The Poetry Marathon

the door was kicked and

opened wide; the ceiling cracked

— from side to side

“we have the votes!” the

women cried; and hearts of hope

shout joy and sing pride

Though darkness closes in

Don’t go into the light

where there is only afterlife

There is no magic apparition,

no transportation beam

to ease our way

no wizard nor angel

no Superman to the rescue

Turn around

and see what shines brightest

in the darkness

It’s your light

Let it glow!

It’s your life

Let it live

fresh fading sun rays

ribboning the sky; moonrise

peeking o’er the hill

starshine restlessly

waits nightfall’s velvet veil; ah!

What stirs my soul’s joy?

Wanting nothing more than

Completing this journey,

I felt myself fading and falling

Hanging on by a thread

Something whispered in my ear,

“Sleep. Rest. Heal.”

And I was wrapped into the night.

Wanting nothing more than

Making it to the end again,

My body collapsed, left me weakened

My mind kept creating

My heart stayed in the game

Yearning

I heard the stories

Throughout my childhood

Whenever I asked about the pensive portrait

Hanging on grandmother’s wall

A cacophony of conflicting legends and lies

Influenced by the character of the griot

Aunt Iccie was a missionary

Or a spinster teacher

Who died in Africa

Eaten by wild lions

Or heathen cannibals

So there was no body to bury

No sacred ceremony

No mourning

No homegoing

I found the official

documents

Filling in the blanks

Bridging the chasms

Of mystery and myth

I found Aunt Iccie who

taught at a mission school

In Liberia

Where she died in childbirth

her husband by her side

No one could afford the cost

of shipping a body home

to Mississippi

So they buried her there

Celebrating her life

according to local custom

I imagine Aunt Iccie resting in Africa

welcomed by the ancestors

at peace

at home

When I was five and our parents divorced I never cared to know why and

You might think that was really bad

When I was six and our mother left us at our father’s door in his rooming house because we were cramping her style

You might think that was really bad

But none of that felt really bad – then

And now

All of it was

Really really good

Because my mother hated school

And never cared if we went

Because my mother wanted to buy and buy and accumulate cheap trashy expensive things

And I wanted to learn and learn and clutter my space with books and art

Because my mother loved to party and didn’t — or couldn’t? — read

And I loved to read and didn’t party

Because my father and I read the news every day

and talked politics together at the breakfast table

And my grandmother collected books and smiled as we read them and bought more

I wish I could write my mother’s true story for her

but all she left me is regret and imagination

and one sure truth:

If we had not cramped our mother’s style

I would not be telling this story

I would not be writing this poem

I would not be me

Celebrating Juneteenth,

I resurrected the djembe

and

marched in the light of God

Keeping time with

syncopated rhythms,

we danced and

we sang with hope and

heavy hearts

how we knew

freedom was coming

“Oh, yes,” we sang,

“I know!”

With little rhyme

and less reason,

We beat joy

into sacred songs and the griot

answered the call,

Covering us

in holy fire

Breathing grace

into our sway

Giving voice

to our visions

Guiding us

into a brighter day

Echoes of bravado

for fierceness —

Empty and hollow music

filling up

the emptiness

inside

chortles churn from the

dark; a villain takes the stage:

amusing, absurd

leave them rolling in

the aisles; struck to their shaking

bones — humorously

*In Greek mythology, Thalia is the muse of comedy behind the smiling face

We knew it was love and passion

that found us then

marching in stride

side by side

signs high over our heads

singing out our yearning for peace

The fire still burns,

tinged with lust, trust, and fidelity

marching with one sign

between us

so we can join hands

for the cause

of liberty and justice

and love and joy

Food trucks from Maxwell Street

Wafting temptation through the air

Succulent polish sausages and

Hot dogs overloaded with

Onions, tomatoes, pickles, and

Relish so green the grass grew envious

Sitting on the stoop

Washing down the steaming delights —

fries on the side –

with iced cherry kool-aid

Tractor trailer trucks from the South

Bringing fresh Georgia peaches and

Red meat Mississippi watermelon

Tender bunches of harvest collards

Turnips with their roots and greens intact

Slurping down memories of Mississippi summers

Sweet as southern tea

Lucious like grandma’s roses

So juicy

each bite

drips off

your chin