Get Well Presence (for Kaya)

8.28.03
tim’m t. west

A Savior, I am not…
But I do have presence for you
Have showed it when you swore
I’d forgotten…
Bay bridge trips
After hip hop slips
and appointments
Intentions for coffee
As an excuse
To avoid staring in each others
gaze

This guttural nigga
Has already wailed for you
But you,
Weary and wondering
If black can love you back
Question my presence

A multi-cultural candle
Some scent between Bombay and Kingston
Has burned to see you better
And a message was left
Perhaps delivered by someone
Unable to carry the sentiment,
Breathing just barely
Struggling to press 7 digits
Tongue too thick and boondock to say
oncology

So as much as I want to try
I cannot visit you…. not like that
I fear that while my words
Can do many things:
Make niggas fall in love
Make people release they shame in an exhale
See they reflection break lose in a tear
Still, they cannot heal you
But I stubbornly push words out
Searching for the next lyrical inadequacy

Kaya Nati,
just like blakkboy or reddirt
Slip off my tongue
Like it sticks to my tongue
Juicy and black
And lollypop

Brother, warrior, fierce spirit
Why have I always been afraid?
Why have I convinced myself
That it was not worth losing you
To your collapse into yourself
And so losing myself before I can notice
You are missing
Me, other brothers, yourself even

Your movement has been too swift for we
Slips like the turn-back
To see one’s own shadow
Chasing and hiding from itself at once
Magnetix soul
Bamboo djembe rhythm and ballet slippers
And you, an embodied medium
Carrying the wait
Of their sound and fury

Will you pray for me
So that I am strong enough to hold you
When you get better?
Can you promise to act like
however tight or loose
The embrace
or whatever nigga or art-thang
be pre-occupying my wandering spirit
that you know deep down
That I have never let go
Of anything I’ve believed to be beautiful.

Remembering Kaya

my friend Kaya.... the way his spirit is reminding me to remember him: a movement, a dance, an intensity, a brotha, a friend (and then some)... I will carry his legacy in the arch of letters I write that curve not as graciously as he moved in Jamaica or East Oakland.

My friend Kaya transitioned...

beautiful spirit
beautiful dance
a wind
a thought held for a beautiful moment
has left to continue through me

i'm a bit cried out,
but remember
the feel of their names in my mouth:
wanda alston, nate "issac" manigualt, kaya nati

i remember
and remain inspired

ya'll pray for a brotha. I need it.


tim'm

In Memory of Nate

Play Mate
(for nate)
April 5, 2005
(c) 2004 tim'm t. west/red dirt publishing

I loved my friend
He went away from me
There's nothing more to say
The poem ends
soft as it began,-
I loved my friend"

- Langston Hughes


he could have left us another way
the unfortunate news coming
like a rumor or "guess what?"
but it came like a sign
something larger than life itself
and left an impression
of what we should never again
take for granted
the precious breath of life
a simple game
we choose to play or not
as he played
till there was no breath left

it could have come in an email
or newspaper clipping...
or channel 9 news
but we were fortunate enough
to be there
angels around him
and watching over us
loving him enough to encourage
next breaths
hold his hand
and selfishly hope
like we've never hoped before
that it was not his time to leave us

so perhaps the creator chooses
the time
the place
chose us to be there
joyous moments
of love and basketball
and the smile we should never forget
in the moments before...

perhaps we were chosen
to be students
for lessons he so unselfishly taught
through his actions:
sitting out so we could play,
encouraging from the side lines,
planning moments beyond the court
for fellowship and support,
or the way he played
through pain in the knee
because we simply insisted
because we were comfortable admitting
we needed him.

next up
is someone who has been waiting
to play
but cautiously,
and without pride, courage
or confidence
that this game is meant for them to play
and he remains their guide
and mine and ours
fixed in our memories and hearts
the inspiration for life's next moves.
so we can choose to play
or stay stuck
refusing to get the point

without question
continuing to play this game of life
is what our friend
would deem a win, a victory,
a full smile
hearty as a Charleston Sunday dinner
strong as arms and backs that
rebound
over and again
knowing that our lives
much like our friend's
offers not many play mates
more precious.