Because Even in Your Absence, I Feel You

This poem is dedicated to my father, Jacob Jamison.  May you forever rest, in peace.

Wrestling Angels

for Jacob

It is daybreak.

My heart now limps through here,

torn at the hip of your

absence.  Last night

I wrestled with the syllables

of your name.

To wrench them from my longing, a

battle I couldn’t win.  But you

blessed me.

If merely by knowing.  I am

your legacy, breathing, still

living and flourishing. 

I am your breath, your

impression and blood.

Your countenance smiles through me

like God.

Just a Bit of Randomness (Maybe)

I applaud their efforts.

(photo via CNN)

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

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