THE HOUR BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL

 

The Hour Black is Beautiful

 

when we

when we can see

when we can see Black presidents

in the Whitehouse that’ll be the day

 

that’ll be the day my father lives at home

with his wife and his child

until his death will do him part

 

that’ll be the day I finally find

buying weed and drank is

harder than buying me a book

a book of poems a book of short stories

a book for school

 

when we can see Black presidents

in the Whitehouse that’ll be the day

where I sit in the dining room

smelling something going on in the kitchen

and I finally know what’s cooking,

it’s my Grandma baking and I can finally ask

what’s that baking Grandma, pecan?

pecan sweet pecan pie

some that there pecan pie

that there your grandson-only sweet pecan pie

 

that’ll be the day where in Any Ghetto, USA

wherein where the flies can’t even live

shadows of tenements become dull

the snow on the television disappears

with news saying the same headline that

newspapers of the morning will read that

they have news of when we can see

a Black president in the Whitehouse

 

that’ll be the day I say in Swahili

JEWE

that’ll be the day I say in Swahili

JEWE SIMBA

I AM LION

that’ll be the day I translate

something African to American

Uncle Tom Jim Crow and some

Hurricane named Katrina

have nothing on me

 

hear the roar

hear the roar

a South Africa plus Mandela

hear the roar

 

this hour Black is beautiful

 

when we can see Black presidents

in the Whitehouse that’ll be the day

I say I want my Blackness that’ll be the day

I say I want my Blackness to stay on

I say I want my Blackness to stay on me

 

Poem by Robert R. Reese. Mr. Reese earned a B.A. in English from Santa Clara University, wrote this poem first in 2004, and holds a fellowship with the national African-American poetry organization, Cave Canem.

DEBATE

Debate the Dream

 

What ship in storm, if strong, veers from wrong to wrong,

though the prophets of tidal doom pound their gongs?

There is no crisis, dear, that should bar us from words.

And when words fail, we can embrace each other in our history

together, feel our future in our arms and warm the silence,

as emotions crest and crash, while we steady toward calm.

 

II.

We live in crisis times, some yell, as desultory

baby-carriages are pushed for walks, millions of joggers

lap parks, homeless near highways still “Will Work for Food.”

Some want to use this crisis to drown words

which might describe the odd normality we live, orbiting—

and veering beyond—whirlpools and anchors of property,

cash, paychecks, credit. . . .

 

III.

Time to debate, disagree, time to talk

in this election season—voters’ rudder for the times;

our chance should not halt because a temporary shock

has dried the credit flow of funders of the “American Dream.” Cut

through that dream to the tidal dreams and verily speak

for true and fair liberty and the pursuit of living,

where he or she can look in the mirror

and bless back their days.

 

Poems by Gregg Mosson. Gregg Mosson is author of Season of Flowers and Dust from Goose River Press, and an editor of this blog.

HOPE

Night Vision

 

The darkness had gotten so bad,

I thought: Believe only in night.

The sun is a dream.

Some still say it’s better

 

to stay in the dark

where we can’t find each other,

where all we know is fear. Not you.

Something shakes on this night sky–

 

a sun

that breaks through . . .

flowers suddenly

raising their hidden heads.

 

Poem by Kenneth Pobo. Pobo lives in Pennsylvania.

WAR IN THE 21st CENTURY

Stop Smiling

To President George W. Bush, with love

You can reflect war

with a smile.

You can expect war

with a smile.

You can prepare war

with a smile.

You can declare war

with a smile.

But those who have died in war

never used to smile.

So when you reflect war

when you expect war

when you prepare war

when you declare war –

please stop smiling

just for a while.

Casualties

Casualties are matters

You must not make a fuss about

They happen

By some casual coincidence

During casual visits in a foreign country

When people are too casual

About security counsels

At times

Speaking of casualties

May sound serious and solemn

But honest to goodness:

Its message to the public

Always ends up with

Never mind

 

Poems by Dr. Klaus Haacker. Haacker is a retired professor of the Humanities.

---

TIME TO FIGHT

Fight

Slaughter their windbag he-haws with just words,

conquer distractions with direction,

pave the media echo chamber with your message:

Build unity, bridge each and every bunkered abode;

no more war for profit

feasting on pounds of flesh;

let me now use a fairy-tale term:

Defang the lion-faced giant who steals and smirks.

Renewal

Despite the war, spring returns,

blazing sun, apple trees litter the ground with savory orbs.

Bite this autumn flesh, or forget its abundance.

Suck its succulence, or mutter behind closed doors.

Unreal City

A writer should know there is so little to say–

writing after changing a diaper, before kissing goodnight–

that to pile clause upon clause is just salesman’s candy,

not the work that hinges downward into silent walks,

walks when you had to go.

Then begin the difficulties: Now the novels,

the dramas, screenplays, the poems pour forth

bound in tomes, to unpuzzle the core.

 

Poems by Gregg Mosson. Gregg Mosson is author of Season of Flowers and Dust from Goose River Press, and an editor of this blog.

POSSIBILITIES

Possibility

Scrap the script, etch upon a stone

of all you know your own; quarry your success

to build a bridge to the future,

for every lodestone spans out infinitly further

like Buddha’s arms revealing flower after flower,

one of math’s published letters to the human heart.

Without Maps

I owned a map, but journeyed for change,

though beyond known lines, I quivered inside,

developing courage because courage was challenged.

The landscape in this zone was barren to my eyes

yet unrolled to spangled sunsets as I tred the road,

opening before me because I dared.

Come what may, come and dare to dream–

not lost amid the cloudy dream of wishes–

but deep within the juicy dreams of life.

 

Poems by Gregg Mosson. Gregg Mosson is author of Season of Flowers and Dust from Goose River Press, and an editor of this blog.