Because She Taught Me How to Cope With Things

Tiptoeing

for my mother

when your voice became afraid, and sawed itself

in half, worried that the pain would

seep through its timbre

I would peel off the bandaged layers of my sleep,

keep one ear lifted, up off the pillow, firmly

attuned to sounds from your bed

I needed to hear the steady breathing.

there are attributes the heart uses to

mend itself.  wisdom becomes salve and

strength, an adhesive.

You were always busy, taping self together again.

Many nights, I’d tiptoe

from my bed, towards the shadows, stick

cheek to cold door and listen

for your tears.  But I could tell

you were not really crying.  You were refilling

those things that had drained

To What We Both Buried

Chthonic

we buried in this dirt

a love we couldn’t shake

and are haunted by the

memories,

they keep on screaming

the spirit of that union

moans beneath the surface,

most days

I long to run to it

until I recall, how I ran

and you willingly released me,

depositing our love

into the grave

of your belly

some things are apt to die,

and others go more

begrudgingly 

It Is Time We Listen

Plea, to My People

we are open pediment

missing our base,

struggling to discover where

we lost foundation

we are mirrored woes,

staring us in the face,

yet this countenance of sorrow

hasn’t united generations

we are two wrong turns

and two left shoes,

always stumbling upon ourselves,

still going in circles

but there comes a time

to wake up and move on,

remembering all the moments

when we were treated as sediment

left to drift off, or

left to burn, expected

to drown in our own undoing,

our truth

was in the way that we’d rise

Because Sometimes, Silence is a Cop-Out

At first, I wasn't going to write anything about Troy Davis.  If you've been black in America, or underprivileged, or poor, then it's an ongoing current that has flowed throughout the years.  Sometimes, you don't want to even think about it.  But not thinking has never made anything go away.

I was impressed by the outcry from people like me, who feel that injustices like these cannot go without reprieve.  I long for a day of accountability, or even more for a day when things like this will cease to be.  If you're confused by what I been let me clarify:  The state of Georgia killed a man.  A man who they couldn't prove had done anything wrong.  Even through a cloud of doubt, with witnessing recanting their statements, they decided that Troy Davis needed to die.

What does that say about America?  This so called land of freedom and justice for all.  A few nights ago, I embarked on a journey, to witness some of the monuments that symbolize the freedom of this land.  I recall while being at the Jefferson Memorial, reading something that made me think.

Those familiar with these words, know that they are a combination of key phrases from the Declaration of Independence.  Most of us are equally aware that when this document was drafted, those like myself, Troy Davis, and far too many others, were not taken into consideration.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal..."

Unless you are black, or poor, or any other minority that causes discomfort to our unsympathetic majority.  Then you are baggage.  An easily dispensable casualty.  

I don't know what happened on the night that the off-duty police officer was killed.  All I know it that Troy Davis maintained his innocence.  That seven of the eyewitnesses signed affidavits recanting all or some of their testimony.  I know that the state of Georgia has granted clemency to other men, white men, who have confirmed their guilt and had physical evidence tying them to the crime.  But for Troy Davis, no such clemency came.  I am touched by one of his final statements, but saddened by the truth that lies within it:

“The struggle for justice doesn’t end with me. This struggle is for all the Troy Davises who came before me and all the ones who will come after me. I’m in good spirits and I’m prayerful and at peace. But I will not stop fighting until I’ve taken my last breath.” - Troy Daivs, September 20, 2011

There will be more Troy Davises.  As long as we live in a country that still refuses to accept the words it was founded upon.  There is still no justice.  True freedom is marginalized to a few.

I am Troy Davis.  And that makes me doubtful of the future.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

The Need to Make Some Changes

It's been a while since I posted.  And I'm becoming more and more aware that this has become an alarming trend.  I remember when I first started blogging and would post multiple times a day.  Now, it seems a bit like a chore.   Which means something needs to change.  So I'm about to undertake a reflective look at this blog and what I want it to represent.  I may do a massive design change, or even create a new and improved blog.  I appreciate all the great readers I've come into contact with over such a short period of time.  You are the ones who make this even more worthwhile.  So bear with me as I reevaluate things.  And as always much love to every rare one of you.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

This is Where It Begins

ORIGINS

deep in your cheeks
your specific laughter owns
all things south of the ghosts
we once were.  straight ahead

the memory beckons from the future
you and I a tribe of colours
this song  that dance
godlike rhythms to birth
footsteps of memory
the very soul aspires to. Songs

of origins songs of constant beginnings
what is this thing called
love

                                       ---   Keorapetse Kgositsile

Unfortunately, Sometimes This is What We Find

Pavement

I have watched it for a while,

cold and hard,

sitting there, waiting.

Impact is expected

I wonder if it means to scare me.  Make me

think of open scars and broken

bones.  The kind where

mending

is never an option.

I reach for it gingerly, a chalk line love

that I hope past tears won’t

wash like rain.

But I know

it plans to erase me.  Make me

nothing more than

another indentation.

Your heart is an

impenetrable pavement.

It refuses to let me

through.

Because Ultimately, It's What We All Want

Quick intro:  No, this wasn't inspired by the Lil Wayne song....I can't stand most of his music and feel like the song, as catchy as it is, was nothing more than a gimmick to sell more records (which I don't believe he really sold...lol)  This poem came from finally figuring out the wrong ways to love a woman.  Maybe there is hope for me, yet.  Enjoy.

How to Love

Be quick.  Only use

assured fingers and steady hands.

Stay calm.  Ignore your beating chest.  Try to keep

those steady hands.  

Seize this moment gently,

as if it were a sliver of tentative flesh.

She will be hesitant. 

The best ones usually are, having endured

those rushes that lead to breaking.

Avoid snapping on fetters of adulation.

Be quick but polite, and don’t stare

at her heart’s scars.

Remember conversations are emotional foreplay.

Anything useless is left behind.  Unoriginal

is the same as

unremembered.   Keep this

at the back of your mind.

Just tell her your name.  Introductions mean

everything when they are the only thing.

It doesn’t need to be perfect.  Simply create

the perfect need.  Let it linger. 

Tell her your name.

Then watch her tuck it in a favorite corner of her mind.

Pay attention and follow her cues.

Your compass will be her eyes.

Up usually means that you’ve

already lost her, and down is something even worse.

When they lock on yours

the door is open.  Abandon yourself. 

Rush inside.

Don’t curse yourself with boring obscurity.

Explain your intentions as soon as you can.

Let her know her mere presence

has sculpted a curiosity.  You are clay.

She is Rodin.  Prepare to be

molded in a manner that allows her

to be comfortable letting you in.

Understand guarded is not the same

as uninterested.  Respect those places

she refuses to bend.  Be

patient.  Explain to her

there is no rush.

You are ready.  The hardest part

is over.  

Little Things Allow Us to Remember

I Forget Sometimes

I forget sometimes

    to set my clock’s alarm, my body a spring of coils on these mornings

I forget sometimes

               

                the day of the week, recollection muddled by the moment it’s found in

I forget sometimes

                the names of old lovers, now merely bedspreads, shadows, and sounds of

    indifference

I forget sometimes

                when I was 5 years old, a six-pack of glass bottles, mounted on my tricycle, gifted 

                me my first 13 stitches

I forget sometimes

                the man I long to be, too immersed with my consuming, never heading the 

                warnings

I forget sometimes

                that if I hold completely still, breathless, eyes grappling a pulsing night sky, there 

                are seconds when I swear my entire being blends

I forget sometimes

                what I know of God, until blindsided by overwhelming waves of magnificence

I forget sometimes

                that girl from the park, and how when she kisses, or lies, her left index finger 

                twitches

I forget sometimes

                the birthdays and appointments, anniversaries, song lyrics, and special occasions

I forget sometimes

                my mother’s smile, having been granted a view of Heaven, and thus, taken it 

                for granted

I forget sometimes

                my undeniable momentum, too often forced, by this world, to sit still

I forget sometimes

                the names of old teachers, who saw something in me the faulty mirrors 

                wouldn't reveal

I forget sometimes

                the laws of this nature, like in order for growth to happen, something 

                must be planted

I forget sometimes

                the random holding of my breath, giggling incessantly, being fearless 

                while afraid, licking this life like new fallen snow, and all the other things that 

                are considered childish sensations      

I forget sometimes

                little things I’m glad to have, too caught up in my trials to focus on the treasures

I forget sometimes

                this pleasure derived from words, until its intensity fills me, awesome and 

                unmeasured

I forget sometimes

                old stanzas of my life, full of repetitive mistakes, where I couldn’t refrain

I forget sometimes

                the bench where I used to sit, back in my hometown, off the corner of 

                Vance and Main

I forget sometimes

               

                the simple and complex,

                the beginnings, the ends, and middles, in-between,

                the seemingly insignificant, as well as the essential

                and the truth, about what this all means

I forget sometimes

but sometimes, I can remember              

Because I Think, Out Loud

Lessons, Before Dying

there will come a time,

as this life draws in, because eventually it does,

all a retraction,

that you’ll sit, and wonder

if it all was worth it,

the joys and the

woes, the untimely preclusions sprinkled in

with the happenings, perhaps to prevent

boredom, those

moments

when you found yourself tapping

on the doors, of

happiness, success, failure,

and sorrow,

you won’t wallow in reminiscing, at least

if you lived it, simply accepting

what has come, and make a timely

decision

this was.

only then can you find the time

to worry, on what

comes after

When the Miles Make it Harder

Love? [Sic]

it’s this uncontrollable urge to fold

in this skin so you only get to witness me,

fully exposed, my compulsive impulsion for

unraveling at the seams, all in hopes of

you stitching me together again, your

voice, a needle, your attention, sartorial,

and I become fabric at your disposal,

take me and make raiment

that you wear on

best days, a favorite, so that you never

replace me

sometimes, I imagine getting

trapped in an elevator, or some greater

calamity, like being buried alive.

They teach you, in such stressful situations,

about taking deep breaths and closing your eyes.

they tell you to think of someplace safe

mine lies in a sliver of your winsome heart,

where if I hold completely still,

I’m overwhelmed by your rhythm,

every beating vibration is a metronome tick

keeping pace to a song

my heart keeps singing,

I count on this tune, like seconds

hoping this adds up to the moment

when it’s finally our time, we’re

together, and the stars no longer

fleck the sky, a massive

connect-the-dot to the

place where you really are

my mind traces this line, with sickness

Because I Long for the End of Struggles

My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell

I hold my honey and I store my bread In little jars and cabinets of my will. I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell. I am very hungry. I am incomplete. And none can give me any word but Wait, The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in; Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt Drag out to their last dregs and I resume On such legs as are left me, in such heart As I can manage, remember to go home, My taste will not have turned insensitive To honey and bread old purity could love.

                                                                              ---  Gwendolyn Brooks

TGIF

This week has been extremely trying, but somehow I survived it.  Between the stresses of school and a few personal issues that have me contemplating pulling out hairs, I didn't realize how happy I'd be for this week to end.

Thankfully, it's the weekend.  I think I need to relax a bit.  Back to the worrying on Monday.

Hope everyone enjoy's there weekend.  Here's a cool song to get the good times going.

Let's shuffle the week's bad vibes away.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Blessed are the Peacemakers

On the subway this morning, I half-listened as two complete strangers began to argue intently over a misunderstanding involving a bag that had been sitting in the seat.  Apparently, woman A had unknowingly knocked woman B's bag to the ground, resulting in the type of awkward exchange that always seems way too intense for the moment.  Neither woman appeared to be backing down, their trades of insults and threats getting louder and more out of hand.  Had this been the bus, I am almost certain the driver would have asked them both to get off at the next stop.  Luckily, someone intervened.  A third, much younger woman, calmly removed her headphones and asked a simple question.

"Is it really that serious to be arguing over?"

Most of the people around, who had been deeply enthralled in what felt like it would soon be a physical altercation, immediately slumped their heads or averted their eyes back to their own personal matters.  No doubt, they all felt just as silly for getting so mixed up in the ordeal.  The looks that fell across the faces of the two women could be categorized as both fitting and surprising.  I expected them to unleash their anger onto this other woman, but instead they were silent.  They both looked guilty and childish at the same time.  I remember wishing I could hear what they were thinking.

Then my attention refocused on the peacemaker.  As I said, she was younger than both the other ladies.  An average young woman on any other subway train.  I was impressed that she didn't seek any kind of gratification from calming their quarrel.  She simply returned her headphones to her ears and continued waiting for her stop.  Long after she'd gotten off the train, my mind was still working over her.  Who was she?  And just what separated her from all the other onlookers, including myself, who were unwilling to intervene.  It made me think of the Beatitudes, from growing up as the son of a minister.  I've heard them many times throughout my life, but never really was able to apply real life meaning to them.  Until today.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God

As I think of all the people throughout history who can easily be called peacemakers, I release a smile.  Mohandas Gandhi.  Martin Luther King Jr.  Mother Theresa.  The Dalai Lama.  As well as the many others before and yet to come.   In spite of their differences in faith, all of these great people held something within them that reminds us of our respective versions of Heaven.  And that says something about the beauty of the human spirit and those who are willing to stand against conflict.

I'm not sure the young lady on the subway is aware, but I see a bit of this in her too.  Maybe, the beautiful truth that we all need to discover, is that there is a bit of peacemaker in us all.  Imagine how our world would be, on the day we all embrace it.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet