hope is a man i was blessed to know

for stephen miller
January 22, 1954 - March 21, 2006

If there if softness
between the rocks and hard places
If there are unanswered questions
rolling into our tears
then we must know
God's grace is purposeful
then we know what it means
for someone to hold
your intentions, hopes,
aspirations, dreams
as if THEIR very livelihood
depended on YOUR blessing
so rare are such exemplars of
unselfishness
of the stuff we need to survive
so we gotta know
the substance of things not seen
is sometimes wrapped in flesh
we gotta know that the magnificence of spirit
is our softness in hard times

few men dare to dream
and believe as my friend did
stephen resurrected my hopes
for a future...
still beating the odds
so i remember that he did
remember
the gleam and pitch of his aura
recall the irony
of his tedious perfectionism
remember how delicate his palate was
for soul food smells from the kitchen
remember that his activism
was not acted, but lived

so when we find ourselves
losing sight of the soft between boulders
between mountains
we must remember
peace in the valley
the respite for our rejuvenation
Because hope is a man I was blessed to know

stephen's memory, like so many who've gone before
is that cushion
reminding
of the many things to be thankful for
the many reasons to smile
even when the hurt is so close and thick
even when we selfishly rebuke
the creator's design
we remember his smile
remember the beauty of what it meant
to believe in blessings.

honey, suckle, kiss

(because i forget sometimes, how sweet it is)

1.

some times
this heart beatz
for more time
to appreciate
night lullabies
roster crows
the puzzle of limbs
reminding
we are meant to wake this way
"sweet dreams are made of this"
pull gently
drip sweetness
remember its naturalness
do not deny your palate
this joy

sometimes i swagger sonnets
stroke bics across white sheets
be the 14 bar rhythmic stanza breaker
drunk on life
so hungry for love
the belly rumbles
when i sense its scent
thick like country kitchens
heavenly heavy
like the magnetic drawl
of what some southern tongues
whisper to their lovers
after a full kiss

and at the periphery
of a next daze:
there is my dreaming
and all the things
i make so
because i dare to dream
amazing supernatural things
like the loving i have yet to taste
back
and i surrender
to the faith
that it tastes sweet
tastes like a first honeysuckle kiss
my tongue has forgotten

2.

when i listen
deeply
when i feel for remembering
honey, suckle, kissin
spirit say:

"remember being product of
dream keepers
conjure womyn
moon shiners
lay hands on hands
make love as often and rarely
as love is made
and love makes you
tighten the grip on joy itself
until it submits"

"remember them parts
that need to be touched
treasure trails
neck backs
crevices of joints
that lure palms
tongues
seeking honeysuckle magic
and some body lookin
to share so sweet a secret
everybody knows"

"remember the hunger
remember you will starve if you
forget the recipe for smiles
eye-embraces and lip-licks
flirtations
ex-files and future rituals"


3.

so now
when joyful
when i humm deeply
spirit is sayin:

"overcome overcoming
wake more often
singing and bare
thick skin softened
by nightsweats
made while love making
remember to make love"

"see eye witness accounts
that treasure
what it means to be cherished:
870 area code-calls
blushing-back
the kind of simple sweetness
that defies category
the careless unprotectedness
of falling"

"do the kind of writing
done with eyes
the poetry of word-fails
when intentions step in
smile
wink
(even in a mirror)
and recognize
the most beautifulist thing
in this world
is all that joy
waiting to be believed in
prayed for
eyes tight
palm 2 palm
and believing
God answers prayers"

"remember that first
honey suckle kiss
back when you trusted it would be good
before you knew it was
remember to trust
especially when you forget to"

always already alright

"we can see the glass as half full or half empty....or we can break the glass altogether stressing about it. there's water enough to sustain us."

(yeah...i wrote it... pretty interesting ain't it? still trying to make sense of what precisely i meant when writing it. sometimes I'm guided to say things and the full comprehension is for some future understanding. Discuss...)

Going, going, gone…?

I’ve learned quite well how to be good to me
Alongside trying to be good to you
The hot and cold of you I strain to see
rhythms I tolerate when shine blacks blue
So should I seem to be desensitized
Not care about the way your passion wails
And you gaze in the depths of these brown eyes
And see a man who does not care we failed
Who does not long to live with confidence
The joy we share will stay beyond a day
Who dispossessed of language, my words bent
No longer wants a complement who’ll stay
Be sure if one day that’s the man you see
that I’m a poet, without poetry