national derailments…

aunt bea
was preparing dinner
when
i stopped by
this evening
she was listening
to
a npr program
about
washington
i told her
i personally
had been
having
difficulty
listening to anything
regarding
the new
washington
blowhard
and
got a rather
sick feeling
even when
his name
was mentioned
i said
to aunt bea
how can you listen to that stuff
she smiled
and
said
there’s an old
trinidadian
saying
the whistle don’t pull the train

a single forget-me-not…

as a poet
i have decided
to
fade away
quite
gracefully
merging
into the woodwork
but
leaving
a rather
irritating stain
deep
into the fibers
of life
not
removable
by sanding
and
far
too costly
to replace
i absolutely
see
no need
for me
to
change
completely
because of a little thing
called
death

up in the air…

how many
prophets
preach
this way
to
heaven
how many
candles
must
be lit
to
find peace
how many
silent
tears
are shed
while
alone
how many
voices
fill
night air
with
prayers
how many
cold nights
can
one heart
beat
alone
how many
prayers
are
raisins
in
the sun

can’t carry a tune in a bucket…

the brown bag prophet
was humming
a little tune
as i walked by
i said
that’s an interesting song
he said
it’s my version
of
wade in the water
but
you probably couldn’t recognize it
seems
like
i’ve always been singing
out of tune
guess
i’m not one to harmonize
to
the chorus
of
social expectations
nor
to clap my hands
to the beat
of others
preferring
an off cadence
of course
leaving the close-order drill
to success
results
in some failures
so
my
failures
were
my own fault
as
a number of folks
have been quick
to point out
to me
saying
you should have seen that coming
i did
but
chose
not to compromise
who
i believed myself to be
in order
to leave
parts of my soul
spread across
a lifetime’s journey
as
breadcrumbs
to follow back
from
society’s definition of success
to
where
my identity
still
resides