That when the bomb inside of me was set. At any time it may go off, And then at that moment, I would commit my suicide. It’s been ticking for years, It started in 1964, Inside my mind is the bomb from 64. Will someone defuse it? Can it be defused? Time is running out for me.
Tick, Tick, Tick.
*****
Star Night Star Bright
Shooting stars shooting past me,
Shooting guns shooting at me,
Shooting stars shooting past shooting guns,
A soul shooting past shooting stars,
I want to live outside of the shadows…beyond the guns, batons, and tear gas. I want to live with a sense of dignity and calm. I want to live among others without an attitude of deference and anger, and suicidal thoughts. You are homicidal and suicidal she said and I thought it’s the world in which I live that being me to this place. I want to live on a farm with the earth beneath my feet instead of blood running down my face from the beatings. I don’t want to die like Emmett Till. I want to see the world with my own eyes and speak to whomever I please. Don’t tie me down or hang me up in a tree. Does this sound unreasonable to you that I want to live and not die as if my life don’t matter… in the end I want God to hold me close to his/her breast and give me life. My tears can no longer be held inside of my soul. I can no longer exist beyond my pain and suffering while hanging on that cross. Do you feel my regret being in this black skin of mine screaming into my pillow in broad daylight. Do you feel my despair of dying alone in the street with a crowd watching me die. My grave is a cemented yard where all the others have buried into the weeds. Does it matter that I was innocent of any crime other than being black.
Showers of Rain
My tears can no longer be held inside my soul. I can no longer exist beyond my pain and suffering while hanging from this cross. Do you feel my regret being in this black skin of mine, screaming into my pillow in broad daylight. Do you feel my despair of dying alone in the street with a crowd watching me die? My grave-a cremated ditch where all the others are buried in the weeds. Does it matter that I was innocent of any crime other than being black? Living in the shadows I hear the guns; I feel the batons and smell the tear gas. I live with the awareness of being homicidal and suicidal and I’m indifferent to it all. I’ve become used to the blood flowing into the gutter. My blood mixed with the blood of other black males. And nothing grows. I don’t want die in this place…does that sound unreasonable? I want to live and not die with bullets in my chest. I want to see the world with my own eyes and speak to whomever I please. I don’t want to die like Emmett Till buried in a swamp after being nearly beaten to death with a bullet in my head. Don’t tie my hands behind my back and hang me from that tree and dismember my body. Does this sound unreasonable to you that I want to live, that my life does matter?
I can no longer exist beyond my pain and suffering. My tears can no longer be held inside my soul. Do you feel my despair of dying alone in the streets with this policeman on top of my chest with the crowd helpless to help me. I hear my mother’s scream: “No not my son, my only son.” She sobs and shouts Jesus’ name. Her body shakes uncontrollably a pitch plea to God to not take her son away. She has joined the long processing of black mothers that grieve in the midnight hour. Years of mourning comes while setting in that rocking chair of hers. God whispers into her ear… gentle drops of tears roll down her tannish red skin. Her silver hair is in place and her heart still aches at the loss of her only son. She remembers given birth to her son and his death was as if he had been torn from her womb.
Midnight Tears
Have you witnessed the pain and heartbreak of black mothers when they learned that their son has been killed in the streets? Those mothers cry to Jesus and they weep and scream: “no, not my son!” I have witnessed far too many mothers weeping. This weeping isn’t for an hour or a day but for years. My foster mother would slept in a chair and years later after her baby son was hit by a Greyhound bus…I would see the tears rolling down her cheeks. Society don’t understand that for a black mother their sons are their life no matter what the world says he is still their beloved. In their heart within their souls these mothers mourn as if their life has been torn from their womb. All they have left is their faith in Jesus.
After several weeks of mourning for those black males who have been killed in the streets of America. They have been killed either by police or those of their own race. Death is death so what makes the difference when a law enforcement officer kills a black male? It’s because the officers are sworn to protect the life of others…they are sworn to uphold the law and to protect all lives. Since childhood I just wanted to feel safe but I did not. I feared that I would die at a young age as I walked the streets alone going to school or to the store. My foster mother always worried about me because I was so naive and gentle. I learned that the streets was not safe and I had nowhere to turn…I wanted to feel safe when I saw the police but I did not. Yes, police need to know that all black males are not a threat to white America therefore they need not to be profiled and excited. RIP Emmett Till.
I no longer grieve for the loss of my childhood. I do grieve for those two young black murdered in past several weeks. I grieve for the black males who feel and know they have no place to call home. I grieve for the loss of innocence of those who live in the inner-city.
Many dreams drift from cloud to cloud. Dreams of peace without the sounds of gunfire or the cries of death. I watch the moon as it sinks behind the horizon, and I wonder, when will my nightmares of living in the inner-city end? Watching the peacocks’ feathers blooming, I lie quietly in my grave — and peace has found me.
* * *
Black Boys II
Angry at life and angry at a system that keeps them incarcerated to a promise of a life without body piercings and tattoos; but hope is lost from a life spent avoiding the police. Mothers addicted to crack cocaine lie upon urine-strained mattresses. Some escape this life, and climb and climb and climb, and finally reach the safety of the mountains. And it is there that love flourishes; there that sanctuary is found. Beyond the stars that glow at night. A soul no longer thirsts for the safety of home: no longer in the heat of the streets.
* * *
Mother II
I want to send flowers to my mother, but she has passed away. I would like to visit her her grave and let her know that I have finally found the better side of life. There is a place on earth which reflects heaven. No longer do I cry into my pillow.
The Seagulls
Their wings spread above the ocean.
Their voices echo off the water,
Their white bodies full the morning sky,
I remember my mother when I see them,
For she was always gentle with me;
I was her only son.
She did not cry when I told her I was leaving for the war.
She simply said “come back to me.”
Sleep II
I cannot sleep in the wee hours of the morning when the muses come,
I cannot sleep when the dream is of colors —
When the moon is bright and the stars float above the water,
It is not easy to forget the goddess of poetry.
But I cannot rest in the wee hours of the morning when I hear the birds sing.
Another Day of Life
When the words appear on the screen,
Nothing else matters to me.
Hearing your voice,
Having you smile and that laugh of yours.
I’m happy when I look out at the mountains,
When the peacocks’ feathers bloom,
And the seagulls fly over the ocean,
I’m happy when the muses call on me to write.
A poem they understand,
That there’s more to life than death.
Michael J. Robinson Reviews Christopher Bernard’s Dangerous Stories for Boys
Christopher Bernard’s Dangerous Stories For Boys reaches into the abyss and brings us (men) back to a time and place where our world was full of doubts, fears, and lack of courage. Many boys finding their way into manhood become trapped in and stifled by society’s rules and regulations. There’s a deep psychological aspect to the experience of growing up into manhood. The age where it seems to begin is at ten and throughout adolescence. Many boys may find that their world is chaotic, disingenuous, and full of traps—emotional, physical and mental—all of which can be dangerous.
It’s hard for the boys to figure out what path to take in the midst of the experience of adolescence and pre-adolescence. As we see in one story, changes in one’s family, such as a move, only heighten the disorientation. Matt’s family relocates to the city after living on a farm and he struggles with the strain of transforming himself to survive in the new environment. There’s a profound difference between growing up in the country and in the city. However, meeting people of different backgrounds and cultures is a prerequisite for maturity, even a baptism by fire, as it has been said; but an important step towards developing into a fully mature and well-adapted person.
Many adult men have long since forgotten these rites of passage, but Christopher Bernard reminds us of those moments in a harmonious way. Each story has a rhythm that stays intertwined with the other in a cadence that works well. My thoughts followed the lives of these young men, anxious to see how it would all turn out for them. I found myself reliving my own story of growing up, which made me feel frightened and uncertain of my future. Attempting to control each event becomes futile as the environment shapes the characters’ actions. Still, as with the other boys, even while going through a maze of fear and disorientation, Matt resolves not to surrender to his new world and to maintain his identity.
“Shadow in the Water.” This story is intense and familiar to us. Alan must question his own values, and his strength in order to be himself. It’s difficult to walk away from the challenges of peer pressure to say no to others. Alan finds himself confronted by realities that challenge his fantasy that he can be just one of the boys.
It’s impossible not to continue to follow the story without remembering your own experiences. Story after story, Bernard gives us something to contemplate. The reader cannot help but follow each boy through his adventure and have concern for him. As you become attached to each one of them, you are exposed to your own shadows of the past. I found some stories long only because I wanted to know what would take place with the boys. But it was worth the wait to read the ending without skipping pages.
