyway
stings the face,
but the warmth of Southern drawls
hugs the spirit.

1-5-02




















Oakland, Day 1 Before the Conference

I sit, stilled, calmed, meditative to the point
where I jump when the waiter asks to take my plate.

Seagulls and pigeons flit to and fro;
sailboats and yachts bob and weave,
their masts empty save for their riggings.

The boardwalk stretches the perimeter of the hotel.
Marine blues atop hulls white as expensive lace
speak to a quiet spot in my Center.

On the horizon mountains loom dun and gray.
A steamer sits at anchor while a stiff breeze
caresses the streamers of a red, white, and blue windsock.

I am calm here, yet tired.
It is the lull before the cascade of passion
I must share with colleagues local and national, friendly and critical.

But yet and still, the chop on the waves
sparkles too bright for diamonds,
but maybe like good cubic zirconia
against almost forest green waters.

I shall walk here and then sleep
a sleep untroubled, a sleep grateful
to be alive, grateful to be alive.

7/25/01







Oakland 2001
Teachers are the tugboats that push,
pull, strain against inertia, then finally
guide the students, the cargo ships of the future.

How can one stout-hearted teacher-tug
nudge, by almost imperceptible movements,
young lives toward the future?

One passion-filled lifeline is sometimes
all it takes to turn around
a freighter laden with potentialities,
to transform a student’s life forever.

Sometimes the tug must relax its lines,
sometimes to team in tandem with another.
At other times steaming alongside, parallel,
yet close enough to provide support or a noodge where needed.



(Put in sketch of tug from Oakland 7/27/01)













Colorado Red Rocks and Lookout Mountain
There is something awe-inspiring about being
so close to the handiwork of the Almighty.
Rocks of breath-taking proportions stand
as stark sentinels attesting the majesty,
the artistic benevolence of a Maker Who
must have decided that mere humans needed
the unyielding inspiration of these permanent
fixtures on a landscape dotted by trees evergreen.

It is as though we stood at the edge of the world,
on the precipice of tomorrow,
while yet in the world of today.
Heaven must be something really special
if it more beautiful than this!

Even the effects of the altitude's thinness
on my breathing cannot deter
my awe in the face of such grandeur.
We drive through a tunnel in the rocks,
and I wonder if it is manmade or natural.
I cannot imagine the handiwork
of humankind improving upon
that of the Maker of All that is Made.

Snow flurries begin as we leave Red Rocks,
and the trees look as if they are being dusted
with very fine confectioners' sugar.
We drive on roads more circuitous than
the backs and skeletons of ancient reptiles
whose prehistoric remains dot the area's parks.

I marvel as a biker
seems to pump his way effortlessly
up the almost vertical face of the mountain.
What conditioning he must have!

The city lights flicker in the distance;
I stand on the edge of eternity,
feel the softness of the snow on my up-turned face,
gasp as my lungs scream for air,
shiver as the cold wind pierces my clothes,
and say a fervent prayer of thanks
for being alive and allowed
to partake of such magnificence.































Plaza Observation, H. D. Woodson SHS
My eyes smart from the pollen
blown by the chill wind
that nips at my cheeks,
blows through my hair.

Jets roaring overhead
silhouette themselves against
low-hanging clouds,
portenders of possible rain.

Clusters of dandelions
dot winter’s uncut, leftover grass.
Birds sing frantic lovesongs
and build nests in the lights’ fixtures.

The gray-brown underbrush
frames trees topped in chartreuse,
tipped in burgundy-yellow buds
waiting to open on the next warm day.

Butterflies anchored in hair
whipped by April winds
sharing first one, then another
rainbow of colors to feast the eyes.

A flagless, rusty flagpole
standing naked and forlorn
in front of the gray concrete fortress
held down by the blueness of the sky.

Spring has come to the Plaza:
boots walking, dogs barking,
red dump truck rumbling along NHB,
class cutters scattering across the field,

Away from new-growth greenery
coming between the concrete cracks. 4/19/99
One More Funeral

I sit where I have been before,
A place like one I’ll probably be in again—
a cemetery—quiet except for
The anguished grief wail of a sister
mourning her brother’s death,
the muffled sobs of mother and father,
the quizzical furrows of sorrow on the foreheads of friends
The snow turning earth to sodden mud
that clings in mounds covered
by flowers soon to be destroyed
The sun warms the chill still in the air,
the breeze dries tears and caresses our faces,
a gentle reminder from God
that we are all in His hands.




















Violence on A Sunny Afternoon
Five shots
Automatic weapon
Four males
All black-dressed
One car
Old gray or white
Black children—
Stressed, scurrying
Gun shot wound.
Red hot tempers
One lunch hour
Punctuated not by food
But by fear
Tightened gut
Heightened reflexes
Memories of
Windows shattered
Shell casing on pocked chalkboard
By bullet gone astray.

10-9-97















Equal Opportunity

Gunshots close by
Run, run, get away!
Fools
Scamper, scurry quick
Toward danger.

Bullets have
No names on them.
They kill
Innocents and fools
Alike.

10-9-97























For a Genius in Fifth Grade
I do not know your name,
but I do know you.

You are God’s gift to the world;
only you don’t know it yet.
A voracious reader, you have found a way to escape—
even temporarily—your current situation.

Dare to nurture that which is good about you.
I know it is hard to be angry
and in less than happy circumstances,
but I do know you.

You are the hope that God offers the world
with each new baby.

You are the future teacher or doctor or President
whose present circumstances will dare you
not to be compassionate, clean, caring,
and at peace with yourself and those around you.

You, Fifth Grade Genius, are a valuable,
loved and loving reflection
of all that is good, true, and beautiful
in this world.

External appearances may deceive all
who judge you by your looks,
but your inner genius reaches out to me,
and I want to be your friend.

When you become successful,
please pass your friendship on to a child
as yet unacknowledged
as a genius in the making.

St. Mark Cemetery, NJ

Flashes of red amidst—
Stones of somber gray,
Evergreen boughs,
ribbons at play—
Christmas had passed.
So have the folks
On whose graves
the living remembered
to place some Christmas cheer
for those now gone,
But remembered here.


1-12-97





















“Wounds of the Heart Take Time to Heal…”
Condolence Poem
I cannot begin to know
the depths of your loss,
but freely will I share your pain.

Dying is sometimes quick,
sometimes slow for those who’ve gone before.
Living with loss is never easy
for those who are left behind.

Knowing that your paths
may cross again someday
is the thought most constant,
foremost in your mind.

Be at peace, for matter is
neither created nor destroyed,
only transformed into another plane.

Though transitions are the only constant
in the human world we share
our pain can be transmuted
by the acts of those who care.


1994







The Male Chorus

My Lawd, what an evening!
Boys, now men, stand and sing,
accompanied by a symphony orchestra.

Boys from the ’hood,
world travelers, solid good citizens,
accomplished professionals,

Ambassadors of all that was good
about a high-rise concrete fortress
situated in the midst of poverty,

Voices that bring to mind
the men’s chorus of Les Miserables
give me goosebumps.

Tenors that still trumpet the upper range
while baritones fill in the middle
are all buttressed by basses so strong
they vibrate my soul’s center.

These men are having fun,
making hard work seem like child’s play.
What an honor to sit, to reminisce, to be thankful
for the parts we have played in each others’ journeys.


11-26-00








Experiencing Leontyne Price
Thank You, God,
for a voice
such as I’ve been blessed
to hear tonight!

“Pace, Pace” left me transfixed
when I heard it played on tape,
BUT there is no equal to hearing
Leontyne live, real, and very much in control
as she effortlessly and perfectly works each note!

Faith in a seat being available manifested itself
in the ticket of a young man whose illness
benefits my joy, my thankfulness, and my treat to me.
May the young man’s health improve,
but it was Your Divine Providence
that placed me in the SRO line tonight.

Again and again, I say Thank You, God
for expressing Yourself
as Leontyne Price tonight.
Amen.


11-8-89











Transitions
The warm caressing zephyrs
of a summer’s languid breeze
Near nakedness,
clothes above the knees
The biting cold,
howling sting
of the harsh northwest wind
Everything covered,
furs from toes to the chin.

Light-hearted puppy,
Arthritic old dog
Fast-swimming tadpole,
Green croaking frog.

Saplings just planted
in neat rows down the street
Venerable wizened trees
whose boughs arch and meet.

Skipping, beribboned children
Running at play
Cane-wielding elders
thankful for yet another day.

1-12-97











Gratitude on a Summer Sunday

I am grateful today for the breeze that comes through the windows,
for feeling better and better as the days progress,
for sister friends and blood sisters with whom I can share my life,
for the single white rose I intend to photograph and make of it an art piece.

I thank God that I can do for myself more and more,
that I can see and drive again,
that my ego is not such that I feel it necessary to keep working
when my body says it needs to rest,
to recuperate from the years of physical and mental abuse
as well as from the stresses of trying to be everything to everybody
but nothing to myself.

Lord, I am thankful today
I had enough self-love to refuse to honor innuendo,
but rather to confront it head-on,
after refusing to cry or to feel the need to defend myself against—nothing.

I want to give pre-thanks for having enough energy and strength
to make my house look and feel the way I picture it in my mind.
I now know that much of the stress in my life
comes from living on the edge of chaos,
and the only way to feel better is to do better.

Oh, Lord, I just want to thank You today
for today and all the other days,
for the many blessings You have sent my way—and continue to send—
for the good sense to know that now I have to be as kind to myself
as I have been to others and not to feel guilty
about wanting respect and order in my life and affairs.

I just want to say I thank You.
Amen.



Song of Gratitude

Thank You, God for:
Wind moving saffron-colored leaves
across the street like so many earth-bound butterflies.

Amethysts, rubies, emeralds—nature’s jewels
that sparkle in the early autumn sun
and hint of regal glory in the gloaming.

The snap in the air
and the crunch of leaves underfoot;
the smell of wood smoke as someone
lights the fireplace to take off the chill of the evening;

Making my dad’s transition quick and painless—
or less painful—in this most beautiful of seasons;

Pulling forth from my Inner Core the strength,
the patience, the love, and the wisdom
to know and TO PRACTICE that
“Everyone does the best they can, and know how to do,
where they are at this moment;”

Students who demand my time
and who strive for excellence,
even under the most stressful of conditions;

New challenges I can master and
grow stronger from as a person;
Contributions only I can make
and the confidence to take the steps necessary
to accomplish miracles of the soul.

Again, I thank You, God the Good and Merciful,
Who dwells within the center of my soul.

10-20-88
The Reflectee’s Prayer

At the end of a perfect day,
when sky colors have reached perfection
and new leaf green looks more mature,
I give thanks for the good
that has come into my life.

Birds have sung and chirped and warbled all day;
gentle winds have caressed a humidity-less time
of self-reflection and physical rejuvenation.
And for this I am glad.

I slept until noon today;
I felt no guilt as I lay
under a blanket
on clean-smelling sheets.

Food has become a means to an end,
and only when hungry do I eat.

My darling sat in his chair
and dreamed of busier times;
the O.M.Q.S.* saw him last night
but not tonight, for he, too, was caught up
in the peacefulness of this most perfect of perfect days.

And for this, I am thankful.

6-29-89

*Old Men’s Quilting Society (a group of men with shared skills who come together to build street rods—antique cars with modern innards)




…for Early Morning Gifts…
What a beautiful morning!
Sing, birds, sing!

Inspire me to write my thanks
for things taken for granted.

My soul is renewed and refreshed
after a good night’s perfect rest;

My body is healed and whole,
and my dulled edges sharpened.

Skies of early-morning blue
highlight the intensity of the coming day.

Squirrels thump, horselike, across the roof
to their above-ground highways.

Sing, birds, sing!

Motivate me as you have motivated
others before me.

Soothe my soul with trills
and arpeggios too perfect to replicate.

5-8-90










Moonlight Sonata

There’s a French vanilla
moon out tonight.
Its halo brightens
the darkness of a flat navy sky.
Soft vapors from the humidity
of the day caress my skin,
and I am calm.

To sing sweet music
and then to behold the light of the moon
is a glorious feeling
and a gift from God,
a joy that ends too soon.

Yet, and still, I am calm.

6-7-90



















I Thank You

Thank You, God, for:
The goodness of people everywhere;
The smell of new books;
The crispness of the autumn air;
The love and health of my family;
The turkey which nicely browned last night;
and the new stove in which it browned;
The enthusiasm that will make communicating
come alive for my students;
The ability to love myself as well as other people;
The love of a good man and husband who arose before dawn this morning to place a blanket over me—just because he thought I might be cold;
The sunlit “jewels” of the autumn leaves
as I drove through Ft. Dupont Park; and finally,
The health, prosperity, and ability which You so freely have given me.

I thank You.


















Waiting for My Voice Lesson
I am sitting in my car,
and the windows are down.

Sparrows and iridescent starlings
are socializing in the churchyard
and bathing in the dust.

The day is winding down
and shadows are lengthening.

Petunias, hosta, pansies, and verbena
are blooming amidst greenery
in the tiny churchyard.

Muted colors of dusty lavender, violet,
sun yellow, and royal purple zing
their dazzlement at me as I am sitting
in the car with the windows down
and waiting, waiting for my voice lesson.

6-14-90















Sofitel
Piano and bass combine,
making lively mellow jazz.
I feel like dancing!

Fresh flowers everywhere—
Paris by way of Chicago—
Elegance, opulence, service with a smile,

I shall return in my mind,
or in person, to a place
of calm meditation amidst hard work.

What a blessed way
to start year number fifty-seven.
I am thankful.


1-30-99



















Meditation Upon A Candle Flame

Soft votive candle,
afloat in transparent wax,

Centering yourself on
a cool white circle,
Warming the night.

Reminding me to light a candle
rather than to curse the darkness,

I marvel how,
though burning yourself down,
at your very center
glows a blue flame—

Hope, fragile,
yet an ever-present flame
against despair and hopelessness.

1-30-99
















Breakfast at Sofitel, January 31, 1999

A glorious sun-filled morn
Air so brisk, so cold
that its shock stirs the blood
French music, a background for breakfast:
Tea, freshly squeezed juice,
fruit to delight the palate
(and to slim the body)
A quiet wait for the fruit to arrive—

Gracious!
Where in the world did this ripe, sweet assortment
of melons, strawberries, grapes, and bananas come from?
Thanks, God.
The colors, the smells, the tastes
combine to delight my soul.
Amen.


(Put in “Beauty is its own excuse for being” sketch.)














While Observing GWU Student Teacher at Pyle Middle School

Imagine my doing my first observation
as a supervising teacher
under conditions less than auspicious.

Snow and my black wool slacks,
colored yellow by water
of the most embarrassing kind, competed with
trees dusted as if with confectioners’ sugar—

Shades of black and gray and white
covered woods that brought to mind
Robert Frost’s “miles to go before I sleep.”

Outside the window, the dove gray sky
complemented the mood of the day—
somber, but not sad.

Snow flakes, once plentiful,
had tapered down slowly to nothingness,
leaving the bare cold to hold the snow until more could come.

Outside the classroom window
tree branches, just recently snow-covered,
budded in the pre-spring February warmth.

Dead leaves of the fall that remained
would soon be pushed aside,
as the pre-emerged red buds
became chartreuse, then new-green leaves.




Alcohol’s Aftermath

Always
Late
Coming
Onto the realization that
Having material things is not as important
Often as
Loving and being loved in return.

12-23-75 @ 4:40 a.m I wish I could help my love to help himself,
but until he loves himself enough
to admit that he needs help and is not invincible,
my wish stands imprisoned
with my love by his “invincibility.”























Love Is…

Loving is a hard and ever-changing job.
It is being both selfish and selfless at the same time.

It is caring more about someone
than about yourself—at first.

It is suffering aloud—
or, most often, in silence.

It is the hairline tightrope
stretched between like and hate.

It is waiting for an “I love you”
and receiving nothing.

It is talking at someone who neither listens to
nor deems your conversation important enough to respond to.

Love is sitting in a group
and being taken for granted
by the one person
you thought would always think about you.

Love is smiling when your loved one introduces you
after he has introduced everyone else—
and then hears a friendly manager’s comment
and asks you to stand—
as an afterthought.

Love is a hard
and ever-changing job.

Hopefully, unrequited love has enough fuel
to burn through the agonies
of uncertainty, anxiety, and abject poverty of feeling.

When numbness sets in like rigor mortis,
is death of love next????

12-23-75
Musings on A Relationship in Trouble

No longer do I take things for-granted,
for this encourages wastefulness
of time, of energy, of emotion.

Knowing that nothing is promised or permanent
has encouraged me to:
Be aware of life and living as part of my surroundings;
Quest for a better way of showing love—
for and to my immediate family and myself
as well as to my fellow members of the family of man;
Respect the ultimate permanence: impermanence.

12-23-75























The Eggshell Ego Syndrome
I loved you (or so I thought),
but you loved not yourself.
And I didn’t yet know how to love me.

I thought
that if I tried
to walk on the eggshells of your soul,
without breaking them,
that we would be happy.
But I was wrong; we weren’t.

We grew in opposite directions,
on paths of mutual self-destruction—
you by a bottle to bolster your eggshell ego,
I by disease manifestations of a sickening lack of self-esteem.

Happiest times for us changed
from being together
to being apart.

If something hurts often enough,
even a fool learns to avoid it,
and we were not fools—not in the classic sense of the word.

Scholars we thought we were.
I had “book-learnin’” but no common sense.
You had “book-learnin’” but knew not how great you were.

The more I sought advancement,
the more fragile and cracked your ego became.
Why should my successes detract from you?
I was happy for your progress,
but you seemed afraid of or threatened by mine.

Alcohol, violence, and poor choices
cracked your shell even more,
and until I learned to love me,
I couldn’t help you
to cement the ever-widening cracks that slowly eroded your soul.
Didn’t you know that
if we had known how to love ourselves,
we could have then truly loved each other?

But we didn’t, and eggshells—
once cracked—are never the same again.
1-4-90



































Uncertainty

Not knowing where you stand
is a sure way of self-destruction.

As surely as dope kills an addict
and alcohol metamorphosizes an alcoholic,
Uncertainty and indecision set up
complex psychogenic responses
that put the body on “self-destruct”

Unless someone or something
releases the panic button…

12-23-75























Salve for An Inner Hurt

Writing rubs salve on an inner hurt.
Self-pity is partly exorcised by putting pen to paper.

Fantasies are engaged in and realized
for what they are—and might become.

Baring oneself by writing innermost thoughts
for all to see has the cleansing effect
of confessions to God.

Writing is the relaxation of mental stress
as much as is strenuous physical exercise.

Maybe, from total exhaustion
comes profound relief.

12-23-75



















Prayer-Two Nights Before Christmas, 1975

Oh, Lord,
Let me know myself well enough
to help others know themselves.

Let me be humane
if I am to teach humanity.

Let me accept myself
and others for our inherent goodnesses.

Let me eliminate or lessen
weaknesses by stressing our strengths.

Oh, Lord, Let me be of use!

Amen.

















Lost Soul in Search of a Self

A modern-day wanderer, he suddenly appeared.
Flashily dressed, turquoise and chains around his neck,
a ready smile and articulate speech
gave him the appearance of a man of substance.

And, yet, there was something strange
and sad about his countenance.
He reminded me of a soul lost
in spite of his outward appearance.

“I wish I had a family like yours,” he sighed.
“I’m adopted and searching for my biological family.”
There was a sadness
that bordered on compulsive madness.

Even with the accoutrements of wealth,
including his gold Rolls Royce,
he still impressed me as the poorest of the poor,
an addicted soul lost, doomed, and destined
to wander in search of a self, especially for himself.

7/26/06











The Challenge to Break Down Barriers and Build Bridges
(Inspired by 1997 Memorial Program for Birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.)

Inaction
Silent acceptance of the status quo
Fear of not being included and accepted
Listening to and laughing at stereotypes:
Racial, Sexual, Religious, Socioeconomic class
Ignoring the barriers of injustice…

Barrier- a line of separation; wall of obstruction;
prisons of invincible barricades;

Hypocritical attitudes and actions
Leaving the comfort zones to tear down barriers

Taking spiritual inventory
To yield religious tolerance and racial harmony.

Bridge-a connecting passage of support;
a help to freedom on a higher level
by planning and constructing,
by donating time and manpower—

Faith, prayer, love, hope, and perseverance—

How will we implement a dream
that is viable, believable, realistic, and needed?

Be committed
practitioners of the dream.

Forge cables
of love and beams of faith.

“Think not that if you keep silent
you will not perish with us.”

January 11, 1999

The Doral Experience

My Lord, what a morning!
The fireball awoke the sky,
but the singing of tropical birds
provided the alarm clock for the sun!

Palm trees dripped diamonds,
the remnants of their morning shower.
I remember the lapis of last night’s sky,
bespangled by a lone perfect star,
and slowly covered with pinpricks of light.

There is a calmness here,
a quietude that calms a tightened nerve,
soothes an errant challenge,
puts things in their proper perspective,
renews my sense of connectedness with the earth.

The pace is less frenetic
among those able to afford the comforts
offered to seekers of leisure
and a change of pace from the cares of the world.

I am blessed.


5-15-99

(Put in floral sketch Las Flores Doral.)








Dissolution of Unity

Soft flute sounds affirm peace and
compete with the din of distress
caused by voices raised
as membership is validated.

Smiles and angry eyes
face each other across the sanctuary,
a sanctuary split and in pain.

Stomachs growl and headaches throb
as people watch a congregation take a stand
for that which is true, good, and beautiful.

Dissidents in the house of God
disregard the love we’ve shown before
and allow another side of ourselves to surface.

My head aches and my heart hurts
as I watch us argue amongst ourselves,
yet there must be good to come from this.

Should we all die tomorrow,
Unity would continue to serve
the spiritual needs of many
who seek comfort and solace here.

4-10-94








Meditation Place

The car wends its way
through winding hills,
onto a country lane.

A tractor moves
ever so slowly in the distance;
horses, blanketed o’er to keep warm,
graze contentedly.

There is just enough of a nip
in the air to announce
the eminent arrival of true fall,
which this year allows
an unusually long Indian summer.

As soon as we enter Mimi’s,
I am struck by the meditative calmness
snuggled amidst Christmas splendor.

This is a peaceful, lived in place,
a place filled with evidences
of a family both loved and loving.

The wind caresses the house
and fills the panoramic hillside view
with the movement of branches
not yet bereft of leaves.

The stone fireplace stands quietly
in anticipation of the fire soon to be lit;
the sun casts chiaroscuro shadows
across the land, the barns, the house itself.

I de-stress here, feel my body relax,
listen to the poetry filling my head.
I am calm and at peace.
Ode to an Early Spring’s Morn

Clothed in new-leaf greens and beiges,
trees stand guard duty
around the school’s perimeter.

A rectangular patch of dandelion-embossed grass
hides from the sun in the shade
of the cold white concrete that forms the walls
of the building known as the Tower of Power.

II
The eternally blue sky
shelters black bits of airborne life
too small to cast a shadow on us here below
but as significant to their loved ones as we to ours.

The chirping of birds,
the cawing of a far-away crow,
and the barking of an even farther away dog
punctuate the stillness of the morning and
disturb my musings about why I’m here.

III

The nippiness of the wind in my hair,
only slightly alleviated by
the sun’s warmth on my face
let me know that in the autumn of my life,
spring is as predictable as breathing,
so predictable, in fact, that long
after only my essence remains,
an early spring morning will
still stir the pollen and
swell the senses of others yet unborn.


The Transition to Teaching Cohort Experiences

They are the overworked, the overwhelmed,
the talented, the teachers of tomorrow.
They want to succeed,
to please, to be hired.
Their maturity and expertise
will be gifts to their students.
Through their diversity,
they bring the world into the classroom.

Cassandra, centered, quiet, intense
Vahan, talented, musical, and shy
Kamala, soft spoken, gentle yet strong
All three, brilliant,
In the world but not of the world.
They step out to fill in the voids
children face in math and in science.
Their resolve and willingness to work hard
will make a profound positive difference
in some children’s lives.














Brown Bag Lunch

We sit around a globe-like circle,
interconnected yet separately unique.
Engineer, fireman/medic, law enforcers,
media specialist, teacher, mathematician,
young, mature, experienced and neophyte.

All committed to the tasks assigned,
inspired by the message proffered.
Eating and sharing,
suffering from information overload—
So much to read and digest
these few precious moments…























Commencement, Phase One

The early morning sun was no brighter
than her new white dress with the pouf sleeves.

Her shiny black patent leather shoes
provided a perfect foil for her white lace anklets.

She probably slept sitting up last night,
for every curl was perfectly arranged, bangs newly cut.

This sixth grader was a personification of pride
as she strode down the sidewalk toward her commencement.

Who knows how many and what kind of obstacles
she has had to overcome?

Who can detail the family’s pride at this,
their family’s first even to have a commencement?



















The White Rose of Thanks

The student chose the purity of the white rose
to express the sincerity of her thanks
to everyone who had helped her to graduate.

The smoothness of the rose’s petals
matched the whiteness of her even teeth.
Her smiled, “Thank you” was sincere and heartfelt.

It’s appropriate that white was the rose;
it marks both mourning and purity—
It says goodbye to the old ways,
old pains, and trials yet untold

To say hello to new experiences,
limitless joys, and surviving trials to come.

For of such is life made.
Maturity comes to those who persevere,
to those who believe in the positive power of prayer
coupled with determination, conviction, and commitment.














Musings Before the Holiday Yet to Come
I felt frustrated, foolish, and frazzled;
swimming against the tide is a thankless task.

A child’s comments calmed and encouraged me;
someone had heard and felt and learned and appreciated.

I feel fresher, firmer in resolve,
but still frustrated.

Our children need so much;
our teachers work so hard.

And we know that rewards are not immediate,
but that someone hears and heeds and appreciates
our touching their lives in a positive way.

12-18-91

















The Annual Christmas Pageant
Lights of red, of blue, of green reflect
from the ceiling to the tuba below.
It’s Christmas again.

Choir voices sweet and pure
sing song both old and new.
The holiday has begun.

Brasses, polished, toll the music that ushers
in the season of the timeless tale.
Woodwinds and percussions play
their sounds of joyful praise.

Kwanzaa principles reviewed revive
the close-knit love of the Black community.
Hope holds out its shining star.

Dancers clad in sparkling red and white
smile as they cheer the season in.
Smiles as bright as snowflakes
show the joy of this time of year.

The lights, the sounds, the feelings mingle
to make special this time of year.
I only wish that we could keep
this specialness all year.

It’s Christmas again.
The holiday has begun.
A timeless tale, told anew,
Renews, revives, and holds out its star of hope.

12-18-91



Upon the Occasion of Baccalaureate

The stage is set; the musicians are in place.
Nervous stomachs and freshly pressed robes
weld the Class of 1990 into an energetic oneness.

God, these children look gorgeous!

Imagine Mary in lipstick and blusher for the very first time.
Parents have waited for this day for so long;
for some, this is the first child in the family to graduate.

And for some graduates,
this is the last graduation in their lifetimes,
the last time they will all join together in one body.

These, our children, have come this far—
some against unbelievable odds—
to this place on this most auspicious of days

To acknowledge in gratitude
our interconnectedness with
the Omnipresent Omnipotent Spirit of Universal Goodness.

Violence and illness will take some—
long before their threescore years and ten—
yet today, there is unity and joy and a feeling of expectation.

Embarkations into the post-secondary worlds
of college, of the military, of gainful employment,
and of marriage beckon.

With proudness, yet timidity,
our children know that they stand
on the very threshold of adulthood.

Graduation is tomorrow,
and new worlds are waiting to be conquered. 6-10-90
Observation

A field of yellow buttercups,
looking like splashes of gold
thrown freely about the ground—

The trilling of a songbird
high in the tree
covered with new-leaf green—

Call forth memories of childhood
when I picked a bouquet
of buttercups

And marveled
at the dropped feather
that floated from a robin’s nest.




















Sharing in God’s Largess
Several of them fluttered,
wings outspread,
Secure in the knowledge that there
was enough,
that there would always be enough
for those with faith.

The big, the small,
the brightly colored, the dun—
all perched at the edge of the feeder,
taking turns with manners
that could teach humans a thing— or two.

A cardinal red, juncos, titmice,
and starlings, too,
seemed to understand
that the bluejay would eat only
what he needed to survive—
just as would they all.

The birds looked askance
as the shutter clicked,
louder that I had hoped it would,
flitted to nearby branches,
then returned to their rightful share.

No one bird was more special
than any other, no one’s need
greater than another’s.
Yet they kept their holding patterns
as they bade each other, “Eat.”

Humans might strengthen their faith,
as lessons from the birds,
shared with us as freely as the snow,
uphold the laws of God’s largess,
and provide for us all
more than we know.

Watching birds seems oh,
so simple,
but what complex lessons they show.
No one on earth would need
to suffer,
if everyone learned to care.

Never would there be any doubt
that there are
ample blessings here.































Ode to…

The sight of white things hung
carefully on the line
brings back the childhood memory
of the clean small of sun-dried linen.

Puddles of mirrors reflect
a blue sky dotted with cotton balls
and a lone pigeon that seemed
to enjoy soaring on the updraft.

Hoary-headed dandelions stand sentinel
in a field of yellow buttercups
while persistent golden dandelions
force their way between the cracks
in the plaza’s concrete.

The hardness of the concrete
on my behind
is no where near as hard as the cracks
through which these pesky flower weeds
must press their way to salute the day.

Not yet hoary-headed but too old
to be considered youthful any more,
I bless the softness of the wind against my skin
and revel in the warmth of the spring sun
against my back and neck.

Yet can I feel, yet do I marvel
at pinwheels gently floating toward earth,
Waiting again to complete the cycle of life.

4-21-98



Universal Cycles

Bright sunrises
Faces silhouetted
in love and pain
at sunsets—and life’s endings

Tombstones amidst seeded grasses
Fragile orchids
Fields of wild flowers
fed by cascading waterfalls

Black branches covered
by soft white snow
Soon to be iridescent waters
nourishing the beauty
of a green leaf speckled with dew

Or the universe
in the heart of a flower
or in the soul of a child
too soon to be old















Changes in the Seasons of Our Lives

“I don’t feel no ways tired;
the earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof,”
the minister extolled as he preached
a sermon about those of us
who resolve to change
but never do anything about it.

He talked to us about moving
from membership to discipleship,
of us having a relationship that negates
the need for yes men and super women.

There was a promise of grace, of chalice, and
peace or Shalom for those who trust God
to give us the strength
to hold our own in the midst of a storm.

We were implored not to live
beneath our pregnant possibilities,
but rather to be clear about who
and what we are—

To move forward as we seek
the confidence, the consistency,
and the celebration of the fullness of the earth
on our life-long journey Home.










A Thirty-two Year Friendship

Here we sit,
two sixty-something women,
contemplating the changes
in the seasons of our lives.

She, recently retired,
widowed, accomplished, humble, and
I, “failing retirement,”
married, accomplished, humbly grateful.

For us both again
seeing the change
of the seasons from summer to fall;

For our being able
to feel the early-morning nip in the air;
For our being able to hear
and to experience glorious songs of praise;

We’re here today,
because God has kept us
so we wouldn’t, couldn’t let go.

9-19-04, New York











“Beauty is the Splendor of Truth.” Plato

Birds, soaring freely against the rising sun
Bees, enraptured by a lily’s pollen
A spidery web, festooned with dew—

Nothing can I explain;
Everything I can appreciate.

A starburst inside a flower,
Wonders too great for us to duplicate,
A catkin grasping precious droplets—

We’re all unique, yet one,
In the Grand Design of Nature’s mystique.

The wrinkled face of one not as old as the planet,
smiles a smile
as the planet spins,
like a striated beach ball,
in the vast blackness of space.

4-30-98















Making and Taking Time for Herself

She woke up one morning, and asked herself,
“When was the last time you did something just for yourself?”
When she could not think of an answer,
she resolved to make changes.

As a former battered wife
and enabler of an alcoholic husband,
taking time for herself had been beyond
her realm of thinking, for she was just too busy
trying to juggle one husband, two children,
one house, and three jobs at the same time!
Sleep was four hours a night,
and those four hours were not always peaceful.

At the ripe old age of thirty,
she thought it her lot to be consigned
to hell until death did them part.
However, at the ripe old age of forty,
she dared, yes, she dared, to take time
for the most important person in her life—herself.

She learned from the U.H.K. (University of Hard Knocks)
that no one could do anything to her
that she didn’t allow them to do.
As long as she stretched herself
as a doormat before the world,
she learned that she chose to be walked upon.
She had never really heard the commandment
which says, “Love thy neighbor as
(not instead of, before, or at the exclusion of) yourself.”

She vowed thenceforth:
To get up early, to savor the sounds
of a cricket chorus and a bird symphony;
to write, to read, to think, and to be thankful; and
to never again not take time for herself.

She then found she had more time
and fewer resentments,
better health and fewer complaints.
She even dared to challenge her friends
to choose to take time
for the most important person in their lives, themselves.


































Shadows of My Soul

Sometimes I walk in the shadows
and think on the dark side,
but most of the time,
I try to remain calm and centered.

People may think that I am unaware or uncaring,
that I owe them my very soul and marrow,
that their wants must be my priorities,
but that my wants need not necessarily be their priorities.
What’s wrong with that picture?

I try and try and make mistakes along the way,
but I still try.
No one volunteers to help make things right,
but can quickly point out what cudda, wudda, or shudda happened.
Maybe, I’m just tired of being the mule,
the pack animal that acquiesces
to everyone else’s needs, wants, and desires.

People treat others the ways others allow or demand to be treated.
What a late revelation, but a valid one, nonetheless.
If something is bothering me,
it is up to me to fix it, or at least, to try to make it better.

Major health challenges are my new teachers,
and I’m learning my lessons well.
It is okay to sit and just be;
maybe I’ve earned that right, but was just
too much in the shadows
to see what was needed to survive.





Sunday Meditation on Mortality
The sun, playing tag with its spotlight on the leaves,
the fan, blowing a cooling breeze across my knees,
the beat of my heart reminding me to give thanks
to my God who is not finished with me yet—
These things make up a perfect August Sunday afternoon.

The past few days have been hot, record-breaking hot,
but I do not complain.
I could have not been here to appreciate
the awesomeness of God’s power to heat and to cool,
to bring down and to raise up.

I’m blessed to be alive and gaining back my health.
I am thankful that I am learning how to say, “No”
to things I do not want or need to do.
Grateful to be able to ask for help from those around me
does not totally describe the feeling
of not having to be everything to everybody else
and nothing to myself.

I sit in my chair of many colors and offer a prayer of thanksgiving,
as I humbly await the next chapter in the journey
that has already been mapped out for me.
Whatever the job I have left to do,
I shall do it with wonderment and praise
that the Maker of All that is Made held me in the powerful grasp
of love and snatched me back from the tentacles of death and destruction.

I know that there is a God and I know that I am a child of the King.
Nothing or no one can harm me,
for I am loved and protected, nurtured and sustained,
held in highest regard by One
Who has more and greater things for me to do.

All I can say is Thank You. Thank You.
Amen.

Verbal and Emotional Abuse

The innuendo and accusatory tones emerge once a year or so,
always at a time when I think things are going well.
In the past, I have been hurt but forgiving, but no more!

“Your friend” or “my friend said” or “my friend thinks”
has a way of coming, seemingly, out of nowhere to slap me,
almost demanding that I explain or defend myself.

It has gotten old and tired,
and I have decided not to honor anything
that questions my integrity or my loyalty.

When first it happens, I’m going to give fair warning,
but the warning might not be so gentle
or filled with a soothing tone as it has been in the past.

Instead it is likely to be from a dark place
that I try to keep hidden deep within—a place that explodes
with the famous “MF” and a few other well-placed angry epithets.

I will not, cannot, allow anyone to enter or to control my Center with negativity.
I would rather live alone and be happy with just myself than be with someone
who feels the need to accuse by innuendo and to question my integrity.












Venice/Highland Beach Observations
Osprey, fish in mouth, swooping over Walnut Creek;
Seagulls, wings motionless and outspread,
floating on the updraft over Oyster Creek;
Wind and water, whispering a day-time lullaby;
Peace, descending, banishing stress,
a meditation for the soul…a balm for the body.

Black-eyed Susans by the side of the freeway;
Water at hand but still in the distance;
One tree of yellowing leaves
Nestled into foliage still summer green;
Highway of smooth concrete
Laid out under the canopy of clouds and sky,
Giving way to a ribbon of road
That ties the present to the past.


8-22-97



















Hush. The Storm Approaches
Smell the perfume of the storm;
Watch the leaves change from green to silver.
Listen as all living things quieten
and anticipate the coming storm.
The air moves in a different way
at the advent of the storm.
The clouds roll in,
and the first raindrops splatter
on the dry dust of a parched summer’s day.
Birds wait out the shower
in the shelter of the trees.
The wind picks up,
and the sound of the rain increases.
Oh, wow! Did you see
that gorgeous lightning bolt?
Listen to the orchestra of celestial tympani
as the peals of thunder
vibrate even the molecules of the soul.
It’s a quiet time—a time of renewal and cleansing.
The rain’s crescendo becomes a pianissimo.
The first birdsong signals the storm’s end,
and the sun dares to peek
from behind a cloud
and then proclaim to the world,
“Look! See the newly washed world
with rested eyes and a cleansed mind.”

9/23





Annual Homecoming at Temple Gate RZUA Church

Seven sparkling chandeliers shone on
Ladies in serious Church Lady hats, and
Men in suits, one in stark white, another in black.
Homecomers were happy to return once more
To remember and to honor those whose presences
Blessed and still bless our lives.

Spirit marked the service today,
And touched our hearts
With words and music.
Gratitude welled from deep within;
Praise songs warmed our souls.

A homecoming surprise was in store
For one who felt right low last night,
For one who thought she would be alone,
Everyone’s presence gave us joy
And affirmed for her
That she is never alone—

Even when our bodies are missing,
Our essences remain
Across the miles,
even into eternity and beyond.

Love endures.

7-27-97




Homecoming
(for Frances Juanita Carter)

However far we’ve traveled,
however far we wend,
homecoming is when we come back to
hug family, to revel in the company of friends.
Over many miles we’ve wandered
only to return to where it all began.
On the wings of a summertime morning,
We’ve returned to family, to home, to friends.
Many times we’ve faltered;
many a time we’ve soared, but
making our way homeward
makes it easier to stay centered,
to voice our thanks to the Lord.
Even when times have been hardest,
even when times have been great,
experiencing the joys of reunion
evidences what is really at stake—
the kinship of belonging.
Carefully, we make our ways homeward.
Cautiously, we search for faces of those we have known.
Capable now of making a bigger difference,
we bring our gifts and our love home.
Out of planes, trains, ships, and cars we step forward.
Ogled and ogling we advance,
Overjoyed to be once again able to give
the love of homecoming a chance.
Mothers and fathers, grandparents and a few great-grands too—
Mentors to those who now follow as we
make our ways homeward,
to stay a part of the world that we once knew.
Incredulous, we marvel at changes in waistlines, in hairlines, and in chins.
Instead of exterior appearances,
we now concentrate on the beauty within.
No one feels not a part of the group now
Never will we forget who we are;
we are the children of Perkinson Industrial High,
and Lemon Street, all alums of Marietta-Cobb.
God has granted us tenure on this planet so far.
Great are the gifts we’ve been given, and
Good are the memories we share.
Glad to be gathered again here, we’re
Grateful eternally for the memories and savor the glow of a lifetime
Associated with those who care.































Big Boys’ Toys
Little boys play in mud pies;
big boys play in grease.

Little boys roll their Hot Wheels;
big boys race their hot rods.

Matchbox cars ride in their little boys’ hands;
big boys’ toys grow up to ride the men.

Big boys’ toys become old men’s projects,
which, in turn, mature into street rods, everyone’s dreams.

Little boys play in mud pies,
and big boys play in grease.

Little boys, big boys, and old men—all seeking,
then finding, inner peace.

2-2-92

















Quartermasters

A group of men and boys,
some older, some not yet mature,
working together,
dressed in red and black for tonight only.

These are the ones
who strive for the “5, 6, and 7 Club.”
Their love of cars and the competition
tastes sweetest after
they’ve cooperated, commiserated,
and contemplated the best ways
to get the most speed out of the best car.

These old men
and boys not yet men
have bonded.
They are busy,
but rested and at peace.


















The Quartermasters

Blanc, rouge, et noir
Balloons dancing in time
to music of the 50’s and 60’s

Musicians in concert
Talented instrumentalists
Costumes too comical for words
Racers, vintage and youthful,
Male and female
Mingle together, joyous

My least favorite instrument,
the saxophone, sounding
not half bad at Kathy’s behest

Dancers silhouetted
on the dance floor
Enjoying the fruits of their labors—

The Quartermasters play
as hard as they race.

2-28-98












Impressions of Depressions: Katrina
The catastrophe looms large
On the televised news:
A yacht laid neatly
atop a mansion’s roof,
People dragged through holes
cut with fire axes,
People who have been stranded,
unable to seek ground
Higher than their attics and roofs—

A father waiting patiently
as a rescuer reaches for his baby,
Another man bereft at the loss
of his wife who had told
him to save their children
as she, unable to hold on any longer,
succumbed to the raging waters and
sank beneath the waves.

One who sought higher ground
returned to find the
detritus of her life
scattered amidst the remains
of her apartment, leveled by the wind,
scattered by the water surge.

Oil on troubled waters,
people frantic for a drop to drink,
reduced to the barest levels of subsistence
by the vagaries of the wind, the crash of the waters,
and the utter destruction that has overtaken their lives.

“My Lawd, what a morning when the sun begins to shine”
on the destruction wrought by nature
on rich and poor, black and white,
male and female, young and old alike.

Lifetimes of memories
swept away in an instant,
families rent asunder,
entire towns under water.

No help, little hope—
Just quiet resignation.
8-31-05



































Three Days Later…
The whole world is watching as
Tens of thousands of humans,
homeless, houseless, and haunted
by Wyrd, Katrina, and the U.S. Government
Bake, without food or water, on bridges;
Wade through waters foul, fetid,
and festered with fish, snakes, and crocodiles—
not to mention the complete destruction
of the Category 5 storm
(the one everyone knew was coming
days in advance, yet chose not to prepare for);
Wait, jammed,
like slaves into the belly of the slave ship,
into the Astrodome or sitting on hospital rooftops;
Beg for a crumb of food,
a clean drink of water,
the same kind of concern
shown victims of disasters foreign;
Die due to lack of food,
shelter, basic medical care,
the most rudimentary of human needs
(while their government debates dollars,
gouges gas profits, and talks
of aid “on the way,”
“of doing all that is humanly possible,”
of cutting short vacations
and Congressional recesses),
all the while caring not
as corpses of poor and black people
line the sidewalks and
stack up like discarded cordwood
on the few dry traffic islands.

9-2-05



Wonderment and Consternation
I wonder if the populace affected by Katrina
had been those of affluence and influence
or those any other
than the blacks and the impoverished
if the response time
would have been as slow.

We sent tsunami aid
half way around the world,
yet we fail,
and fail miserably,
to aid those
now made refugees in their own land!

Excuses will not starvation, dehydration,
and lack of medication slake.
Expressions over looting and shooting to kill
are received harshly by people
reduced to foraging, to pillaging,
and to violence in order just to meet basic survival needs.

I am ashamed. I weep.
I realize that there, except by the grace of God,
go I and my family and friends, and town.

Since I am one of the “other”
in a country that boasts
of caring for its own,
my fate would probably
be the same

As those of my other family in Louisiana,
Mississippi, and throughout the places
where those of little or no affluence
garner not only indifference
from those in power
but also no influence to change
their realities of trying to exist
as homeless, houseless, and haunted
wanderers in an earthly descent
into a Hell not of their own making.

9-2-05

















Hurricane Fran

Howling wind sucked my breath away.
Skies of leaden and dove gray
shadowed thrashing trees whose
emerald leaves showed silvery undersides.

Torrential rain, blowing sometimes
straight and sometimes sideways,
pelted unwary pedestrians
whose umbrellas’ metal skeletons
stuck uselessly toward the sky.

The wind, whistling
like the high notes of a flute,
then droning in the range of a cello,
let us know God was in His Heaven,
but all was not right with our world.

9-6-96

















Massacre at Virginia Tech University
The media continue to play and replay, ad nauseum,
the happenings of almost a week ago,
five agonizing days.

Over and over, the video manifesto
of a lost soul, a rambling, incoherent, insane soul,
invade the country’s psyche while I wonder why
every major North American catastrophe
of the last thirty years needs to be dug up and replayed.

It’s like picking scabs from wounds almost,
but never completely, healed.
Many sick persons with psychopathic or sociopathic tendencies
now have the media’s encouragement to seek their fifteen minutes
(or in the case of the media, fifteen days!) of fame.

Campuses across the country stand on high alert;
suspicion tightens its grip around the throats of innocents.

Why should an assassin be publicized,
his countenance flashed continuously around the world
and permanently burned into our consciousness?

Why should innocent students and teachers
be slaughtered first thing in the morning
as they went about learning and teaching,
while their faces and accomplishments
are as dust in a sandstorm and
their tormentor is allowed to continue to torture,
to pour salt in the gaping wounds of those left behind?

What about the students who were scheduled
to graduate on Mother’s Day, students who will never get the chance
to demonstrate what they learned at Blacksburg?
Who glorifies the young man with three majors
who died while trying to help a damsel in distress?
Who spreads the heroism of the professor who stood
at the door of his classroom and sacrificed his life
in order to allow as many of his students as possible to escape?

Enough glorification of madness!
There is a United States journalistic and national insanity
that idolizes the cult of the gun, the glorification of violence,
the protection of privacy of psychotics
while normal people’s privacy
can be violated in the name of national security.


































If I Could Change the World

No faces would distort in grief
because someone bombed their houses,
killed their children,
cared little about their way of life.

No one would go to bed hungry,
or wonder how children would eat tomorrow.
There would be no one feeling
hungry, houseless, or haunted by Wyrd.

No one would ever not know the joy
of reading or writing or thinking deeply,
for everyone would have all that they need
to have healthy, happy, but most importantly,
lives lived in PEACE.






















What IF…?

What if every child were loved,
wanted, nurtured, and educated to maximize
his or her potential and talents?

What if every child in every school
sat in small classes with skilled
and accomplished teachers
who knew that educating children
was their calling and not their job? What if…?

What if no parents were made to parent
without first wanting the child
or secondly having the wherewithal
to care for meeting the basic
physical, emotional, and survival needs of said child?

What if a fair living wage for all
made it possible for parents to be able
to spend quality time with their children?

What if Sally and Quiana,
Dick and Jorge, Jane and Juana,
Lumumba and Hassan all came to school
from level playing fields?

What if going to the museum
or the art gallery or Disney World
were the norm for all children
when they entered school?

What if all children knew
the boundaries of the world
beyond their small neighborhoods
and could be allowed to view
and to use the world as their classroom? What if…?

What if schools dared to color
outside the box architecturally,
intellectually, and politically?

What if one size did not fit all
but all sizes were welcomed,
affirmed, and validated?

What if school and curriculum design
were held to the same high standards
as those business plans and buildings
laid out to accommodate the business community? What if…?

What if fear of rigor and high standards
were eliminated and
the education community taught to the test
in a different kind of way?

What if we decided to teach children
whatever the content they needed
in whatever way they needed to learn it
in order for them to become productive citizens
instead of going into a testing frenzy
of endless and meaningless once-a-year,
the-month-before-the-test skill, drill, and kill exercises
on how to “fill in every space
and make each line heavy and dark”
or “to erase each mistake cleanly and completely?”

What if we used the standardized tests
as but one way of evaluating
our children’s educational progress?
Tests aren’t going anywhere any time soon,
but what if we used them as teaching tools
instead of tools of denigration,
isolation (as in “below basic”),
and frustration for teachers, students,
and administrators who are increasingly
expected to do more with less
and still to compete at the higher success rate
with those who have—
and who always have had—more? What if…?

What if America really decided
to leave no child behind
and committed itself to the cost of, say,
five stealth bombers
or one economic bailout of some warlord
thousands of miles away from both our shores
and our philosophy in order
to build, refurbish, rethink, and reconstitute
what we currently spend
on education in our own country? What if…?

If we could mobilize to put a man on the moon
within one decade long before the Digital Age,
what might happen if we mobilized
our print and electronic capabilities
to provide literacy and education based on high standards
for every American citizen,
not just for every American child?
Children whose parents value education
can be programmed in utero,
as many of today’s more affluent
program their children, from infancy,
to expect a quality life
and a quality education as inalienable rights,
to know that there is a place for them in the American Dream—
as opposed to the American Nightmare
that awaits too many of today’s families and children. What if…?

What if teachers were recruited and compensated
the same way we idolize high-profile athletes and entertainers?
Why should teachers have a yearly compensation
of what some people carry around as daily “chump change?”
What if we finally recognized the value
of having highly competent, committed, fairly compensated
professionals in every classroom
teaching every child in America?
What if the best and the brightest were drawn into teaching,
realizing that they have a chance to affect eternity
when they touch the life of a child?

More importantly, what if every child’s teacher
held the same high hopes and expectations
for excellence and achievement for their students
as they did for their own children or grandchildren? What if…?

What if we could look seriously at the disparity
of the numbers that show that African American males
constitute only six percent of the population of America
but fifty-two percent of the population for its prisons?

How could we go about harnessing the imprisoned talents
that never have the opportunity to take to the air
and to accomplish highly paid honest work? What if…?

What if all the articles ever written
and all the words being spoken could be used
to create a different kind
of professional development program for teachers
that would allow them truly to teach every child
as well as to communicate their belief that every child
is valuable, multi-talented, and worthy of a teacher who is capable, committed, and caring? What if…?

What if I could leave this planet knowing
that I had made a memorable positive difference
in not only some children’s lives
but also in the training and recruitment of their teachers?

What if…?

2003








“Enough! Enough!”
(for Brian T. Gibson, 1969-1997)

Pain so real it could be both
felt in the gut and
vibrated in the heart
encapsulated us as we sat,
grieving in wonderment,
at a church too small
to contain our love.

A fine young man,
dead at the hands of
one too quick to possess
an easily available gun
to vent his anger.
Lives forever changed
by a mean, senseless act…

Will his life be a waste?
What will happen after tomorrow’s funeral?
I hope not business as usual;
I pray Brian’s death may stir us all
to rise up and cry,
“Enough!”

“Enough to the carnage,
the violence, the wanton disregard
for life!”

Let our shared love
at this time of exquisite pain
gird us to action so that
we need not go through this again.



A Gathering in Love for 1187
(Brian T. Gibson, 1969-1997)

So many lives he touched
So many gathered today in love
to celebrate his life and
to mourn his death.

No one knows the reason why
such a senseless act ever needs to occur.
No one answers our anguished questions,
“Why?”

But we gather in love,
share our hugs, remember him,
stifle our sobs,
rejoice in the whiteness of the snow

that fell yesterday to mask
some of the ugliness we see,
to numb the aching void
left in the city’s heart

by one who touched us all
and one who leaves us all huddled and hurting
as we gather in love
and commit his soul

to the Universal Presence that gives
order and reason to all things.

Amen.



In Memory of Napoleon “Nappy” B. Lewis, First Principal of
Howard D. Woodson SHS

N No one of us doubted we were in the presence of a great man when we were around him.
A Always about the business of school, he was a
P People person who loved his students, of course, but definitely and unashamedly, teachers and parents, too.
O Outspoken, out of chaos, he could bring order; out of hopelessness and despair, hope.
L Love was his watchword; that which he did, he did out of love.
E Excitement and energy followed in the wake of his charismatic behavior.
O Over-achiever that he was, he encouraged everyone us all to follow him, to work as hard as he did.
N National and international acclaim came to “The Tower of Power” under his lead.

B. Better! He always encouraged everyone, “We can do better!” And we did.

L Long of stature and short of any low-dealing, he walked this building, shirt sleeves at mid-arm, always working tasks just short of a little magic.
E Excellence in Education may not always be acknowledged, but it is always appreciated by those lucky enough to be influenced by it.
W Wisdom he gained from many years of being God’s gift, expressing as “Nappy.”
I Intelligence made him formidable and articulate as he stood his ground for the teaching and learning process.
S Strength, buttressed by sincerity, simplicity, and single-mindedness such as his is not often seen, but will be long remembered, long appreciated, and long missed. The world is a richer place because of his work here.









The Fly-by on a “Found” Kittian Day

The sky is a summer’s day blue,
and clouds, like stretched cotton balls,
sit atop the dove gray water bearers.

I sit,
for the first time since I arrived,
doing nothing,
perched on a deck chair.

Suddenly, my frigate birds
and the brown pelican
with the white-topped head appear,
the frigates looking like hang gliders,
the pelican like helmeted pilots of old.

The sky turns gray; rain is imminent,
but I vow to sit, to enjoy the fly-by.
The birds hover like dark spectres,
silhouetted against the leaden sky.

The air currents sustain them;
the frigates’ tails appear as legs.
I marvel at their gracefulness.

The ziplock bag has my valuables.
Even if it rains, I’m going to sit,
to pray, to be thankful
for yellow flowers and turquoise waters.

I feel the tension draining away
as I enjoy a found few minutes
to be free from the work of the day.
Amen.

7-02

911

“911, What is your emergency?”
Terrorists attacked New York, and Washington, DC!
Towers crumbled, fell into ashes
around the living and the dead.
We have always thought ourselves immune to attack,
made safe by the oceans, the distance—
911, the national telephone distress number
911, the date the distress numbers overflowed
with the results of years of frustration-fueled hatred
of Americans and America and the American Way.
How can we dare to think of waging war
against an unknown enemy—or enemies—
with children too soon made adults
by the carnage of war?
How can we wage peace instead?

9-30-01



















Thoughts on a Sad Sunday

Oh, Lord, there is so much pain and sadness in the world—
not just in the people of America, but everywhere.
So many bleed and ache and cry
for those sacrificed at the hands of madmen.

I watch the Riverside Church’s “Space for Grace” sermon,
and I feel a sense of hope amidst the pain.
Candle lighting as a symbol of solidarity and hope
is mentioned as a spontaneous remembrance.

My eyes fill with yet unshed tears
as the choir sings “My Lawd, What a Mornin’”
and leaders light candles and offer prayers of the faithful.
I remember the permanently inscribed sights of the past week.

Indeed, the stars began to fall on Tuesday last,
and all were changed forever by the events of that morn.
The ash of pulverized buildings mixed with that
of people whose essence is all that remains as part of the detritus.

May we, Oh Lord, learn Your ways and practice them
as we seek to heal a world seemingly gone mad.
May we offer Love where there has been hatred.
May we find solace, healing, and peace
as we offer ourselves in Your service.

Amen.





Three Hundred Sixty-five Days and One Lifetime Later

The newscaster mentioned the wind starting up
as the first name was read,
and I thought—before he voiced my thought—
that spirit essences of the dead were suddenly set free,
free to comfort and to touch, for one final time,
those they had left behind;
free, finally, to be at rest, at peace,
after suffering deaths too horrendous even to contemplate.

As I exited my car, the wind whispered
its message of eternal hope
as it tousled my hair, caused me
to skrinch up my eyes against the swirling dust.
Leaves, like souls lost, littered the yard and the roadways;
a mighty branch had fallen
on my next door neighbor’s fence.

It was as though that branch
was a representation of the heart’s heaviness
we had all sustained when he lost his only two sons,
one, the week of Thanksgiving,
the other, at the end of the Christmas-New Year’s holidays.

Also, it marked the weightedness of the feelings
my other next door neighbor,
who lost two family members and had two horribly injured
when the WTC collapsed, must have felt.
My neighbor across the street
lost his team-teaching colleague of many years
and one of his favorite students when the American jet,
shortly after taking off from Dulles Airport,
dove into the Pentagon.

I cannot imagine the grief that surrounded
them and all the others whose lives were ripped asunder
by the suicidal acts of those from what Shrub calls “The Axis of Evil.”
However, I heard a better phrase when Samuel Barber
talked of the struggles between the United States
and what he, more accurately, described
as the Axis of Economic and Cultural Inequality.

9-11-02













Three Hundred Sixty-five Days Later, Part II

I thought about the police, the firemen, EMT’s,
and those living and working near the area, now called Ground Zero,
as I watched the swirling dust storm
after the Towers collapsed, and I thought then,
“Only God knows what these people are breathing in
or the long-term effects on them will be.”
Just yesterday, it was announced that 500 firemen
may have to retire on medical disability,
because they were affected with the respiratory syndrome
known as World Trade Center cough,
coupled with acid reflux disease and
lingering, debilitating Post-Traumatic Stress.

How many more residual effects lay in wait,
incubating physical and mental havoc
on those yet unsuspecting, asymptomatic,
on the children for whom their teachers have no answers
to the questions centering around, “Why?”
and who are forever scarred.
I don’t know why teachers have not been declared
national heroes/heroines for the parts they played—
and still play—the day graceful, silver birds became
vulture missiles intent on creating carrion of the detritus
of humans vaporized and traumatized to the point
where the more preferable alternative to being immolated
was to leap to certain death from 100 stories up.
The silhouetted image of the man, plummeting upright toward death,
the man who held his briefcase in one hand
as his bent knee formed an involuntary figure four,
is forever branded on the innermost part of my psyche.
People, falling like wingless birds that had suddenly lost the updraft,
dot my memory. I doubt if they will ever leave me—
and I only saw them from the television!
What are the manifestations of post traumatic stress
that will forever plague those who were eye witnesses to carnage?

9-11-02

Lingering Effects Close to Home

A Virginia fireman, retired on medical disability,
crossed my mind this morning,
and I said a silent prayer that he would survive
the suicidal urges he struggles so hard to overcome.

The combination of his Viet Nam tour of duty
and his Pentagon futile rescue efforts
have rendered him permanently wounded
with a wound that reopens itself
every time he hears a plane or a siren.

How many more, similarly wounded,
are teetering on the edges of destruction?
Where and when will the carnage end?
How can we substitute acts of love and peace
for those who preach vengeance and war?
How can The Axis of Plenty amidst Inequality
eliminate the need to call others The Axis of Evil?
I wonder as I remember the terror, the fear, the pain,
the lasting waves of unrelenting wonderment
that engulfed the people of the world and me.

When will we all recognize that we are all one
and that what one does affects us all?

9-11-02





Serious Church Ladies

I love to see little old ladies
in serious church-lady hats.
They smile as they walk,
with hats perched stylishly,
rakishly to the side.

Sometimes the hat sets squarely
on top of snow-white
or silver blue hair, where no curl
dares not to be in place,
no hat pin any where except prominent.

I love to see old ladies
in serious church-lady hats.
These hats bespeak the survival
of hardships and the growth of wisdom.

One day,
I am going to be a little old lady
who proudly wears serious church-lady hats!











Sunday Dares and Church Stares

She dared to whisper in his ear
words so low his wife couldn’t hear.

It took a bit of nerve to put the moves
on a married man in church,
and his wife was not above
leaving her in the lurch!

“I’ll speak words to huh, all right,
but they sho’ won’t be holy!”

“Who does she think she is?”
the parishioners wondered.
“Don’t she know
he’s a happily married man?
How dare she try to work
him into her skanky plans!”

It was obvious
there was about to be a show,
but the husband thought better of it, and said,
“Baby, I think it’s time we’d better go.”


6-22-05





Lord God Be Praised: Flaming Sky from 6ECICU

It had been a long and anxiety-filled week.
Nights had been restless, and my spirits were lower
Than an ant’s toenails.
The night shift crew made its final rounds on the unit,
And I, now bathed and nosy,
Opened the curtains onto a scene facing due east.

McKinley High School sat flush on the horizon,
And as I watched—Lord God, be praised!
A peachy glow behind the school
Intensified into a flaming orange tip of a sun
So strong it woke the world as it rose.

You sent that flaming sky that morning
To let me know that all that I had suffered in the past
Was being burned out of the night of my soul—
Just as the sun burned off the darkness of the night.

What better message of hope and faith could You send?
You cared enough to send me
The most magnificent of all Your sunrises,
You encouraged my hope, strengthened my faith,
Healed my body, and I just want to say, “Thank You.
Lord God be praised!”

4-13-89







Two Yards of Fat, One-half Yard of Lycra

“Wear biker shorts,” she was instructed,
but her brain yelled,

“Have you noticed the amount of fat on my behind?
No way would I be caught in a pair of biker shorts!”

The instructions prevailed, and sixty-four dollars and
one embarrassed son, who had been on a quest
for the Holy Grail of enough lycra to cover
his mother’s more-than-ample behind, later,

The biker shorts—and wonder of wonders—
the matching racer’s bra arrived to set the scene
for an exercise routine that, within itself, if repeated
on a daily basis, would assure weight loss!

My gracious! Have you ever watched a sweaty, bosomy, fat woman
gyrate, sweat, and cuss her way into lycra meant
to know when to hold it and how to fold it (fat)
into some semblance of sveltness?!

First, the butt and gut huff themselves in as far as possible,
on go the shorts, feeling like a tight-legged girdle.
Then the real show begins, donning the racer’s bra!
Bosoms cannot huff themselves in.

They are, first of all, big and covered with sweat.
Rubber and sweat make for interesting exercise routines,
and in spite of all manner of gyrations and perspirations,
the back of the damned thing is stuck

Like a coiled boa constrictor of a rubber band
set to crush the life out of my neck and shoulders
because it could not envision the strain
of forcing itself down my back by itself!

Voila`! One son’s help later, she stood
looking at herself in the mirror,
and silently thinking,
“I look like an over-restrained hoochie mama!

Has being fat come to this—
one half yard of lycra straining to contain two yards of fat?
Get me a 3x teeshirt. Fast!”

8-16-98



































Day Two on Four West

There was a spectacular sunset last night;
The leftover storm’s bruise of clouds seemed to dissipate into nothingness
as the hot orange orb sank, like a string`ed ball,
behind a bank of trees on the western horizon.

I awoke at four a.m., thankful for the heating pad
and very much aware that I am capable of feeling pain:
knees, calves, right hip, shoulders, and lower back
all yammered for my attention.

By four fifteen, I was up doing stretches,
coaxing my body into positions to convince
the pain that sticking around was useless,
because there is no turning back now.

The path is not well worn,
and there are obstacles ahead.
However, on this—as other journeys—
I am not alone.

A Holy Presence guides me,
for there is much left for me to accomplish.

The emergency room is right beneath my room.
I never cease to bless those who are patients
as well as those who are transporters and care-givers.

The miracles of medicine and engineering
would have probably baffled and amazed our forebears,
but today, many of us take them for-granted
and forget to utter silent prayers of thanks.

At ten thirty, the physiotherapist
has scheduled me for a stress test.
It is a challenge, but not an insurmountable one
if my legs, back, and breath hold out.

Walking this unit’s perimeter for five or ten minutes
and stretching should get me warmed up and ready for whatever comes.
Though I do not relish it, this test of endurance
is not as bad as some in the past.

I hope no visitors come today; this test kicks serious butt.

With God’s help, my little mind has planned the way,
but the Lord directs my steps.
There is enthusiasm and joy that this whole week
I shall devote all of my energies to doing what’s best for ME!
8-18-98





















Contemplation

I lay awake
and contemplate the buildings emblazoned gold
and wonder what miracles the day will hold.

The sun’s rays
crept from top
to half-way down the buildings
which stood turning rose gold
in contrast to the blue sky.

I am awed.

8-19-98















Ode to a Cup of Sweet Tea

The prepackaged sugar had run out,
and sugar in a cup was proffered instead.

Hallelujah! I don’t mind salt-free, fat-free, pepper-free,
low cholesterol, but I dearly miss my cup of sweet tea.

Fish is probably my second least favorite meat,
but I’ve endured sole, catfish, and snapper.

Tea, with two packaged sugars, is tolerable, at best;
three would be so much better.


Quickly, I dumped my sugar stash into the steaming water.
Then I salivated as I watched the water change to golden amber.

Swirling my spoon to mix the ingredients, I contemplated
that first sweet sip that I’ve had since Sunday.

Mind you, I’m not greedy; I would settle for
promised (but absent) fruit juices and one cup of tea a day—maybe for lunch.

This evening’s unexpected treat of enough sugar
made a dessert to be savored—namely, hot water and a cup of sweet tea.

8-19-98









Tranquility in the A.M. at Four West

I awoke around seven fifteen
as vital signs were being done.
Sleeping later than normal was pleasant,
especially since the aches of yesterday
were practically gone.
There’s just a little soreness in knees, calves, hips, and back
as opposed to yesterday’s steady ache in my knees.

It must be cold this morning.
People in serious coats and sweaters
scurry across the parking lot,
like dry leaves before the rushing wind.
The strides are brisk—
no sauntering and strolling now.
As the summer speeds by,
last frantic paces quicken;
everyone’s preparing for the fallow times to come.

8-20-98















Evening Observations from the Lounge on Four West
Waves of clouds,
like billowing foam on the Pacific Ocean,
an evening sky bruised by one early mauve cloud
the western horizon
silhouetting the spires of
Washington National Cathedral
in front of clouds the color of hot coals
on a fire banked for the night.
The omniscient Artist has finished rinsing Its brushes.
All’s right with my world.


8-20-98


Five visitors came to make sure
I’m safe and not lonely.
So much chatter….
How do I explain to people,
without hurting their feelings,
that I savor my aloneness,
that though I am alone,
I am not lonely?











Thoughts on an Early Fall Morning
There is something
about an early fall morning.
The sky’s so crisp and clear;
Celestial SFX, in microseconds,
turn the firmament from velvet navy
to ever-lightening shades of blue.

A blush of faintest pink
intensifies to brighter peach
and cuts a swath across the city
now coming awake, switching
on its morning lights—
oblivious to the preludes of the sun,

The same, yet always different harbingers
of the miracle of the new-born day.
Warning lights atop the high towers
flash now white,
yet were just a while ago red.

Seagulls and other flying feathers
flit and glide, soar and perch,
Hungry, but singing just loud enough
to wake the sun,
and us humans, still abed,
and to provide the fanfare needed
to proclaim their wonderment
at the never-ending, always reliable,
coming of the morn.

8-21-98








“Code Yellow!”

“Code Yellow in the Emergency Room.
Code yellow in the Emergency Room!”

There was no full moon last night,
but it was Friday, and
a feeding frenzy of ambulances
and even a firetruck finagled
for a space to park
as they delivered their human cargoes—
the sick, the victims of accidents or crimes,
and the dead
who no longer would have
to deal with the harshness, the violence,
and the unending pain with which many of them
existed while they had life.

8-22-98



















Shower

The luminescent sparkle
of blades of grass,
made jewel-like by the shower’s aftermath,
insisted they be pressed
into my permanent memory of treasures.

They, stately and solid as a rock
jutting from a field of flowers,
began to dredge a furrow in my mind—
replacing the sullenness
of a moody, cloudy day.

Noting that natural riches
were mine for the taking,
I marveled at how the wind
caressed these most fragile
of transient, tidy diamonds,
freely strewn by the side of the road.













Thanks
There are good
people everywhere
just waiting to step in
and to be of help to someone in need.

Thank You, God, for them.

A willing smile
and a helping mind reside in all
whose spirits mirror God.

Special people step forth at
special times in others’ lives;
their gifts are uniquely needed.

One touch of kindness,
one extended hand and
a smile bring light and love
and God to all.

Thank You, God,
for them
and all like them.

Amen.









Opening Ceremonies for the 1994 Winter Olympics

Snowflakes and fireworks,
an odd juxtaposition of fire and ice;

A peace dove rising
from an enormous egg;

Multicolored sparkles
floating to earth

In a prayer for peace.























Musings

I dream of a time when all will be peaceful;
I look to the day when we can show how much we love;
I ache for the ones who have never found their Centers;
I pray that I can dwell only on that which is good, is kind, and is beautiful;
I know that all will work together for good,
ultimately, even though I do not know the particulars.

(I do not NEED to know, for my Indwelling Omniscient Presence
knows how the puzzles work.)

I take charge of my life and accept responsibility
for my actions while not hurting, judging,
or attempting to live others’ lives;
I feel more peaceful and thankful
that my release valve can write off and out
the challenges that I face; and
I experience love, beauty, peace, prosperity,
and calmness within as I work on God expressing as me.


















Thoughts about Jester Hairston

More fun than homemade lemonade on a hot summer’s day
More joy and pep than people half his age
Eyes that sparkle and a beat that’s strong
A sense of humor that is so naïve, it’s sophisticated
Laughter that is infectious
Gentleness and a Centeredness that nurture
the desire to do well—
just because he sees in other people
what they do not even know they have
A patient soul who means no harm to anyone,
His gift to the world is LOVE.

When the Omnipresent Omnipotence
thought of a special gift to the world,
It gave us the present of Its presence
in the person of a small, ebon man
with a heart and a smile as big as ten universes!
Universal Goodness decided
to visit the world in the soul and person
of Dr. Jester Hairston,
musician, artist, humorist,
HUMANITARIAN EXTRAORDINAIRE!

5-25-91










For My Brother Over Whose House Geese Fly
The crispness of the dusky night
was pregnant with the promise of spring.
Just this morning, I had seen crocuses
peeping from a neighbor’s fence.

We had come to let you know that the truck
that had left you stranded was now back in the mood to move—
to leave its familiar surroundings—
and to help you to do the same.

Your neighbor’s kitchen lights cast
just enough of a warm glow
to make me want to stay cozy in the truck
when Willie said,
“Quick, get out, and look up!”

Geese, an energizing omen of the coming of spring,
flew north northeast right over your house!
They must have been twenty thousand feet high,
And their leader could be heard honking encouragement
at the gray brown V
as they flew silently over and blessed your new house.

What warm feelings Willie and I shared
as we wished you much joy
and a long life with your new love
in your new house
Over which geese so seemingly effortlessly fly by
as harbingers of the spring to come.

2-13-89



Scene from a Third Floor Window

You walked across the field in the fading light of day;
absorbed in deep thought you seemed to be.
You walked the walk of the tired but not defeated warrior
as you cradled your helmet in your hand.

I looked at the russet leaves of autumn;
I marveled at the glint of the sun,
golden as it bathed the leaves
and cast your shadow long across the deserted field.

There was a plaintiveness about your slow walk
toward Division Avenue—
almost like you did not want
to leave the safe harbor of the school.

The light in the late November afternoon was such
that an artist or a photographer might have cooed over it,
but you did not appear to notice it,
so absorbed were you in your private reverie.

I watched you as you walked, and I sent with you a prayer
that your life would hold all the wonderful things
reserved for adults who have walked and talked and studied
and, yes, cried as you have on many afternoons
when you were neither watched nor at the peace you now exhibit,
as I observe you from my vantage point
at a third floor window
overlooking the football field.

11-1-90





The Transcendent Buddha
(Stanford University Art Gallery)

His peaceful countenance
The artistry of his attire—metal embroidery—
A throne of petals, each displaying
one, one of a 100,000 different Buddhas
in their own intricate attire.

The light highlights the tips of his fingers,
his hands clasped in a benevolent prayer.
There is a peacefulness near his presence;
I feel calm, my spirit refreshed
as I reflect on the dedication and
perseverance of the artist.

Transcendent is the right word.
The beauty and artistry transcend
understanding, but there is also
a transcendence of the human spirit
when faced with such an understanding.















“The People’s Princess”
(1961-1997)
130 m.p.h.?!
Pursued! Hounded!
Would the baying
of wolves and jackals
never cease?

From shy school teacher
to despairing bride
Then, depressed and saddened,
a divorced mother of two,
separated from her boys
as she traveled the world over—
Dispensing compassion, concern,
commitment, love—
And hounded, speculated about,
pursued at midnight
into a darkened tunnel
where she, trapped in twisted metal,
finally satisfied the bloodlust
the wolves so determinedly pursued.

May Diana, Princess of Wales, rest in peace.

5a.m. 8/31/97










Things Taken For-Granted
Children of privilege,
never having heard the admonition, “No,”
addressed to them show little patience.

They do not believe in lines.
Neither do they feel the need to wait,
for instant gratification and satisfaction
have always been their birthright.

Things they take for-granted,
many others have never seen.

























The Overlook
(Ft. Leonard Wood, Indiana)
Muzak, inspiring pampas grass
to sway as though dancing
in the breeze

A barge, furiously, silently
chugging as it fights
to move its cargo

Diminutive in size,
a dun bunny watches
as a groundhog meanders

Under butterfly bushes
weighted down with birds
above the Ohio River far below.

(Insert sketch or photograph.)

















Snowy Meditation

Trees, covered in a soft confectioners’ sugar dusting of snow,
stand mute beside the highway
and deeper into the park.
Only a flit of red—a cardinal—
brings movement to the background
of evergreens standing against the horizon.

It is a soft time of morning.
Snow, in ever-increasing
soft dollops of whiteness,
clings to branches no longer naked,
but covered in a yellowish pinkish
tuft of new budding, but yet unborn leaves.


3-18-94




















Phil’s Neighborhood Christmas
The sounds of birds singing
and the blooms of flowers beautiful,
thoughtfully and lovingly tended,
blend our neighborhood
in ways we never expected.

There is a joy that pervades
a house filled with love
and a neighborhood
filled with pride.

We are together,
though in separate dwellings,
on separate streets.

We are united by a quiet,
gentle spirit sent our way
by a gracious and loving Spirit,

And we are blessed and thankful.

December, 2005
















The Best Day after Christmas Gift:
Ann and Ray Decide to Walk Hand-in-Hand Forever as Man and Wife

It is not often
that people get to choose
their family members,
but I have been exceptionally blessed,
because I have people
I know as "sister-friends,"
women who are closer,
in many instances,
than my biological sisters.

We have shared pain and pleasure,
despair and elation,
tragedy and triumph over many years.

Our secrets have been safe with each other.

When we met thirty-eight years ago,
we were both married
to someone else--someone we needed
to know in order to appreciate
the ones we have now.
Without these men,
we would not now have Janet, Claire, and Clarence--
blessings left behind to us.
Now, both of us have other loves
and shared children in our lives.

Our lives have been fuller
because we know each other.

Standing in a small country church,
beside the Christmas tree,
in front of the altar,
surrounded by family and friends,
you two gave us the best day after Christmas gift!
You invited us to share in a most sacred moment--
your decision
to grow old together as husband and wife,
a family unit made stronger
by the joining of two kindred souls.

Our families have been joined together
because of your gift.

























On the Way to the Reception Celebration
Together we drove through countryside
where fields, now fallow, attested the cycle of life.
The fire orange rays
of the quickly setting winter's sun
cast shadows over the land,
and I thought of all the shadows we've out-waited,
all the sunsets that have yielded
even more spectacular sunrises!
I rejoice for all of our experiences,
for without them,
we could not appreciate the places we are right now,
you as newlyweds and us as oldlyweds,
duly forewarned to watch
that we never say, "Never!"
to happiness with another again.

Our abilities to turn negatives
into positives have forever linked us.
















First Love, Painful Love


He was a gorgeous chocolate brown,
and his big eyes were fanned by eyelashes out to there.
One front tooth had been chipped and capped,
and he smiled a lot but never laughed out loud.

I loved him from afar;
he never knew how I felt,
how I wanted him just to look at me,
to recognize that I was alive.

He never got the chance.
One day, while riding in the back
of a pickup truck, he fell out,
struck his head on the street, crushed his skull,
and died.

I was heart-broken,
as were my fifth grade classmates.
I, however, felt a special loss,
for he never even knew he had been my first love.

10-22-91








For Carol Foster
(As She Moves to Another School)
No more will we share your flair for color,
your expertise in dance and movement.

Who will the Foster Kids call, “Ma,”
and who will pepper their lives
with positive affirmations?

“The Wanderer” will not be the same;
U.D.C. will not be the same—when we come
thirty strong to speak for you in unison.

Your bouncy optimistic disposition
and your laughing, flashing eyes have left
their marks on all our souls.

Progress is a happy-sad process,
and excitement mixes with tears.
We have no tears to shed for you—only smiles we bring.

You, by your undying, enthusiastic efforts
have brought your own special joy to us.

You will be no longer in our building
but always in our hearts.
“Break a leg!”

1-7-88







For Deitra, My Hairdresser
You watched me hide my stubby fingernails
when I saw your exquisitely manicured hands,
but you said, “Don’t hide them.
You can have nice nails too.’

And I believed you.

I was stuck at home, recovering from surgery,
and looking like a goblin’s nightmare.
You, with your Santa’s bag of beauty aids,
knocked on my door, did my hair, and perked up my spirits.

And I thanked you.

You massaged my scalp and dampened my tensions and listened as I vented my frustrations, and when I left you, I felt renewed and refreshed. You use your artistry and love of people to make sisters feel G-O-O-O-D.

And I loved you, loved you—
as my student, my daughter, my hairdresser,
my FRIEND.















For Sugar Dumpling

No where have I ever seen a man
so happy with his job
that he laughed out loud while doing it.

You perched, like a cat on a big cat,
and maneuvered the hill
into flat land.

A gentle nature rests behind
a bearded face and first-grader’s eyes,
and your smile shows
a man content with himself.

Enthusiasm, verve, and gentility
are adjectives that come to mind
when our nickname for you is called.

Pop, Poppa Ewok, Sugar Dumpling, Paul—
all are names for a patient,
gentle, and talented man
whom we are happy to know.

2-18-90













For Nicole

Soft and pink,
you snuggle in your car seat,
oblivious to all around you,
secure in your mother’s care.

Your velvet brown skin
reminds me of a browned marshmallow;
your Cupid’s bow lips half form a smile—
even in your sleep.

Baby Girl, you hold such promise.
You clutch your fuzzy bunny
and dream of palaces and kings and queens
from faraway lands.

May your softness cover
an innate strength that will allow you
to survive, to be free within yourself
in a world that often clutches and binds.

Soft and pink,
you snuggle in your carseat,
oblivious to all around you,
secure in your mother’s care.

3-11-90









Benjamin McLaurin

Some people, like flowers, give pleasure just by being.
You are a sensitive, caring, compassionate soul
who is dedicated to pulling
the best out of all you counsel.

Some people, like flowers, give pleasure just by being.
You are like the daisy,
light of love, and its faithfulness
has nothing on you.

Some people, like flowers, give pleasure just by being.
You love the finer things of life and revere HUMANITY.
Like a rose touched by
the warmth of the sun, your essence remains.

Some people, like flowers, give pleasure just by being.
You are secure enough within yourself
with who you are to savor each emotion
and to nurture good in all you touch.

Some people, like flowers, give pleasure just by being.
When you are no longer alive
on this mortal coil, the essence of your being
shall still be alive in those you’ve touched…

Who, in turn, will feel the need
to repay the debt
and to TOUCH OTHERS.

Yes, some people, like flowers, give pleasure just by being.

May, 1987




For Mark

You embark on another of life’s transitions.
Nurturing your talented, artistic gentleness
is one of the things you obviously have done well.
The hard work and the striving and
the “keeping on keeping on” now bear fragrant fruit—
and you now feel proud as you take the next steps
in making your indelible mark
on the world of arts, letters, and unconditional love.
Whatever you share comes back to you.
Congratulations! Go forth from your commencement,
knowing that you have built a strong foundation
for a fruitful and meaningful life.
May you always receive happiness, health, enthusiasm,
joy, peace, and love.
You deserve only that which is good.

4-30-90

















Observation on a Warm December Afternoon

Boughs of evergreen,
forced to dance
by almost temperate December winds,

Look longingly for snow,
fallen to provide a crystal, lacy filigree
of ice more appropriate for the season.

Russet leaves cling, tenuously,
turning first inside, then out,
waiting to join the recycling bin.

Torrential rain,
pushed by heavy wind,
sporadic sunlight filtering through the trees

Clouds settling in,
harbingers of the winter on its way.















Thoughts Stirred by Soft 4 a.m. Rain

Birds that sing in the shower
are as happy as I.

I once thought that a bird
would drown if it
opened its mouth to sing in the rain,

But now I know that that is not true.

4-29-89

























Spring Rain
A spring rain that starts in sprinkles
then grows into torrents,
provides the perfect backdrop to a cozy snuggle
with a patient, gentle man
whose measured breathing
provides a calming music
to the symphony of my soul.

A hard spring rain, on the other hand,
gives a time to think as the elements
beat a measured tattoo
against the walls and the windows
inside and outside my mind,
while the rain rinses the cobwebs
from my mind, the tension from my body.

All spring rains, whether slow or torrential,
signal the time for quietude,
a time to go within the fibers
of my connectedness with the Universal Power
that provides sustenance for every living thing.
Once inside, I am safe and secure and calm;
I feel at one with all living things,
a part of the ultimate orderly scheme of things.

7-3-91










“Peace, Be Still”
Dew, like liquid spider webs,
sparkles in the early morning grass.

It hangs, suspended, from the fronds
of the Boston fern waving gently in the breeze.

Its wetness, a breakfast libation,
sustains birds and other creatures small.

Dew, cool like the crystal glass in your hand,
dampens and stills the dry dust of the previous day.

A perfect spider’s web reaches
from a lower branch of the climbing rose bush
to the edge of the porch,
where dew makes it shimmer
like a bejeweled gossamer trinket
enhanced by an onyx, off-center, very still spider.

8-13-94
















December Realities
December can be
the best of times
and the worst of times.

It is a time of darkness,
punctuated by lights that seem
to shimmer in the icy winds.

This time is a time for joy,
if you’re not one of the homeless
who live amidst the cast off
crunching leaves one or two blocks
from the White House—
in the hedges around Constitution Hall.

It is the best of times
if your family is alive, well, and present.
However, for those whose loved ones
are absent because of death, illness,
or service abroad,
this can be a time
that even the brightest halogen
cannot illumine.














From the Car Window


A field of yellow buttercups,
swaying quietly in the breeze,
stretched as far as I could see,
in an uncut state sheltered by trees
clothed in new-leaf green
and providing contrasts
for azaleas, new and past their prime.

New-mown parkland carpet,
disappearing into an expanse of evergreens,
beckoned as I passed at less than the legal speed.

Manicured and snipped and clipped lawns
preened themselves in verdant splendor,
while showcasing beds of annuals and perennials
nestled around the borders like necklaces
strung around a dowager’s neck.

5-8-90















Ode to Mother

Many days you did without so we could have.
Yet you never complained.
Sometimes you worked so hard,
but we always reaped the benefits.
We can never give you enough
to show how much we love you,
how much we appreciate you.
Ancestors long since dead
smile down on us,
but you are the giver of love,
the maker of miracles.
























For My Mother on Mother’s Day

Eight of us you had.
Eight of us you loved, and love us still.
When times were hard and money tight,
you used your love to shed a little light.

You did without so we could have.
You wore holey drawers and runny stockings;
we had only the best.

Sometimes you were so busy
as you washed and cooked and cleaned
that you did not see the looks of love
we gave you as we passed.

Now, you have adults in place of children;
for we have children, and grandchildren, of our own.
We, your children, call you bless`ed .
Our children stand in their Grannypoo’s awe.

When the Universe allowed us to choose you for our own,
It knew that you would be the best mother
a child could have.

This child is grateful,
and I love you.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR!









For My Mama

You cried last night when you read my work.
That moved me—that my words could move someone else to tears!
I always write because you taught me the rudiments.
You worked with colors and pencils and needles and threads.
Not being able to duplicate what you did so beautifully,
I tried—and still try—to capture words
so that they will do what your artwork did.
How I wish you could find some of your works!

We are today a family of artisans
because you instilled a love for the beautiful early in our lives.
Even though we are very much different,
we are all very much alike.
Sewing, painting, lettering, drafting,
decorating foods and interiors, writing and penmanship—
all are outward manifestations of how your love
of that which is beautiful influenced us inwardly as we grew.

Yes, you cried last night when you read my work.
We were both moved by each other’s abilities to sense
that which touches us on the inside,
behind the mind’s eye,
at the heart.
Thank you for giving me this gift.

11-21-90










The Healing House

For the first time in twenty years,
she sits, relaxed, honored and
esteemed in a healing house,
a house of peace and utter tranquility.
She awakes to the singing of the birds,
the murmuring of the wind
outside her bedroom window.

There are no babies here,
no one waiting for her
to care for their needs,
while they totally disregard hers.
She is the elder
whose needs are to be considered,
who will be given the high respect
to which she is entitled.

For once, she is the center of attention,
the receiver of caring and nurturing and respect,
and it is a good thing that here,
at this time and in this place,
she feels free enough
to relax, to try to tan, and
to be at peace with herself
and with the world around her.

The mountains are not far away,
and the water is close enough
to reach out and touch it.
The current is swift,
but the atmosphere within is tranquil,
gradual, and calm enough to allow
the refurbishing of the soul,
the replenishing of the spirit.

2003




The ’Tween Time

’Twas the week after Thanksgiving
and all through the school
all the children were working,
but some acted the fool.

The teachers rebelled at the increasing work,
but some even looked at the students with glee.
It was not smart to act like a jerk,
for a bad note home might set students’ presents free.

The administrators walked the halls,
peeking in doors.
What they were looking for—
students who snored?

The dry leaves outside the windows danced
on Arctic winds and polar blasts.
No one thought of anything
except the days ahead,
and parents shook their heads—
many with dread at there being no class.

No matter how long
the two weeks before the holiday,
once school closed,
there was too little time to play.

Children all bundled like “Weebles People,
who wobble but don’t fall down,”
cringe at the thought
that school would come soon.

11-30-04


















Upon the Approach of September 11, 2002

I cannot erase the images
that are never far away,
the images of metallic birds,
at which I once marveled as awesome things of beauty,
suddenly transformed from graceful birds
to heavily fueled missiles of destruction and death.

Forever seared into my psyche
is the remembrance of a man,
airborne like a huge, black silhouette,
whose legs made a grotesque image
of the number 4,
still clutching his briefcase
as he plunged toward certain death below.
(Are we too identified by what it is we do,
instead of who it is we are?)

As the Towers fell, I felt
a gnawing in my inner self,
a terror that I would
never see my home and family again,
that I might be just as those who died
at the hands of terrorists—
forever bereft of places
of love and comfort—at least here on Earth…

I recall, in almost slow-motion, surreal detail,
the frenzied exit out of Detroit,
the riding in a commandeered, little red car
on turnpikes devoid of all
save a few other souls in shock
at the suddenness of the world gone mad,
the spying of a lone American flag
hoisted in haste on a piece of planking
and hastily erected alongside the road,
just outside Pittsburgh, where the other jet,
the one headed for Washington, D. C.
(and possibly the Capitol) had gone down.

Then the memory intrudes of
the Pennsylvania Turnpike signs
saying to avoid main roads in DC,
the horrendous headache, the hurriedness,
the awareness that the highway patrol
had far more important things than the car’s speed,
the comfort in knowing that if the main roads were closed,
the roads through the ’hood where I lived and taught
would be open.
(Terrorists would have no interest in places
already barren and forgotten.)

The specter of a plane against the night sky
gave me an instant panic attack as I neared home.
Why is that plane there
when all the skies have been cleared?
What is about to be attacked now?
Will there be an air war
over the place I call home?
Questions, questions, and more questions
swirled though my mind,
but something in my heart kept saying,
“You are a child of the King.
Keep your thoughts tied to that
which is good, pure, and beautiful.”

After a frantic day of hard driving,
arriving home to hugs and tears
and television images that played
over and over--as though I needed
to be reminded to remember the carnage of the day—
I felt undying gratitude for the comfort of bed,
the healing properties of again being with family,
in familiar surroundings, at a place called home,
even if it were now in world gone mad.

Courage is faith in the presence of fear,
and I was given privy to how others must have felt,
and still feel, when they hear or see a plane overhead.
Dare they look up and marvel at a thing of beauty,
or must they first seek refuge from a huge bird of prey
seeking to feast on the carrion that they might now become?

I know now how it feels
to awaken in the middle of the night
to the sounds of F-16’s and AWACS as these
planes whine and drone overhead.
There is a temporary awareness
that I should be able to sleep, because they fly,
but I am unable to sleep, because they must fly.

I cling more closely to things that are
most important to me—family and friends.
Things of transience are not as important any more.
In the still moments, moments so quiet
I can hear my heart beating, there is a peacefulness
that o’ertops the wariness stoked by
the threats and tirades of politicians and madmen.
The wound in my soul is healing,
slowly forming a jagged scar,
but forming a scar, nonetheless.
And for that, I am grateful.















What a Morning!

Black dots with miniature wings flew high
above my head that was beginning to appreciate
the coolness of the breeze against the hot sweat
that trickled freely through my hair and down my back.

Toward a round gray twig set to snap under my shoe,
toward the velvet softness of the newly mown grass as it covered the
dun-colored patches of hard bumpy soil that kept
peeking through like beggars, seeking the verdant
covering of the rest of the lawn.

Baby oak tree leaves clustered in their new-leaf
greenness and peered through amber clumps of seeds
whose pollen covered a black van a yellowish green
and made my nose itch and my eyes water.

As I looked Heavenward, a tree cut into a Y
allowed black wires to snake freely through it and down the street;
it stood out against an azure sky
decorated by cloud-like snowy feathers on a war bonnet.

Down the street, a tamed white Bobcat thrust its four ebon claws
out away from its yellow cage, looking like it
wanted to rest in the shade from our building,
shade that was quickly turning emerald green to forest.

What a morning!









Victims’ Joint Statement before Sentencing
A tragedy of the first magnitude has occurred:
A young woman, who will never be an old woman,
is dead—
not by the vagaries of illness or accident—
but by the wanton maliciousness
of another human who consciously chose
to pump four bullets
from a nine millimeter pistol
into her head!

Not only did he commit murder
but also he committed the worse sort
of child abuse.
A three year old child
will never know her mama
as other children do.

This child will know
only by fading photographs
who gave her birth.

An entire family is devastated by her loss,
and two years later, her killer
still can breathe the air, see the sun, and walk upon the earth,
while our judicial system defends his right to a fair trial.

Who, may we ask, defended his victim’s right to live?

Our country guarantees us the rights
to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
This man’s maliciousness and callous disregard
for this young woman’s life and liberty
has totally disregarded her child’s and our happiness.

Everyone who was touched by her presence
has been irretrievably and irrevocably altered
by the heinousness of his decision
to make himself happy by killing her.

Justice is often portrayed as blind.
In this instance, we hope
that Justice lifts her blindfold
and looks with sympathetic eyes
upon all of those touched
by this animal’s viciousness.

We also pray that Justice will demand
the severest punishment available
within our judicial system of law.

This man forfeited his rights
to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness
when he made the choice to murder someone else.
He should never be allowed
to walk or to breathe as a free man again.

Society should be spared
the threat presented to all of us
should this man ever be released
to wreck the lives of others
with the violence that follows his displeasure.

It is a pity that his fate
could not be the same
as that which he chose
to inflict on someone else.

Therefore, we respectfully request
that this man be given whatever
is the severest penalty possible
in this jurisdiction.
We do not want revenge;
we just want justice.










For Willie, A Sensitive Man Who Dared to Share His Fears

I chose to marry you because
I loved the essence of your being.
A college degree is not what makes a man;
sensitivity, gentleness, and unselfishness do that.
Looks do not matter to me—
or material possessions either.
Your warmth and affection overshadow
any other persons I have known.
Friends of the past are of the past,
but memories of them are not forgotten.
I have culled through and remembered all
the good things we have shared,
and they far outshine any fleeting
attractions from long ago and far away.

Freedom of choice is God’s gift to me,
and I have chosen to love you!
Do not fear that someone else who has more
things will usurp your place in my heart.
You are, again, my choice—a choice freely
and sanely made and joyfully nourished.
Fear not that someone else will take your place
in my heart and world;
Only if you choose to sever the ties that we have
will I sever them—
and then, it will not matter who I see—
For I have learned to love you the same
as I have learned to love me,
and I have chosen to sever nothing and to keep you always.
You see, I choose to love you
because I savor the essence of your being.

1-4-‘89
Like A Sponge
Plants soak up sunshine.
Bees immerse themselves in pollen.
Earth absorbs rain.
I swell with love for you.

Violets and azaleas release
their colors to the world;
their beauty shimmers in the warmth of the sun
and glistens in the rain.

Cross pollinated trees and plants
bring forth fruits and blooms and berries.
Birds perch and twitter in leafy branches.

Mists rise from mountain tops.
Waterfalls roar and splatter their crystal droplets
across the quiet land.
Rainbows arch their hope-filled prisms across the sky.

You, my love, have sent out and set into motion
forces that draw, from Universal Good, to you
kindness, tranquility, peace, joy, and love.

Like a sponge,
I have been enriched by your love,
and, like a sponge,
I hope you have been expanded by mine.

5-1-91








I Love You Just ’Cause

You animate my feelings
that once had lain dormant.
I am inspired to be the real me
when I am around you.

When I walk in the door and say,
“To use the kids’ vernacular, I be tired,”
You say, “Would you like to go out to dinner
or just rest for a while?”

When I’m down,
you pull me up,
and when you are down,
you’re strong enough to let
me pull you up.

There is something about you
that is so secure, so fine, so gentle
that you don’t feel threatened when you
show gentleness and vulnerability;
no eggshell ego imprisons you.

Sometimes having an understanding person
who sits with me in silence makes
the talking times good,
and the loving times eternal and better.

Like I said,
“I love you just ’cause…
you are and just ’cause I am.

6-6-90





Sweet Kisses in the Middle of the Night

You kissed me in the middle of the night last night,
and, oh, how good it felt.
You murmured softly, “I love you”
right before you resumed your soft snoring.

A soft smile played over your face
as the moonlight shone thereon.
The Queen of Sheba could not have better felt
as I drifted off, us side by side, arm in arm.
























“In the Good Ol’ Days…”
I loved everyone more than I loved myself.
Making “nice-nice” was perceived
as my function in life.

Time for personal wants and needs
was verboten, for there was just
too much to do.

The family, the job,
everyone’s expectations of me
shut out time
to do anything for myself.

Four o’clock in the morning
was the only time
when I held the world at bay.

The quiet hours before dawn
were then,
as they are now,
mine and mine alone to savor.

After a while,
the resentment at being all things
to all people except myself

Took its toll.
The family disintegrated;
a time of stress and change was at hand.

But, like the Phoenix,
God has built me a new life
out of the ashes of the old.
10-16-89

The Survivor
For years, I have withstood
the vicissitudes of time.
Even now, I stand,
forlornly naked,
battered,
stript of life and limbs,
bereft of knowing the changing of colors,
yet sheltering still, countless itinerant residents,
who view me simply as a home,
a convenient way-station, if you will.

The river flows, ever-changing, at my feet,
but I,
I alone, am constant in my decrepitude.
The storms come,
and the winds roar.
However, still they, too, pass quickly by,
while I stand,
a lone survivor,
waiting
for the inevitable ravages of time.

I shall not be here as long as I have been here,
but while I am here, my presence attests
to the indominability of the spirit of those who dare to stand
against the wrongs and challenges that beset them
and still manage to come out stronger,
chiseled, physically changed, and annealed,
but steadfast in their knowledge that there is something greater than trouble,
something greater than sorrow,
for those who dare to shake their limbs,
dig deeper into their roots, and stand triumphant
while others have fallen and been washed away.

August 6, 2003
For Gina Barclay-McLaughlin, “Dr. Sista Girl Too Tuff”


Reverie

The fall of the year is my favorite time.
Trees dress up in party clothes—
Others wear leaves adorned with lipstick crimson.

The air is crisp at night, sometimes warm,
sometimes cool during the day.
A time of quiet settles o’er the earth.

Now a time of harvest and reflection
quietens the frenetic pace of other seasons.
Only winter is quieter, but its quiet is enforced.

Autumnal quiet is gradual, voluntary.
The first freeze bids biting bugs good-bye.
The acrid smell of wood smoke scratches the nose.

I relax in to the routines of the season:
putting out bird food, sweeping the walk free of leaves,
settling in to await the changes yet to come.
















Meditation for April 11, 2007
Settle into your seat.
Close your eyes if you like.
Take a deep breath before each activity.
Exhale slowly.
Now tighten your toes; hold, release the tension.
Take another cleansing breath.
Tighten the muscles of your feet and lower leg.
Hold; release the tension.
Tighten your knees up to your hips.
Hold; release the tension.
Now tighten your torso
as you envision yourself
at peace and in perfect health.
Next your arms and shoulders—
Clinch your fingers into a fist;
shake them as you massage them vigorously.
Finally, your neck and head—
Breathe deeply and slowly
as you come gently back.
You are at peace, secure in the knowledge
that you are part of what’s good, true,
beautiful, and right with the world.














Weekend Holiday
Take a minute to catch the Amtrak;
hold your books in your hand.
Ride through spring-kissed fields
o’er newly plowed land.
Listen to the chatter of the wheels
as they rush over the rails.
Watch the new-green leaves as they swish
past in eye-blurring color.
Note the water lapping at the shore
as the wake of a boat ruffles the surface.
Read and look and listen to
your innermost thought;
read, relax, and unwind.

Schuller and you are on the same wave-length,
except he has such a way with words!
Breathe and exhale.
THE BE (HAPPY) ATTITUDES really is
pretty manna for the mind.

Catch a little nap—just watch the darkness
of the lids closed over your eyes.
Wake and stretch and check the time—
Wow! What a sunset:
a big hot orange ball
hanging in the blue gray sky.

Quiet, growling stomach;
dinner’s pretty soon.
No need to spoil your appetite;
No need to do for anyone but you.

Settle in; complete this chapter
and let your increasing peacefulness take over.
For this, after all, is what
a holiday weekend is really for!
5-4-89

Sounds and Sights at Ocean City Sunrise
Black-mittened kitten strolling toward the sunrise,
great squawking gull waiting for more light,
blue sky, pregnant with magentas, golds, and peaches
waiting for the arrival of the sun;

Magnificent fire-orange ball rising ever-so-gently,
but ever-so-swiftly
casting its heated shadow over a liquid sea
whose waves lap gently north
as the sun wends its way south;

People agape at the railings,
some yawning and thinking
their own private thoughts,
A sprinkling of sparrows,
and a chirping cricket chorus;
The growl of a diesel
and the half-block away thump
of a car’s booming radio
are the only man-made interferences
to the Universe’s free silent movie—
one that lightens the day and quickens the soul.

No one sunrise is exactly like any other;
only how my anticipation remains the same is clear,
as I continuously and anxiously await
the now white hot Supreme Symbol of light and warmth and joy.

8-31-89




Whither Shall I Go?
Whither shall I go, Lord?
Whither shall I go?
I can go within…
To a place where You and I are one.

Thither can I go, Lord.
Thither can I go.

Whither shall I go, Lord?
Whither shall I go?
Keeping my positive outlook
on challenges as they come
makes me go within.

Thither can I go.

Whither can I go, Lord?
Whither can I go when
my fears keep grappling
with my optimism?

I wrestle to get
within my Subconscious;

Thither I know You dwell within.
Thither You dwell within.

Whither shall I go, Lord?
Thither shall I go.

3-2-90





Restoration
I sit here, drinking peppermint tea,
on recycled wicker on a healing porch.
The day is about an hour old, and the rising sun
now colors the treetops out front in LIGHT.

A crow, bigger and blacker and louder
than other birds sounds his presence
to my left, the east.
Other bird souls twitter and chirp
in the bower of trees surrounding this quiet place.

On the way downstairs, I stopped,
as is my wont, in my favorite small library, the bathroom,
and

You know what?! A happily married bird couple,
rosy sparrows, perched on the outside ledge,
as curious about me as I about them.

I was reading David Bradley’s 1984
NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE article on
Alice Walker, “Telling the Black Women’s Story.”

Fascinated, and not wanting to wake
my friends sleeping across the hall,
I padded as softly as I could to this healing place
to commune with the Universal Source of LIGHT.

6-24-90







Upon Singing at a Sunday Homecoming
(in St. James Presbyterian Church in Harlem, NY)
“You said You would
give us this day
our daily bread…”
And You did.

To sing with the professionals;
to work with Linda Twine;
to hear emotions enhanced
by mind-bending flawless song—

You said You would,
And You did:

Allow my voice to mingle
with those who had practiced hard:
Touch a part deep within me,
and allow my soul to sing songs
long sung by my ancestors
and newly arranged by their progeny.

You said You would,
And You did:

Make my goose bumps to rise
and a spark to travel down my spine,
A song to the mind
is like bread to the body;

And You said You would
give us this day
our daily bread…,”
And You did.
5-4-89
When the Chain Is Broken

Matter is neither created nor destroyed—so the scientists say;
the chain of humanity seems to lose a link.

Though loved ones make their last transitions
to a place beyond our sight,

The chain is unbroken,
for we live and die in a continuum

Of ancestors who shall never die as long as one remembers
their names, their accomplishments, their joys.

When loved ones are no longer on the earth,
they are of the earth and with the ancestors.

They are present on the bloom of the flowers,
in the leaves on the trees,

And the sound of the thunder echoes their names,
while the flash of the lightning

Illumines all who remember the essences of their presence
and reminds those left behind to look ever toward the Light.






Autumn Transition
(for my Dad, Clarence Edward Evans)

The sun shone brightly on leaves
the color of amethysts, rubies, and emeralds.
On an October Sunday bright and clear
the shoemaker made a peaceful transition,
a journey of peace to a place of calm
from a place of suffering and pain.

His spirit strong but his body weak,
made his last hours a struggle,
but his indomitable will to survive
helped him to get through
“the going through.”

He, at last, is whole and strong and free—
just the way God meant him to be…

10-25-88







For Baron, Who Died on Christmas Day
Christmas Day will never be the same,
for you chose to make your last transition then.
Only son, whose promise was cut short,
your parents will grieve on what had been,
for them, a joyous occasion.

You walked the halls of Woodson
as you and your dad worked the lights;
you carried books and plants to and from my car
as school opened and closed;
you laughed when your motorcycled self
eluded my recognition.

Child of Light were you to your parents;
your sparkle touched all who knew you.
It’s strange how in your thirty-one years,
you always appeared healthier than most,
and ironic how your apparent good health
masked the imperfections of your body.

Who would have thought that a massive
and irrevocable heart attack would render us
all speechless and grief stricken
and you dead on the birthday of the
Original Child of Light?

(We were later to learn that what we thought
had been a heart attack had, in reality,
been a Berry’s aneurysm at the base of your skull—
something no less deadly,
but present since you were born.)

1-4-89

A Brown Sparrow of A Man
(Mark Fax)

A brown sparrow of a man
sat at the organ console
and coaxed melodies
both simple and profound
from choir members,
both amateur and professional,
young and old alike.

During his short lifetime,
he demanded nothing,
but he inspired excellence
in everyone he touched.

The church purchased the organ,
but only he, alone, owned it.
His brown gentleness,
as he sat, a stub of an unlit cigar
clenched between his teeth,
wrote arrangements and compositions
to inspire not only us mere mortals
but also the gods themselves.

All who knew him
are better people because we knew him.
His presence is with us,
even though his physical person
has long since made the next transition.

As long as his music lives,
he lives.
I am proud to have known him.


The One Thing I Shall Always Remember

The smell of home-cooked food,
especially hot rolls,
will always set my mouth a-watering.

Holidays at our house always were
a double banquet of tastes as well as smells.
Baked sweet potato pies, sweet-smelling puddings,
turkeys big and brown, country ham and red-eye gravy,
hot rolls dripping butter,
and every kind of potato dish imaginable—

All, all come back to me
if I just close my eyes and think of them.
I guess the skinny little girl
with the yen for home-cooked food
was the forerunner of the woman
who more than doubled her childhood weight,
eating her share of that same home-cooked food.















The Advent of Spring

In addition to azure skies and breezes warm,
spring brings miseries to those with allergies
to airborne pollen, trees, and grasses.

Venturing outside the filtered walls of home
can bring sneezes, coughing, and headaches—
not to mention itchy eyes and runny noses.

Around a city noted for its beauteous greenery,
cars turned green by the fine film of pollen
signal a time to pray for rain to wash away
the pains of the advent of spring.

4-20-95























A Student’s Prayer

S tudious is how I need to be, and
T enacious in the face of adversity.
U nder no circumstances let me falter.
D iligent and dedicated my watchwords make, and let
E nergetic enthusiasm embolden my tasks.
N ever unprepared, I neglect not my responsibilities.
T hankful make me for the tests I’ve passed
and for teachers who see in my eyes an expression of God.

1995












A Wish List

May you always have rainbows
that arch across
even the darkest skies.

May you always have sunshine
and flowers that bloom—
and on the darkest night,
fireflies.

May you always see
rays of sunshine
against the storm clouds’ gloom.

May you always choose
happiness and love
and never be blue.

May you always stay centered,
for you are
God expressing as you.

6-11-90







Closing Out Later Than Ever

I sign out today: keys secured,
room cleaned, body sore and tired.

For the next eight weeks I will experience
relative freedom: to write, to think, to nurture my health and family.

No one could know the feelings of this teacher
on the first morning of no school.
God, I am thankful for a vacation!

Each year the school year gets longer and longer.
Forces negating good teaching get stronger.
I find myself counting down the years and months to
retirement—something I thought I would never do.

Yet, there is life beyond the classroom,
and the summer vacation was made to savor it!

6-30-89
















Prayer for a Bride and Groom

Make us thankful, O Lord
for the love that we share.
Help us to love ourselves
even as for another we care.

Keep us innocent, pure, and calm,
in the faces of adversity.
Hold us continuously in the protection of Your palm,
as we cling together, separate yet one.

Show us how to appreciate
the simple pleasures of life;
Favor us with understanding
as we journey forward, forever man and wife.

Make us thankful, O Lord
for the blessings we have.
Reveal Thy divine plans for us
as we enjoy each other on life’s road that we share.

Amen.









A Marriage Blessing

May you, in choosing each other,
know the joys of commitment,
the laughter of happiness,
the continued renewal of friendship,
the communion of kindred spirits,
the fulfillment of your life’s dreams,
the old-age companionship of white-haired lovers who walk
hand in hand on the beach and into life’s sunset.

May you, in building a happy life together,
look always in each other for that which is good,
and know that even from adversity, good comes.
Be true to one another,
for outside yourselves,
you have chosen to share your innermost selves
with a lover who just happens to be your best friend.

Emphasize that which is beautiful in each other,
knowing that each of you has exquisite, good taste.
















Time to Unwind

Droplets of wind-driven rain
cling in ever-widening streams to
the windows of the 5:20 Connecticut Yankee
as it wends its way north.

Friday commuters mix
with weekend travelers, and
the vibrations of the hotrod coach
lull passengers tired from the work of the week.

Writing, while jerking about
like ice cream in a milkshake blender,
I watch as the windows clear,
and the train outruns the rain.

Something is quite civilized
about the ride on a train.
There’s time to unwind and to muse
about such things as

Droplets of wind-driven rain
wetting the windows of the coach
much as the droplets of tears that wash
dirt rivers on the cheeks of a tired and sleepy child.

6-22-90









Dysfunctional Family

Who decides who is to be labeled
dysfunctional?
What is “normal”—or at least
functional?

Why is it that people who have had
no formal training at being a family
are castigated for doing the best
they know how where they are
by those no less normal than they?

Dysfunctional or functional,
normal or abnormal,
perfect or imperfect—

Each of us decides within ourselves
how we will act, how we will react
in what is normal for some
but dysfunctional for others.

7-3-90














A Respite from the Busyness of the World

Drive slowly and inhale deeply.
The air here is clean,
the landscape, pure.

Note the shades of green that
blend into the groves
of uniquely separate,
but together, individual trees.

Leave the busyness of
the outside world behind.

Listen: The sounds of nature call.

Look: Here, a pond of hungry fishes,
there, Canadian honkers swim.
All is still, save the beatings of your heart
and the sound of a choir of birds.

Remember. Mid-day at the Arboretum
is the time to renew the spirit,
to calm the soul,
and to refresh the mind.

7-3-90









Playing Hooky

Wow! I now know how
pleasant it is to take a long,
leisurely lunch with friends
in the middle of the week—

Not listening to bells
to end a too-short lunch,
lingering over a tall glass of iced tea;

Savoring a ride
in a nice new car,
and sitting in the back seat
like “Missy Anne” or “Miss Daisy”;

Unwinding and sharing
and reviving and
not thinking once
about being at work!

The highway flashed by
so slowly as we went to lunch
and oh, so fast, when we returned.

Refreshed we were
and a lot more mellow were four women
who dared to take a long,
leisurely lunch in the middle of the week!

6-14-90






For Claire, My First Born

You are God’s replication of myself,
and even though we are different,
we are alike in many ways.

The trill of a bird or the purr of a cat
gives you immense pleasure—as it does me.
Little things ignored by others are savored by you.

Ballet, or anything physical, warms your soul,
but, like me, you must read to affirm
your existence as a thinking, caring person.

You love deeply and trust completely
those close to you, but once hurt or betrayed,
you back away, silently, to seek healing for your being.

Watching you as you have become more a woman,
and less a child, has been a pleasure,
and I revel in your independence.

Always value yourself,
for in reality,
you are always your own best friend.

Demand excellence and be not afraid
both to extend and to receive it.

Know always that you are my beloved daughter,
and I hope for you and yours
all the joys and riches of the world.

I love you…
because you’re you
and you chose to come into my life.

2-9-90
On the Occasion of Your Birthday
You travel a journey, but you are ageless.
Sometimes, there are challenges, but you overcome them
and grow stronger from having met them.

Your eyes mirror your thoughts, but your soul is calm.
Age is just a number, and, for you, numbers are a means
to helping what’s most important in your life—people.

May you always have health, love, joy, happiness,
beauty, and peace,
for you are God expressing as you.

Hallmark “cares enough to send the very best,”
and so did God when He gave
the world the present of your presence.

HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS!
MAY YOU HAVE MANY, MANY MORE!


















A Different Drummer
From the time he was born forty years ago,
Clarence has marched to the beat
of a Different Drummer,
One who ordered his steps
and continues to set the course of his life.

There are no strangers
when Clarence is around;
he has an innate ability to make connections
with people wherever he goes.

Whether he is drumming
or writing or preaching,
there is a definite rhythm to his demeanor,
a definite style and flair to his presentation.

From babies to old ones,
he has the time to tune in,
to listen, to show love, and to make
a positive difference in people’s lives.

He can be seriously silly,
or humorously serious,
while, at the same time, working at warp speed
to be a son, a grandson, a brother, a scholar, a friend.

Most importantly, however, he is always
first and foremost, a child of a Different Drummer,
One who controls our heartbeats
and holds the rhythms of the world in the palms of His hands.







Because It’s Your Birthday
I just want you to know
how special you are to me.

You chose me as your parent
long before I knew
what little boys were like.

Then you grew into a fine young man
who grasped at the richness of life.

You have struggled
and will struggle yet to embody
the best that God’s present
of your presence means to the world.

As a man, you have matured much
in your thirty-two years.
May you enjoy many more
filled with health, wealth, joy, and peace.

Know that you are loved every day,
but birthdays are special thanksgiving days!














For My Baby, Now a Man
I look at you and I marvel at being the mother of
a little boy who grew up to be a gentle man
and who showed me that boys can be fun.

Your inability as a child to be as I perceived you to be
has been a source of unceasing wonder,
because you have always been able to follow
God’s own path imprinted in your soul—
regardless of adversities and challenges.

You chafe at injustices and your voice
bespeaks a scholar and a poet in disguise.
You venture forth in life with a smile
and a jauntiness that belie hardships
imposed on all Black men by a racist society.

And, still, you keep on keeping on;
you have fallen, and still you rise!
Adversity, for you, has been a temporary setback,
success, for you, the impetus to go forth with renewed vigor.

From your dapper bow ties
to your often threadbare—or threadless—trousers,
you walk with the grace of a royal dancer
and with the pride of ancestors yet unknown,
whose stooped stances and work worn bodies
have invented, built, and refined civilizations of the world.

I love you.

2-9-90



Written, with Love, by a Mother to Her Adult Son

I want my baby to fly the nest,
knowing that I love him dearly.
His dependence distresses me
for I see him becoming weaker, not stronger.

A man needs his own space.
Man-children need their own space
as well as their mother’s closeness.

This is not what I want for my son!
Your fears are my fears, but
I only want your Inner Strength to guide you.

Don’t judge what has been before.
Don’t measure yourself by others’ successes or failures.
Know that I see you
as the high-functioning person you wish to be.

Also know that I know
you’re afraid to step out on faith
and maybe fall again.

The falls are painful,
but they teach lessons we need to know
in order to live as independent adults.

Seeing you hurt is painful to me,
but seeing you paralyzed
by fear of insufficient funds
is a nightmare.

My son, you’ve come to the very precipice
of independent adulthood.
Don’t be afraid to try again your wings
as you fly toward the happiness and fulfillment
you so desire.

Your strength and your gentleness
are being overshadowed by what, I perceive to be,
arrogance and contempt for me
and all I represent.

For you, I only want health, love, wealth, respect,
and a sense of fairness toward all—
even toward me.

A man who struggles toward attaining
worthy goals is admirable;
A man who allows himself to live
as a man-child is pitiable.

I have only a love for you that is as unending
as that I have for myself—
and that is great indeed!

As we all pay our fair shares of life’s demands,
may our love of ourselves grow
as our independence increases
and our fears and
their manifestations
decrease, disappear,
and become as wafts of smoke
on gusts of wind.

6-26-89







For Clarence and His New Red Fiero


The look on your face as you bounded
up the steps to share with me
the experience of your new red Fiero
was one of JOY!

Happy as you were, I was honored
to get the first ride in your new chariot.
Seeing the look of pride on your face
made me feel good for another
milestone of your adult independence.

Your new red Pontiac sits low,
but it drives high as it symbolizes
an achievement made on your own
and under your own specifications.

It shows an outward manifestation
of your inward persistence, and I am
proud of you for:
Paying your dues;
Keeping on keeping on;
Laughing—or at least smiling—through
circumstances to evoke tears;
Walking tall and proud
toward adulthood.

Enjoy your new red Fiero!

5-8-90





Meditation at Unity

The western stained glass rose window
illumined by Divine Fire
glows in jewels golden, turquoise, citrine, and amethyst.

The quiet peacefulness of the sanctuary,
devoid of all save me,
quickens my heartbeat and warms my soul.

10-9-89

























Observation on Sunday, October 20, 1991

The horizon is aflame,
not with fire,
but with the brightness
of the soon-to-be embers of leaves
that recycle in ablaze of light.

This time of year is a mellow time;
a winding down is at hand.
The honks of migrating geese signal
a resonant reminder to turn within.























Thank You, But No Thank You

Thank you, kind people
for giving us people
a whole month
just to remember us.

Does this mean that
we will change our colors
for the rest of the year?

I think not.

Could you answer something
that has always puzzled me?

How come, we, the first
and warmest people,
have been given
the shortest and coldest month?

It’s not that we
don’t appreciate
your generosity,

BUT

Unless we can
be accepted fully,
without gifts we cannot use,

We must say,
“Thank you, but no thank you.”

2-23-89



Night Blooming Cereus

Fragrance as sweet and light
as a baby’s whisper
Buds that bloom slowly,
imperceptibly, into blossoms
spectacular, yet fragile

Petals that open into layers
tight and not so tight
sharing their ethereal splendor
only when the night is fully awake.

7-4-91























Gwendolyn Brooks

Like many things, she gets better with age.
There she stood in her favorite color, blue.
No pretense or artifice was there about her—
She might have been anyone’s observant Grandmother,
giving vent to her observations
and setting the stage with her life’s experiences.

A brightly-colored scarf wound its way
around her head, helping to corral
the many thoughts and images waiting to get out.
She smiled with us as she read
her poetic slices of real life, lived to the fullest,
and taught us lessons from times
both long ago and here and now.

5-2-94




















The Crown of the Almighty

Like fat yellow snowflakes
against a soft, blue sky
leaves drift, on an autumn breeze,
softly, ever so softly, toward the earth.

A flash of crimson here,
a bit of russet and orange and burgundy yonder
announce the unending cycle
of death, renewal, and rebirth.

They go out on a blaze
of awe-inspiring, heart-thumping colors—
different from anything ever seen before,
yet, somehow, the same.

The horizon, like fine oriental carpets
or hand-woven tapestries too expensive
for just one to own,
intertwines the greens, browns, sumac reds, oranges, yellows—

Colors that glisten in the sunlight
after an evening’s rain,
royal jewels in the crown
of the Almighty.

10-15-93









Glimpses on an Early Fall Morning

A leaf, sliding quickly down the roof,
like a joyful child on a sliding board;
Trees, some naked, others still fully clothed,
like silent sentinels against a gray sky;

Subdued russet, gold, and garnet leaves,
shivering in the wind before sun-up,
like scantily clad aging party girls
who have stayed out too long;

A horizon changing
from charcoal to dove gray to early dawn blue,
like a mood changing
from depression to the blues to joy;

Quiet evergreens standing, ageless, timeless,
and ever-present,
like the memories of days gone by
and of childhoods past.

11-13-93













Snow Day
Cold, bone-chilling, branch-snapping cold!
Holly trees dressed in icy crystal ornaments;
Oak trees glazed over in shiny, glistening mirrors of water;
Streets, too slick to walk on,
hidden under ice covers too slippery to drive on;
Streets, hidden under ice covers that show no sign of leaving.
City closed down. Snow day.
Sun so bright it hurts your eyes;
Maples covered in black ice;
Walks, lawns, and driveways covered, all made the same in texture;
Filigrees and curlicues come together in weeds and brush and trees that are now art works encased in ice;
Things that before had only been unnoticed weeds and brush and trees.
City closed down. Snow day.

1-18-94

Winter Morning

Evergreen cedar fronds covered in liquid diamonds;
Tall blade of grass with glistening water beads;
Clear birdsong from a happy songbird;
Corpulent squirrels chasing each other
through holly trees laden with berries red;
A quiet, stained glass window
Suddenly aflame with newly-arrived sun;
These, all these, and more electrify
The quiet beauty of this,
The last Sunday morning of the passing year.

12-29-91
























After the Storm

Trees encrusted with shimmering, liquid diamonds,
Leaves so clean that their new greenness sparkled,
Streets clear of dust, and
Birds with feathers sleek and colors bright sang anew.

All these—and more—bespoke
the joy that followed
the storm last night.

The lightning lit the blackened sky;
the wind howled hauntingly.
Hail beat its own melody
on the shed’s metal roof,
and rain fell in torrents that cleansed
the evening’s air.

Felled trees blocked the highways.
Failed electric power
left us free to snuggle
in the darkness of a stormy night.

The peacefulness of the blackness
blended with the soft sounds of our breathing,
and we slept, secure in the knowledge
that all was right with the world.







Remembering
This process that I go through
when I wander back
makes me remember
mostly the good things:

the scri-t-c-h of the chains
on the wooden porch swing;
the smell of the earth
just before a storm;
lightning flashes so spectacular
that they took my breath away;
apricot moons on lapis skies;
mockingbirds that sang
at four in the morning;
sunrises and sunsets that spread out
all the colors of the palette,
just for my enjoyment;
that special smell of my babies’ skin
when I buried my nose in their necks;
the indescribable joy
of surviving challenges
that might have staggered me,
but didn’t;
the peacefulness that hangs
on the hot humid quietness
of a sultry July day
in southern Virginia;
the feel of my loved one’s arms
as they share a heartfelt hug
at the end of the day;

For these good things
I savor the process,
and I am thankful
to have them stored away
in my soul’s center.

6-6-90


The Change

“They” say the change
makes sisters act mighty strange,
but I don’t know about that.

Maybe it’s not the hormones
that drive the sisters to distraction;

Maybe it’s years of work
and self-denial and lack of satisfaction
that have caused the edge in their voices,
the pain in their eyes.

But I don’t know about that, either.

“They” say the change
makes sisters act mighty strange,
but I think it’s the heightened sense of self,
the change that maturity brings.

Yes, I do know something
about that, and
I aim to learn more.

6-22-90












A Humbling Thing
That stress thallium test is a humbling thing.
First, you’re hooked into an IV drip
and leads running everywhere.

Next you walk slowly,
then faster and faster
until your legs feel like wet spaghetti
and your lungs scream for more air!

You hold on, for you dare not let go.
The incline increases, as does the speed,
and you run now, panting,
and feel your heart now, pounding,
and just as you know you can go no further,
the incline lowers and the speed drops.

The doctor and the nurse help you down;
you rest, in anticipation of the next part yet to come.
You think, “If I got through part the first,
surely part the second can’t be half so bad.”

But then you wonder, “Or can it?”…

6-7-90













Tragedy Never-ending

He walked the halls, his jeans slung low.
His braided hair had a hard night’s frizz,
and when confronted about where he was supposed to go,
he shuffled his feet and said he had to take care of some “biz.”

The girls all followed him, because he was always flush,
but the girls who had loved him and had his children
had not seen the scoundrel since the babies came.
He viewed his job as baby-maker, not as devoted care-taker.

His shiny new car, visible from afar,
sat on the parking lot one day.
Everyone walked by and looked with a sigh of envy
until the news that came on the t.v.

It seems there had been a drive-by that day,
and some young man had been killed.
His friends all cried fatalistic cries,
and said if he made the debt, he knew he had to pay the bill.

His six babies’ mamas all sat at the front,
and their babies cooed, but some cried,
because they knew that no matter how long,
they’d never know their daddy who had just died.

10-2-98








Moment on G Street, NW in DC

A man, in tattered and dirty clothes,
rummaged through a trash can,
and brought forth a cup of discarded coffee
which he poured into his hands
and then washed his face.

Our eyes met not,
even though we were a scant two feet from each other,
but we were keenly aware
of the other’s presence.

He was gaunt,
and as he turned his back,
his once-olive green trousers
revealed his underwearless skin
beneath a tear near the right pocket.

His hands were small,
almost like those of a child,
and though dirty and disheveled,
his manner was gentle
as he poured out the remainder of the coffee,
then placed the cup back into the trashcan
from whence it had come.

7-2-91










Contrasts

Nelson Mandela walks free
for the first time in twenty-seven years!
Yet here in America, closet racists
Sneak out as they refer to “carpet Sambos.”

Winnie’s husband will be home again;
South Africa has wakened a sleeping lion.
The closet racist’s husband is at home.
Does he know to what he is married?

People joyously dance the toya toya;
In South Africa, change is in the air.
People surreptitiously vent their lack of self-esteem
Here in America as they cast aspersions on others.

Mrs. Closet Racist, you changed my perception of you
When you opened your mouth—
in the presence of whites only, you thought.
Your words stung as sharply as any slap!

I recoiled inwardly and vowed to keep my distance,
but I hope, for your and other racists’ sakes,
that you can find some way to build yourselves up
without maliciously pulling Blacks—and probably others—down.

Racism is rampant in America
just as in South Africa.
The sleeping lion of justice has been awakened;
the sneaky mouse and the injustices
of racism and racists are on trial.

Yes, Nelson walks free today.
South Africa is thousands of miles away.
No, closet racists do not walk free today,
For they are locked in the abyss
of thousands of years of ignorance—
self-inflicted and self-maintained.
2-11-90
Advice to Daughters
Daughters, watch the way
your boyfriends treat their mamas.
You’re subject to be treated
the same way.

Put up with no nonsense
from the very beginning.
Love yourself as much
as you love him;
he’ll love you more
if you do.

Mental or physical violence
you do not need.

Daughters, if a man mistreats his mama,
you’d better take heed!

6-20-90


















Final Silent Homecoming
The skies and I wept today
for thirty-three Americans
whose quiet bodies entered the country
via Dover, Delaware, for their final homecoming.

The Secretary of Commerce, Ron Brown,
died when his plane,
sans black box or voice recorder,
slammed into the jagged,
storm-tossed mountain peaks of Croatia.

Why? What made a modern jet
fly out into a storm without
this most basic piece of equipment?
It’s a mystery strange to behold,
stranger to comprehend.

The leaden skies, thirty-three hearses black,
A mother wrapped against the chill
in a blue blanket and clutched by her husband—
both stood in mute, uncomprehending testimony
to a mission gone wrong, a life no longer alive—

The President, the families, the military personnel
who performed their assigned duties
with a practiced, almost eerie perfection,
all, all mirrored my puzzlement
at the discrepancies that hovered
like the hail-heavy skies,
over the whole ill-fated flight.

Another powerful Black man dead,
Thirty-two other people obliterated—
Was this just a freak accident—
or something more sinister?
I pray I am not being paranoid as I weep
for those no longer on the earth but of the earth. 4-6-9
Moving Along the Teaching Continuum

I am but a very small link
in a very long chain.
The continuum for me has been
a way to pay rent for my time here on earth.
Along the way, countless thousands
have made a way out of no way,
have spun gold out of straw,
and have become women who,
one piece of chalk at a time,
have shown the transformative power of education.

The Bridge Builders were those women
who dared to teach when teaching Blacks
was a capital crime.
They taught,
dared anyone not to learn,
built and stoked the early morning fires,
and made lemonade
when life handed them lemons.

Then came the Way Showers,
women who knew there was a better way
and that the road to “better” could be traveled
only by those educated enough to be
not only twice as good to get half as far
but also smart enough to work the 4x principle—
working four times as hard to get as far.

Next came the Hand Holders
who saw our potential and would not let us quit
when the going got tough,
who reached out, grabbed our hands,
and then guided, pulled, cajoled,
and chastised us when necessary.

The Soft Shoulders were those family members,
the significant others, the mentors,
and the Sistah Friends who were wise enough
to see a spark and to fan it into a flame,
who were discerning enough to see the unshed tears,
standing like silent, salty sentinels
over a hurting spirit,
and then to coax out a laugh to break the tension.




Speed Limit

20 mph the signs say.
Fast, much too fast
to appreciate the fuchsia,
magenta, and pinkish whites
of azaleas, magnolias,
and ground covers too plentiful,
too beautiful to glimpse at 20 mph.


4/18/99






























The Azaleas

My favorite place in the city,
the azalea hill in the heart of the city,
unbeknownst to many who live here,
popular with those from far away…
Blooms hot pink, with pregnant buds,
waiting to spring forth
into awe-inspiring splendor.

4/18/99


























Rainy Afternoon

I contemplate a rainy afternoon
with overcast clouds
and baby raindrops
that spatter against a mirrored pond
whereon geese glide
and ducks drowsily paddle
their way toward
the quiet stillness of the center.

4/18/99





























Quiet Balm for a Mellow Day
A cello and a piano
soothe my inward spirit.
I close my eyes
and see the redbud trees,
purple with dotted blooms.
I marvel at dandelions
in every stage of development,
from babies to bald-headed adults
or gray-haired elders.
I wonder how God has the time
to spend on such infinitely beautiful,
but microscopic details.

4/18/99






















The Arboretum
Koi as long as my forearm
loll beneath the surface,
shaded by magnificent water lilies,
fed by those wanting a closer look
at their golden and alabaster beauty.

4/18/99































Surf Sounds

Glaucous gulls punctuate
the sounding of the surf as it sprays
its salt onto the sand,
washes the sand dollar,
drapes the seahorse
with a seaweed necklace.

Shells and scrub pines stand sentinel
amongst snowy egrets.
Kudzu vines compete with Spanish Moss.
Magnificent Frigate Birds
do aerial ballet jetes
over the ocean while wood ducks bob,
oblivious to the hunger of the Venus Flytrap.






















Impressions as Arlington Cemetery Welcomes James C. Queen

Today, I stood among Scouts,
giant men of a time past,
but with lessons for today.

Gold-trimmed black gates,
finely manicured lawns,
winding roads,
tombstones in military precision

Hoary-headed gentle men,
warriors in navy and gray,
dogwood in bloom,
wisteria wrapping columns white—

Today, I stood among Scouts,
giant men of a time past,
but with lessons for today.



















Reflections on the Death of Ronald Reagan

“The Great Communicator,”
who had not been lately able
to communicate,
lay in repose in his library—
an appropriate place
for one who wrote and spoke
well enough to spark admiration for him
in those adamantly opposed to his policies.

My heart ached for his wife,
a tired, frail sparrow
of a ten-year care-giver.
Yes, “The Great Communicator”
finally has released his hold on those
swayed by his past communications.


















The Time Share

The air is pure, mountain fresh,
the trees just beginning to show
their crowns of autumnal color.
It is quiet,
the kind of quiet I need
to get back in touch with me.
Crickets break the silence;
the sound of cars on narrow roads
crunches through the silence.
I drove part the way
up the mountain today
and looked, aghast,
at the sheer drop to my right.
Fearing I might get lost
and wander forever,
I took the first road headed down
and came out six doors from where I stay!
I’m writing as I sit
at a picnic table on the porch
of a little log cabin library
while I await its 4:30 reopening.
I am at peace.
There is a hint of a nip
in the afternoon air, but my soul rejoices
at the smell of cedar,
at the subtle caress of the wind against my face,
at the distant cawing of a crow
and the near-by raucous greeting of a blue jay.
I might treat myself
to a fruit bar tonight
or one scoop of vanilla ice cream—H-m-m-m,
Or maybe not!
Why break the good habits
of the last four days?
A slice of sinfully delicious tiramisu—
$6.36 worth—should not stay
with me long enough to go to fat.
Was it ever rich!
I feel no guilt about losing the debate
with myself over such a guilty treat.

Day 4, Week 39, 2005
















The Clusters: Thoughts Upon Sighting First Real Deer

At last! Deer—not one, not two, but three
of these graceful creatures peacefully
grazed and played on the center
ski slope as we ate dinner last night!

Two middle-sized deer were accompanied
by a tiny, light-colored fawn.
Baked potatoes got cold as we “old ladies”
acted like little children.

We oohed and aahed and looked through
the lensfinder using the camera’s telephoto lens.
The older patrons probably had as much fun
watching us as we had watching the deer.

8-23-‘88

















To Lose, To Draw, To Win

You say the world’s against you,
And there’s not a place to turn within.
Even things that happen reflect you true
You’ve set the rules: to lose, to draw, to win.

People set their own life’s destinations
By their choices their consequences make.
Who but pessimists rely on false opinions
when optimists set their roads for their own sake?

Only the broken-hearted know the feel of pain.
Maybe the most sore and forlorn can know
that even as their cheeks with teardrops stain,
a better, not bitter life will grow.

Thus when we live from day to day,
we control our lives; our centers stay.

1-5-‘89


















The Meeting
The sunset leaves a bruise
across the Maui sky.

Seven spirits met ancestors
of the ancients today

When their helicopter slammed into the Needle
in the remote rain forests
of the eastern Iao Valley.


Haiku for Iao

The remoteness screams,
“Mortals, take heed of My work.
Remember to pray.”


On Grief

Just as the bruise leaves,
humans will again feel joy.
The past heals itself.

The ever-present murmurs of the ocean’s waves
provide a background that lulls away
the concerns of the everyday world.
They mute the cries of pain and grief
as sea birds testify to the continuity of life—
life as endless as the ocean’s roar,
yet finite as a fragile ginger blossom.

7-21-2000 0n Maui
A Quiet Time

The fall of the year is my favorite time.
Trees dress up in party clothes—
Others wear leaves adorned with lipstick crimson.

The air is crisp at night, sometimes warm,
sometimes cool during the day.
A time of quiet settles o’er the earth.

Now a time of harvest and reflection
quietens the frenetic pace of the other seasons.
Only winter is quieter, but its quiet is enforced.

Autumnal quiet is gradual, voluntary.
The first freeze bids biting bugs good-bye.
The acrid smell of wood smoke scratches the nose.

I relax into the routines of the season:
Putting out bird food, sweeping the walk free of leaves,
settling in to await the changes yet to come.

















Sharon M. Draper, Reading Revolutionary

Rain, drenching cold rain, plops and splashes
on sidewalks, windshields, and yellow school buses.
For so many students, this is an outing
that may open intellectual doors.
We are in the presence of a Reading Revolutionary,
a retired teacher, diligent writer, and
consummate artist—a wordsmith par excellance.

2-1-‘08



























Pinecones and Rose Petals

The needles of a pine tree
bespeak the prickly points of its fruit,
the pinecone.

The velvety sensuousness of a rose petal
is even more enjoyable
once the rose’s thorns have been avoided.

Life goes on from pinecones
stuck deep and painfully within the soul
to rose petals
wedged comfortably within the recesses of the mind.

The continuum
includes not only pain but also pleasure…




















Pregnant Silhouettes
Silhouettes in black etch themselves
onto a rain-gray sky;
Hairy black fingers and larger ebon arms
reach heavenward.
A soft rain quietens the morning’s sounds, and
trees, now naked, but pregnant with buds,
soak in the nourishment
and wait for the soon-to-come spring.

On the hill outside my window
a fallen tree trunk rests on its side;
raindrops glisten on a sapling sprout.
The house on the hill stands
forlorn and bereft of its owners—
one now ill and the other dead.
A blackened chimney from
last week’s fire
stands sentinel over the deserted grounds.

Soon fingers and arms of yellow and hot pink
and white and red will brighten the sky as
forsythia, jonquils, daffodils, azaleas, snowdrops, and redbud
paint the barrenness of the hillside
and the brownness of winter.
Silhouettes now in black will don new-leaf green
and a rain-gray sky will become the sunny blue
of a mesmerizing springtime morning.

3-3-’90
From the Car Window

A field of yellow buttercups,
swaying gently in the breeze,
stretched as far as I could see
in an uncut state sheltered by trees

Clothed in new-leaf green
and providing contrasts for
azaleas new and past their prime.

New-mown parkland carpet,
disappearing into an expanse of evergreens,
beckoned as I passed at less than the legal speed.

Manicured and snipped and clipped lawns
preened themselves in verdant splendor
while showcasing beds of
annuals and perennials nestled through the borders
like necklaces strung around a dowager’s neck.

5-8-’90















Gratitude on a Summer Sunday
I am grateful today for the breeze that comes through the windows,
for feeling better and better as the days progress,
for sister friends and blood sisters with whom I can share my life,
for the single white rose I intend to photograph and make of it an art piece.

I thank God that I can do for myself more and more,
that I can see and drive again,
that my ego is not such that I feel it necessary to keep working
when my body says it needs to rest,
to recuperate from the years of physical and mental abuse
as well as from the stresses of trying to be everything to everybody
but nothing to myself.

Lord, I am thankful today
I had enough self-love to refuse to honor innuendo,
but rather to confront it head-on,
after refusing to cry or to feel the need to defend myself against—nothing.

I want to give pre-thanks for having enough energy and strength
to make my house look and feel the way I picture it in my mind.
I now know that much of the stress in my life
comes from living on the edge of chaos,
and the only way to feel better is to do better.

Oh, Lord, I just want to thank You today
for today and all the other days,
for the many blessings You have sent my way—and continue to send—
for the good sense to know that now I have to be as kind to myself
as I have been to others and not to feel guilty
about wanting respect and order in my life and affairs.

I just want to say I thank You.
Amen.




Sunday Meditation on Mortality
The sun, playing tag with its spotlight on the leaves,
the fan, blowing a cooling breeze across my knees,
the beat of my heart reminding me to give thanks
to my God who is not finished with me yet—
These things make up a perfect August Sunday afternoon.

The past few days have been hot, record-breaking hot,
but I do not complain.
I could have not been here to appreciate
the awesomeness of God’s power to heat and to cool,
to bring down and to raise up.

I’m blessed to be alive and gaining back my health.
I am thankful that I am learning how to say, “No”
to things I do not want or need to do.
Grateful to be able to ask for help from those around me
does not totally describe the feeling
of not having to be everything to everybody else
and nothing to myself.

I sit in my chair of many colors and offer a prayer of thanksgiving,
as I humbly await the next chapter in the journey
that has already been mapped out for me.
Whatever the job I have left to do,
I shall do it with wonderment and praise
that the Maker of All that is Made held me in the powerful grasp
of love and snatched me back from the tentacles of death and destruction.

I know that there is a God and I know that I am a child of the King.
Nothing or no one can harm me,
for I am loved and protected, nurtured and sustained,
held in highest regard by One
Who has more and greater things for me to do.

All I can say is Thank You. Thank You.
Amen.

“If It Bleeds, It Leads”

Seven gunshots shatter the quiet night
Someone’s sure to be caught in the camera’s light.
Hair undone, eyes red with tears, clothes in disarray—
Skewered on the out-thrust microphones
Who will mourn the victim’s death?
People in shock and mourning--
How will they answer
as the reporter asks the stupid question,
“How do you feel?






























The Missing Ingredient

For years, she was the dutiful daughter of—
Student of—
Wife of—
Mother of—
Teacher 0f—
Everyone knew she was the go-to person
to fill any need,
to solve any problem.

And she gave freely of her time,
her resources, herself
Until one day, something began to gnaw
at her very being.
Illnesses, fed by the constant stresses
of trying to be everything to everybody
took their toll.

She felt growing resentment
at herself and others
who affirmed only what
she could do for them
Until she recognized that
she had sought out
all the components for a “good life,”
yet had left out the missing ingredient: herself!

9/12/07









Verbal and Emotional Abuse

The innuendo and accusatory tones emerge once a year or so,
always at a time when I think things are going well.
In the past, I have been hurt but forgiving, but no more!

“Your friend” or “my friend said” or “my friend thinks”
has a way of coming, seemingly, out of nowhere to slap me,
almost demanding that I explain or defend myself.

It has gotten old and tired,
and I have decided not to honor anything
that questions my integrity or my loyalty.

When first it happens, I’m going to give fair warning,
but the warning might not be so gentle
or filled with a soothing tone as it has been in the past.

Instead it is likely to be from a dark place
that I try to keep hidden deep within—a place that explodes
with the famous “MF” and a few other well-placed angry epithets.

I will not, cannot, allow anyone to enter or to control my Center with negativity.
I would rather live alone and be happy with just myself than be with someone
who feels the need to accuse by innuendo and to question my integrity.












The Most Beautiful Winter Scene I Have Ever Seen

There are memorable scenes
that winter brings to mind,
but there is one winter scene
I will never forget.
This was the view
that met my eyes
as I left Howard University Hospital
after being a patient who nearly died there.

Being gravely ill had given me
an opportunity to sift through
and to sort out those things
most important in life—
things usually taken for granted
and often overlooked.

There were trees
covered with two-day old packed snow,
and on a lower branch of one,
a cardinal sang its heart out
against the greenery and the snow’s whiteness.

During my stay as a patient,
I had marveled
at the graceful raucousness
of the seagulls that floated
on the hospital’s updrafts,
and they flew over to say
their own good-byes.

As I climbed into the car
to go home to recover fully,
that experience of encountering
winter eyeball-to-eyeball
etched itself forever in my memory.
December 6, 1988