Foolish Heart

For being the source of HIS, my tears will find no resolve in the sheets that catch them, only through him, who from the day I met him, has been my most beloved; my most perfect friend.

Shakespeare's Othello, before he took the blade to his heart did say:
"you must speak of one who loved not wisely, but too well"

if I have never understood this quote I have taught for years, I do now. There is a song for this feeling... My heart will archive a compilation for this fall. When my cherished one finds the heart to come to my aid, forgive the errors of my heart's ways, I may be given permission, only then, to forgive my foolish heart. Others will have to forgive the quiet, the blank stare, the prospect that I may beg pain's permission (again) to write poems. My pen fails me as my heart has. And perhaps there is reason for it all... Maybe someday it'll all make sense.
______________________

Foolish Heart First appeared on Street Talk
(Columbia Records 39334)
1984 Street Talk Tunes, April Music Inc & Random Notes)
(Steve Perry, Randy Goodrum)

I need a love that grows
I don't want it unless I know
With each passing hour
Someone somehow
Will be there
Ready to share

I need a love that's strong
I'm so tired of being alone
But will my lonely heart
Play the part
Of the fool again
Before I begin

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore

Feelin' that feelin' again
I'm playin' a game I can't win
Love's knockin' on the door
Of my heart once more
Think I'll let her in
Before I begin

Foolish Heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

(keyboard solo)

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Oh foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

Foolish, foolish heart
Foolish heart

Brave Soul Collective

"Brothas Gonna Work it Out, Brothas gonna work it out". The time and circumstances call for courage when, as my Brave Soul compadre Erik Chambers says, "silence is more toxic than the virus itself".  

check out the Brave Soul Collective:

www.washblade.com/2006/5-26/locallife/feature/group.cfm

www.bravesoulcollective.org

coming to Brave Souls near you!

20001

this soil that always drawls me
back
i prepare to leave (again)
having found
its Southern charm
forgiven its ostentatious pretense
longed for more of its lure and magic
this second time around

i leave wondering
why I always wander back
down alphabet streets
across checkerboard blocks
where yuppies and niggaz
ignore the shortening distance
between what it was, is
and will be: D.C.

and it be
that pit stop on the way to
my next somewhere
shifting as i stir
most beautiful
when it's not trying to be
the ruse of bling
cradled in asphalt

this place where
artists are professionals
(on the side)
and vice versa
to make ends make sense
will always be home to me
though being so close
to the powers that run the world
can run one mad or away

still I will miss
these same streets where
i first affirmed
there were others here
drawn to the possibility of finding
(people like) themselves
and it seems I have always left
this blues alley
frustrated with the ways it failed
to be a place that would hold
more than
a few bitter-sweet memoires
but some of the most cherished ones
I have
are here:
The birthday present I got at 33,
Front Porches, Fireplaces
all the dances between them
captivating the prospect
of being cherished
like I will always cherish
this place where i tried...
and learned what it meant to be
cherished

will miss its
wireless coffee shop cubicles
where i've dredged inspiration
to write wrongs
overstand the lessons they provide
erect museums with the open journals
that are my pulse and cure

and i have waited the weight of human traffic
at this vast intersection of America
where states collide at red lights
and freaks come out at night
for a taste of freedom


a taste linked to
my palate's insistence
to mambo my chicken til it drips
to be the black-clack go-go
I'm unlikely to feel
(quite the same)
anywhere else

and like these poems
trapped in my fingers
that have become songs,
my blakkboy blues
are rooted here
so i remember there are places
i have never wanted to leave
for fear of being forgotten
and there is a place
i have always preferred to leave
to return to