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Poetry

  

Love a day

Jacques Wakefield

 

It is light with dark in

Passing- a flame untouched-

 

An empty mid street walk with

Bouncing eyeballs on the curb

Where home is tempting a cold sun

A tame foreboding is love in a harsh

Secret wind; mouthwash in the ocean

 

A glove lost

How automobiles seat us jus’so

We ride a long here & there to every

Where, no, the weather will not change by radio.

A sudden deep breath/ flesh again&

 

How Black does it matter

& moment memory fresh again

against the open sky/ flesh again

less stepping along the clouds

the soap is clean

raindrops on the window

 

sound like soft bullets

and cornbread

lemons leap across the counter

shouting parade,

What kind of war is this ?

 


 

 

          James Brown & the love he leafs                                            

                             Jacques Wakefield

1.

…Please...

poring love’s sweat.

Working (with)

Class. His dance

A plea…

 

Poor & please love me

Please…

James’ BROWN.

We

Brown, like James, 

& Black too.

 

2.

 

We move life in the rhythm of a quick illusive African Spirit.

We Black, and James Brown too.  That’s two

Things we are. We proud to be that song &dance.

 

(He helped us to remember something he could only grunt about (shhhh)…

 

3.

 

A giant tree, with southern roots

 

He leafs us,

for a world to grow in-lifting

America to the world

 

& where do thebrownleaves go,

those dropped

By the changing winds, timing the heartbeat of

 

Black struggle, inthe music of James Brown?

Since, they’ll never be an other

Than his majestic noise…

 

Now…maybe

James Brown-

Be the Sun of our memories

& the dance of life grows &

nourishes

Our planted pleases…


 

 

 

In asking a poet, on a vacation mornin' in Costa Rico (can be replaced by any “third world country”, Africa, etc), “Is this butter or margarine?”

by Jacques Wakefield

 

In my world, the sun, a sordid round dab

Buys daylight by human

Measures of clock-wise. Night

 

It’s margarine, basically, the

People eat to live a life. Stopping time

 

For the sun.  Melting in and out from day to day.

Buying. Eating earth or nothing…

What luxury of fate…

 

Margarine, a science, not better butter

Quite different from the

Other way - those who eat, to take

Energy, to get strength, to steal from

 

The life of the sun. It’s time, they say-

Spread some war

A time for margarine &

A time for a bitter butter life.

 


 

Untitled

Jacques Wakefield

 

It must be that

Time in my life

 

When I allow things to

Pass me by because

 

I either know their meaning

Or no longer care how they

 

Fare in these winds. Even

Romance is essentially harnessed

To the buy & sell of the world’s

Goodbye

 

Sometimes on my hill, my hair

No longer holds to my head like

 

The paraphernalia it is,

To disguise my naked brain,

 

It takes heavily to the wind

As ornament&

Tells myself often; that I love

 

In spite of it all

Or more, elevates to a

Breathless wall

& holds


Welfare Cheese and Power (a memoir)

By Jacques Wakefield  

Welfare cheese was a stigma of poverty. 

A big orange block pliable rock  cut slices flooded with mayonnaise grilled on bread for toast, ride with butter under its belly, meant life.  meant growing up,wanting /shame/ survival, lingering longing a larger world... 

a child’s eyes holding universes a kin to sacrificial life

in the fires of  folding kente cloth on the child

throwing it into the middle passage sea of the city streets

throwing him this day to go get the welfare cheese

at the local elementary school… welfare cheese meant

the spam, peanut butter, flour or whatever the Department of Agriculture had to give the welfared                                                     in the contest, as political bloodletting                                                                         or an act of God.warfared


Cathedral

 

Sculptured

                  beyond belief

Lording the scorching sky

Relief to

denominations

of little

             voices walking

 

beside it

to restaurants.


 

Generation Rap

Jacques Wakefield

 

I asked a student

“Is Barack Obama a “nigga”?”

He thought, a second, or so

Then replied,

“He’s mixed .”

  

 

 

 

 
  

 

 

 

 

 

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