Author: poetryfest

I tell U,
The history of our people
Lead us to beautifully colored rainbow lands
But we should never forget where we started
So I take U on the journey tossing away all your stereotypes

Classical artists from Harlem Renaissance tell our story in hidden messages
And oh how they did it
They would tease the listeners

Who think we’ve got it all figured out
I mean whichever side of the sexual tracks U grew up on
It really doesn’t matter
Whether U top / bottom
Or play it straight

We all share an aching need to be blissfully lost,
Lost in the magic of their words
From James Baldwin to E. Lynn Harris
We trust when time right
U will lead us home-

From Langston Hughes to Essex Hemphill
We trust when time right
U will lead us home-

From Zora Neal Hurston to Audre Lorde
We trust when time right
U will lead us home-
We trust U…
Langston Hughes
Countee Cullen
Bruce Nugent
Zora Neal Hurston
James Baldwin
Audre Lorde
Essex Hemphill
Joseph Beam
Assotto Saint
Marlon Riggs
Isaac Julien
Bayard Rustin
E. Lynn Harris
&
all the talented tenth in between

Dale Guy Madison
daleguymadison.com
mylifein3easypayments.com
twitter & instagram @damngoodman

Leroy my neighbor had some lottery luck
But he went off and blew it all on a big old monster truck
Now he can’t afford to drive it
The gas cost too much
Leroy’s old lady she packed and left
She was pissed that Leroy was only thinking of himself
But if I know Leroy
He wasn’t thinking at all

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Wendy Lou the widow lives across the street
She keeps bringing strange men over for something to eat
I don’t know what she’s cooking
But you never see those strangers again
She invited me for dinner just the other night
Said she was in the mood for something tasty and white
But I politely declined
For reasons clearly obvious

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Tommy the mailman weighs over four hundred pounds
Everybody’s amazed how fast he makes his rounds
He says the secret to his speed
Is all in his shoes
So I went online ordered fifty-three pair
One for each week and one to spare
But I don’t move no faster
Cause I ain’t going nowhere

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Little Bobby Jenkins is the kid that lives next door
He’s a mean little bastard, the kind you can’t ignore
He throws rocks at my windows and tries to lynch my cat
Before he gets much older, I know what I’m gonna do
I’m gonna get me a pit bull
The kind that likes to chew
Little bastard kids
And their bastard parents too

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Sad Old Henry lives in the gray house to my left
But no one ever sees him
He keeps completely to himself
He has everything delivered
By a man dressed in black
There’s a rumor that a woman broke his heart in two
And fifty years later He’s still got the blues
Man, I wish I had me a memory…half that sweet

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Freddy Jones the salesman is a very proud man
But he lost his job a year ago, now he’s living hand to hand
And the bank where he does business
Doesn’t care or understand
So Freddy Jones and family are moving out next week
Corporate downsizing has kicked them in the street
And the rich get richer
Everybody else just moves

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

I used to be a soldier stationed in Iraq
But when I lost a leg or two
They had to send me back
I ain’t bitter
I just don’t dance as cool
Now the goverment sends me money that barely pays the rent
I guess it’s just their little way of showing some repent
You know “support the troops” and all that…stuff

Now my neighbors all around me stop by to pay respect
They wanna to see those medals hanging from my neck
But I gave ’em all to Leroy
So he can buy some gas
Sometimes this world is beautiful, sometimes this world is mean
It all depends on how you look at everything you’ve seen
And I’ve seen plenty
On the street where I live

And I’m just sitting on the front porch getting high
Watching my street passing by

Not a single heart
among a nameless, faceless, uniformed mob
Informed by a system intent to do more harm
than good
Uninformed of the way in which they wear a uniform
that makes them see monsters
beneath every hood
And every mask—don’t bother to ask questions
Answers don’t matter now
as long as you stand
with Black Lives Matter, man
Knock an old man to the ground
and walk away
while his ears bleed
Shoved him down without need,
without cause built
To offer help
is to offer an admission of guilt
That’s how you’re trained to see things
instead of how to think
things through
in order to do the right thing
Then claim he tripped and fell
like how JFK’s brains just fell
out of his head, too
Whose law is at work in this disorder?
And are there any borders you’re unwilling to cross
to establish the right order?
And what good could ever come of this,
the way it is and the way it’s been,
for anyone
—including you—
who isn’t sat atop the pyramid?
It’s a scheme
where they sell dreams
to everyone who stands beneath
their privilege
Because it seems
as though there’s something
more important for you to do
Than to be a brother or a sister
to your fellow citizens
Who you now see as merely wOkE denizens
Of a world that’s rightfully yours,
the lawfully good
I would laugh if I could
but it’s an awfully bad joke

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

There was a special place at the end of the orchard, where a small clearing with a clump of young trees, hovered just above the creek. The child loved to come here. She loved the joy she felt when she saw the sun filtering through the wattle trees, the green mosses in the grass, and the bitter smell from eucalyptus. She’d run her hands across the heath bushes, absorbing the texture, and taking in the sight of the perfection of the tiny flowers.
The scene was one she loved beyond her level of comprehension or ability to describe.
Her affinity to the clearing was such that she wanted to be part of it; to eat it, to take it all inside her so she could own it.

Some mornings she’d run to it, taking great care not to dirty her polished shoes, she wanted just a glance before school. At weekends, when she’d finished her chores, she could stay longer.
Some days, the early frost lay white on the moss, steam rising from the tips of the leaves as the sun warmed them. The child would look in wonder.

Afternoons in spring, were a source of amazement to her. The wattle was a glorious yellow. She watched as the sun caught the color’s refractive glow as it shone on the new spring flowers.
Other times, in the summer, she’d lean against a tree in the clearing, peeling off the bark carefully, crisp in her small palm, yet yielding to her touch.
The bright pink wild fuchsia which grew all along the creek bank, caught the sun’s rays as it filtered through the canopy of the higher trees. An abundance of watercress waited to be picked by eager little hands.

In the dead of winter, the child braved a walk to her clearing in rain boots, squishing her way through the mud and deep undulations left by the tread of tractor tires. It was hard going. The sleet beat against her small body, plastering her hair on her head, the wind chilling her to the bone. The rain and wind played havoc with the trees, bending them over, their branches whipping her, as she scurried under for protection. The roar of the creek was loud, the waters high and dangerous. Once, she saw a dead calf caught up in the debris. She felt disgust and fear at the sight of it.
When the weather at the clearing was fierce, she drew strength, understood the relentlessness of the seasons; admired the bravery of her clearing as it stood firm. In spring, her breath stood still in her throat, at her first glimpse of her trees, cloaked in a mist, that was as damp as the tears in her eyes. Shivering, she touched the leaves, at times licking their moisture. The quietness surrounded her, blanketed her, bringing a feeling of peace she seldom felt.

She loved the times when she lay still on the moss on the ground. Birds landed on branches, oblivious to her. She became one with the clearing. The bird’ s chatter pleased her; sometimes she’d stifle a giggle at her daring. She’d watch as they rubbed beaks on her branches, enjoying her hospitality. She was privy to their preening and exchange of banter. Their feathers made a perfect contrast to the infinite shades of green that surrounded them.

The child would think about her clearing at night in bed. A huge surge of comfort would fill her mind and body. In a thought, she was there safe and free.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Shame, Shame go away I don’t want you any day
Shamed into Silence…
My spirit was dehumanized
Shamed into Silence…
By the words of my grandma “It’s yo’ own fault y’ know mens cain’t control theyselves
Shamed into Silence…
By the hands of my grandma beating ’til I could no longer speak
Shame, Shame, go away I don’t want you any day
Shamed into Silence…
At ten I had a woman’s body
Shame, Shame go away I don’t want you any day
Shamed!
My voice didn’t matter
Nobody cared ‘cause
Girls got touched all the time by their
Daddy
Brother
Uncle
Neighbor
SHAMED!

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I see like the sky sees—
Winding rivers, peaks, small bushes, tall trees…
A reality surrounded by all shades of purples and golds,
Humanity held together by unseen yet powerful bonds.
I hear like the mountain hears—
It feels like the air lent me its ears.
I hear echoes of joy and despair,
Emotional struggles we all share.
I feel like the earth feels—
Sharp claws of unappreciation and neglect that sneak in for the kill…
Then deeper… the gentle pull of nurture that ripens and heals.
I taste like the water tastes—
Samples of euphoria and deep sorrow strengthening my ways.
I touch like the world—
In colorful sharp icicles or warm, gentle swirls.
Winter becomes me on its sunniest days and harshest snowy nights;
Fall, spring, and summer follow in my footsteps… feed off of my lows and my highs.
But I see best when I close my eyes that can’t see anyway,
I see the world through a twisted perspective… the way my soul puts it on display.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

I wonder where you are
Wherever you are
The place is beautiful
The place knew an angel was approaching

I wonder what’s your thought
Whatever it reached
That point is now purified
That point got out of trouble

I wonder who entered your heart
Whoever it can be
Love is realized
Love is gaining more space

Our lives drive humanity, even far if we don’t mind
Our lives drive humanity, even far if we don’t mind

I wonder what’s freeing your voice
Some words, one silence
Peace is being built
Peace is the final great winner

I wonder the reason of your last laugh
After which hard game
Joy made a sound again
Joy has always been on your side

I wonder which pain made you a better person
After how many tears
You understood what to do
You understood what to do with your life

Our lives drive humanity, even far if we don’t mind
Our lives drive humanity, even far if we don’t mind

I wonder how lost you have been
What loneliness crossed
Gives the real value to a human’s skin
Gives back a role to this existence

I wonder the name of the war you were in
Which darkness you scared
Makes beauty dancing everywhere
Makes your heart naked and free to guide

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

The snow has just begun to fall
thick enough to leave footprints –
My footprints –
first to mark this snow.
From A where I began
to B where I finished
Mine were the first footprints
to be added by others.

The first love sonnet was written when
a lover at A saw the one
she loved at B
and wrote a poem or a haiku or
some really forgettable prose
and a family was born.

Someone else at A
saw someone hungry at B
and brought a sandwich
made a place at the table
opened a restaurant
or a food bank
and a community was born.

Others at A saw a people
oppressed at B.
So they crossed over to stand with them
and brought their poetry, their food,
their voices and
their solidarity.

New sonnets were written.
New lovers embraced
New resources were unearthed
New creativity inspired
And a movement was born.

When A is where we are
and B is where we could be
where the homeless are housed
and the hungry are fed –
The bridge getting us there,

inspiring sonnets
and families
and meals
and wide tables
and communities
and solidarity
and movements,
and encountering
resistance,

Is Love.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

Standing in Line. Eyes front.
No acknowledgment. Robotic recruits
Uniforms pressed. Knife-edge creases.
Summer sunshine. Corona causation.
Shoes shone. Reflective leather. Bows tied.
Tarsal protection. Cobbled, with a mirror image.

No one speaks. Wordless. Mute.
Personal thoughts? Dubious!
Typical English. Restrained. Controlled.
Vehicle now approaches. A two-tiered behemoth.
Military Green-hued. Land-locked missile.
Troopship travel. Ever advancing.

Rubber eating asphalt. Esurient bugger!
Be-capped captain of the vessel, front right aligned.
Serious, concentrated. Steers to our loading bay.
Shuffles begin. Slow, but steady as she goes.
No smiles, no colloquy. Simply shuffles.
Tuneless accordion doors slide open.

Onboarding. Pass showing protocol.
Welcoming officer, cold. Indifference abounds.
I bid him “Good morning, Sir”.
A practiced scowl retorted. Disparaged.
At last. Now, as one with the tacit team.
Herd comfort. Recognition. United.

Conquer the stairs to level two. Privileged deck.
Seating rare in this terrain. Semi extinct. Scoping panjandrums.
Hunters all. Survival of the fittest. Perchance
Target identified. Crosshairs locked on. Homing in.
Document case launched. Laser accurate. 
Target secured. Touch down. Seat meets seat.

A window glance confirms movement. Forward motion.
Speeding. Burning gas. Ice caps thawed. Globe warmed.
A juggernaut hurtling. Chasing time. Mach 1.
Soon be there. Raging anticipation. Pulsation. Momentarily.
My private happy place. Mon endroit heureux.
Secrets to be shared. Jointly enjoyed. Canopied euphoria.

Emerald canopy infiltrated. A virtual, verdure veil.
No others stir. Oblivious to nature. Unseeing. Unappreciative.
Sunlight on dappled leaves. Rays converse. Au Courant.
Morse code messaging. Covert contact. Mine alone.
I revel. This is MY time. Although time’s halted. Frozen.
Enter the single Silver Birch, stoic in a realm of Horse Chestnuts.

That Betula Pendula taught me so very much.
We communicate as I glide by. Subliminal sign on.
Actual logging in. Mental discourse
I query if he is sad, lonely.
“Alone, but not lonely!” He continues.
“You visit, Flora and Fauna drop by, the sun, the wind…So blessed”.

Certain about the canopy?
“Absolute certainty. It’s the pain”
Trees do feel pain?
We accelerate past. Strain for the last words.
Glimpse skyward. The sun still messaging.
No branches touch the top of our vehicle.

Words float over the engine’s roar,
“Yes, we all feel pain”.
“We all feel love. Like you, we avoid the Via Delorosa”
Over and out. Communications link lost.
Until tomorrow. Jusqu’à demain mon ami.
A smugly smile steals across my face.

Eyes tight shut. Blind celebration. Yes!
Virtual high five. Fist bump fantasy. Ultimate pctureless selfie.
Ephemeral ecstasy. Cerebral celebration.
Furtive observation. Other travelers oblivious.
My secret secure. Locked up tight.
As tight as a very tight thing. Key concealed.

Terminus looms. The canopy, a rearview mirror throwback.
Glorious morning. Another miracle. One of many already today.
Cradled once more by Mother Nature. With absolute proof.
Loneliness is a mental state. Alone, exclusively physical.
Disembarking. Stepping out. Eyes peer heavenward.
Pupils contract. Gratitude expands. Thankful.

Thankful I have learned all living things have feelings.
Thankful for complete acceptance. To be trusted. Intimate inclusion.
Meandering through the milling throng. Trudging. Diluted enthusiasm.
To the daunting building on the hill. A bastion of cruelty.
Supposedly of learning. Dark, foreboding. School.
A manifestly different journey ahead. Purely, a real mental state.

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

the dream
the reality
the ghettos
the insanity
the inhumanity
look at the world’s state
poverty
look how power rapes
could I take
dirty water under
the poorest living conditions
still praying, hoping, wishing
dreaming of that new day
dreaming of equal opportunity
how can I not cry for the world
look at everything it’s doing