Waxing poetic on thoughts, theory & the times
Somewhere along the way
I had forgotten that
Joy
Was for me too;
I had forgotten the very feel,
The flavor
Of “Happy”,
Until something
Shifted;
Planets aligned,
And it was suddenly clear that
Satisfaction in
The beauty and majesty
of simple
And complex Joy
Is also
Mine
I want to know of my ancestors.
Yet the epic of colonialism,
Has for generations,
On multiple lines, kept faces, names, and ties
From kith and kin;
Kept us inextricably separated by imagined borders;
Separated with skins and flags of
fabricated colors;
Holding weapons and wealth
Unequal, unequitable,
As motive
For a status quo of harm,
Because just maybe one day
One of “us” will be on the “winning” team,
With change in pocket
And blood on hands;
Yet when in the moment of judgment
Will you be able to
Confess honestly
If any of it was worth it,
As we finally face our
Ancestors.
This poem is not inspired by a tragedy,
It is inspired by lives that lived,
Albeit shorter than expected,
Lives that lived
With truth and love and conviction,
In innocence,
This is for their individual lives of uniqueness,
That inspire still
Even once their visible light
Goes unperceived
By human senses
I try to remember
Who I was
Before I started this journey,
A journey of journeys,
where I have left what I know
And found gems along the road
With each step;
Fallen,
And scraped more than my knees,
Scratched beneath my
Surface,
And looked to see who I am underneath;
I wonder and look back to find
Who I once was,
I know she would not recognize me now,
And at times I worry, of sharing all on this path with others
But deep down, I know,
Damn!
How proud She–me of the past—
would be
if she
knew
All I’ve traversed,
The hell and high water I have overcome,
And still come out able
To find beauty
In the crocus of Spring
In its vibrant yet gentle purple petals;
That crocus
That is me,
Having pushed up through toughened winter dirt,
Broken free,
To not just be beautiful,
But to welcome others
Out,
And to be amazed by their own epic journeys.
I see myself,
I feel myself,
In bits of blue-green,
That are pushing up through darkness
I have always been here,
Here inside this vessel of self,
Learning how to grow up,
And out,
Strengthening in order to be
Me.
Try, I do;
Try, I did;
And the rug keeps slipping
Under me,
Know I am no stranger
To the impossible,
And so moving,
Running,
Racing
I try again,
Upon this endless carpet;
This treadmill of
My life.
She of Letters 