Juneteenth

Such a heart wracking event
Bloomed yellow, green and red streams of gladness
Ribbons around a geographic pole
Unbridled dancing, hallelujahs.

Once long ago when Texas was the last remaining stronghold of the Civil War
black people toiled resigned in its fields
Rattling horses
Cleaning homes
No one the wiser
Not most whites
Not blacks.
The imbalance of nature hummed nicely
As planned
Though thoughts, wild thoughts
Caromed with force and vigor around the cranium of mind. 
What color is freedom?

What crack whackery brought that lone horseman to the capital
His mount dusty, riding
Sweat stains lining his neck and pits
Didn’t ask for water
Tied up his hoss
Delivered his message:
The General is coming! 

On Sunday, June 18, 1865 General Gordon Granger marched
1,800 Blue Coats into the island city of Galveston, largest in Texas,
Critical seaport. 
On Monday, June 19, Granger issued General Orders No. 3.
Lincoln told him, “Better read it out loud,
Some of them don’t know how.”
In fact he read it several times around the city
At the market
At the Osterman building, Union Army headquarters
Over by the judiciary
Down on the wharf . . . 

Two months previous, when Texas finally capitulated and was annexed by the Union 
Granger took troop command of the District of Texas. 
His first official act, read General Orders No. 3:
The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free.
Another day at work in the life of a career soldier.
A life-changing event for 250,000 enslaved black people …
Didn’t know they had been freed two years earlier.
Why so many?
By the time General Granger assumed command of the District of Texas,
the Confederate capital, Richmond, had fallen, 
the executive mentioned in the order – President Lincoln – was dead, and the 
13th Amendment abolishing slavery would soon be ratified.
Is it possible to have a second independence?

But the slaves weren’t free.
The ex-Confederate mayor of Galveston flouted the Army, 
forced the freed people back to work, 
In point of fact, after New Orleans fell to the Union Army in 1862, 
slave owners in Mississippi and Louisiana and across the South effected their own trail of tears, a re-enactment of the Middle Passage, drove
150,000 slaves on a march to Texas, 
Deemed the best place to work the economic engine of slavery.
Build America.

Galveston was a hop and a sneeze from the Caribbean slave-trading islands
Privateers and smugglers used it as an outpost for their operations. 
As long as the Confederate Army had control, there was no way to enforce Lincoln’s order.
What turns black to red?

Freedom came to Texas slaves two years later when the Confederacy finally surrendered
Time enough to harvest two cotton crops 
When is free, free? 

Spontaneous celebrations broke out among the freed slaves
Churches and homes, picnics and barbecues 
What is the inside of red?

The color red became prominent
Partly because it is the color of blood and
Partly because it was a color of spiritual power among the Yoruba and Kongo peoples,
Shipped to the Caribbean and Gulf Coast long after the slave trade was outlawed in1807.
Red, a cultural reminder of the roots of the enslaved –
Barbecued ribs in red sauce,
Red velvet cake, red beans and rice, lemonade with fresh strawberries,
strawberry soda bottled and shipped from Milwaukee.

When does emancipation become freedom?



~ Sandra Rogers-Hare                              

Seasoned ritual

What these lights exclaim—
a commonplace of forms 
in pronouncement of death.

They wander untruths 
hollered foregone
of a solstice
established 
a season of touch.

Their dross is predicate 
to a remonstrance performed;
shaping as best 
that fathom of force cultured 
from specks unjustness shines
on bathed nights lacked their lustre.

(Here a life extolled; there
a dream extinguished).

Now so foreign we’re
stepping over the timed-in chants
to fend for places consenting 
rest from 
what reasons that ask it
of celebrations intolerance begets,

that is how to exercise rhythms
their shod worthiness proclaimed
in the sudden redux of antiphons 
once scant now abundant.

We trail in our responses,
aligned to make delicate
the occasion we’ve met,
clutching our tapers so that
light, too, does not
more easily perish.




Window shopping

Cut figures shaped waxen
mirror intentions formed
of haphazard strolls down streets 
love ill-mannered pretends them—
some ticketed green 
of truant devotions come back this
garden of delights popular in what’s hoped for.

Most of it’s distracting, full of 
stops and contrition
unripe statuary tends
those whose lives unfold
in service to lost ancestors.

But Time will come them who favour
this will to remark it—
we’re selves left as are to own devices
happenstance if birth
then recession cemented along
lines that dock us of valuables given.

Ready or not we wouldn’t have it
that smile half-shaped for the crowd to mumble,
a relic ambulating distance and emotion
the window gives toll to
as we gather and shop in the know
of what it’s wrought
an age post-capitalistic of booming abundance.




On a reading of Melanie Klein during lockdown

Projected selfhoods applaud 
affirmations to the bone;

deep their solipsism broods
the selfishness they’ve caused

if wrapped around is a gift
their Others’ not wanted

but of loans disposed 
to hearts who contend them.

They ride along 
such subtle devotion

its violence that prospers
raw conditions suffering made norm

as Life is its truth when
pretensions implode 

and grumble the heresies
politeness helps form

in softness mere cover
what tensions belie.



Avatar

Legitimate runs can’t handle 
circumstances of commotion.

They get wind of escape through 
worlds our falsehoods outmoding
as the real less tangible is speculated

more worth than this 
daily plot thick 
with the uninitiated.

But here: 
burnt-out traces of corpse
project drop-offs
the mainframed redoubt-in,
lost to bigger cause 
inhuman as much
the next one proposes
some new god its hereafters
the digital allots of 
when embraced extensions 
regulate newness pulled-out from 
deathbeds their visions
that commonplace of norms
our postmodern living.

Monotony gone
deposits best colour
this mutiny 
about us.

PSALMS 22:19

After Shedrack Bulus


To the tongue that cradles on wounds,
every poem holds a hammer against my 
body. Which means, this body lacks a body, sometimes, it is a garden & other times, it's a flower — Perfect paradox saying; the things I once admired now plague on me. Maybe, this is how a body translate to a graveyard. Again, cast me to a river & I'll comeback a sand, scars & death close dialect engulfing a body. Every morning I trust my knees for 
Grace, but bleeds still flaunt out of me like a spring bee. & these scars too renders me a sacrificial lamb. Tell me, what mouth will remember me & still gospel how to read a poem before a congregation of grief?. The priest said, Son, learn how to build a tower for your scars. Perhaps, I remember— even the Bible pulled pigs out of a body. Say, to nurture a body for moths. Grace tarry & everything ends in science. At least to saviour a body. I, a rotten flesh hunting for hope at feet of a round rope. This poems breaks & clouds this body to a dust. Lord, won't you undress me to a butterfly? Now that blood still wets my knees on breaking tarmacs.
____________________________________________________________________________________________

I CHRISTENED MY BODY A HOME

At night,
I briefcased my unbelief into the 
esophagus of my stepmother. Nothing
defines a boy more than grief. & I, too.
My body have cocoon myriad lightless
stars, which often deduced me to a prosaic equation, I mean something poor devoid of brilliance— Emptiness filled 
me to the edge, & I bend like a crayfish. 
Which is to say, my body still clings on rotten roses. I lost a sight of myself, & my cousin is now an acronym mouthed by birds. Tell me, In what way can i unbuilt this body?. Perhaps, this poem is modern. Here, everything labyrinths to a requiem, grief, bullet, or whatever can murder. & say, a rose fading to a scar, My shadow bounced back at me. My body shriveled to a room with sharp shards. All wanting to cut & open me to a naked wound. Yesterday, i met God in the flickering of a crescent, I wanted to split this body before his presence, To unfold my soul to a faith. But, here, not everything bring peace. So i relinquished my simulacrum to the mirror & christened my body a home.
___________________
Anderson Moses, nicknamed (Son of Moses)  is a poet from a small village in Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. He's a student of History and International studies. He's works have been published/forthcoming in Brittle paper, Nantygreens, Eboquills, Arts lounge and elsewhere. Apart from writing, he enjoys snapping images.

Quick Write 5/24/22

Sitting at their desks, in the quiet before the storm,
They listened to their teachers. They looked back on a lessening pandemic year,
With parents and grandparents and friends finally within touch.
They sat at their desks in a classroom. The last day of school
They looked forward to summer to freedom to playing and to time with friends
In a lessening pandemic year.
They felt safe.
Children.
Someone’s child.
Someone’s sister. Someone’s brother
Someone’s best friend.
Someone’s everything.
Someone knew these children from birth
And held them and kissed them and snuggled them and treasured them.
Maybe they were lucky at home and had meals everyday
And had parents who knew where they were all the time
And had friends who cared if they talked to them and played with them and ate with them.
Maybe they were less lucky and had one parent or one person who looked after them.
Maybe they were happy to be in school because the other place they could be was not as good.

But they were all together in the classroom. All together at the same time.
And then they weren’t. They were not spared. They were suddenly not safe.
They were suddenly not children. First they were, then they weren’t.
And someone might not have been a mother any more. Or a father.
Can we be parents if we don’t have children?

And then it was over.

                JURISPRUDENCE: COLLATERAL DAMAGE

		A well-regulated militia…
		The goal is clear: no standing army here
		in this new country. None. If there is need,
		just fill the ranks with farmers, merchants, men
		bringing their own muskets.  Then, disband
		when battle’s won.  At least, that was the plan. 

		Today’s lawmakers make no laws to hold back
		trigger-fingers itching to be free. 
		
		A teen in Texas purchases two rifles,
		semi-automatics, rounds of ammo.
		No questions asked. Just “happy 18th birthday!”
		So kid shoots grandma in the face, then speeds
		to school, kills 19 trapped 4th Graders
		and two teachers. Stops only when he’s shot. 

		Now come the questions; now, when it’s too late.
		Just six months into 2022,
		why 27 school shootings? Why?
		Why should gunmen terrorize our lives?
		Shootings in grocery stores, shootings in bars,
		shootings in cinemas, shootings at spas,
		shootings in synagogues, churches and mosques…
		Freeway shootings, subway shootings,
		shootings on the street.
		A grudge. A gun. A ton of searing grief. 

		From politicians, waffling words and shrugs.
		“What can you do?” blindfolded leaders bleat.
		“Some people are just bad. Unhinged. Insane.
		They’re broken. Laws can’t fix them. Yes, it’s sad.”
		Does Congress realize that almost half
		the guns on earth are here, within our borders?


		A well-regulated militia…
		The wording is a clue. Suggests a choice.
		Regulations. Rules devised to curb
		the leading cause of death for children: guns.  
1.	
		Today we have an army. We don’t need
		recruits bringing a blunderbuss to boot camp,      
		or citizens stockpiling snipers’ rifles.
		If our domain becomes well-regulated,
		what works for other countries might work here.
		Fewer shattered families.
		Less grief-without-end.
		A small price to pay
		for fewer small coffins,
		fewer urns of ashes kept like shrines.




		Copyright 5/2022           Patricia Doyne
		
		

                UVALDE:  THE  LUCKY ONES

		Shots explode from somewhere.
		Is this real?
		Teacher hustles kids inside.
		Locks the classroom door.
		Lights off.
		Kids have practiced lockdown.
		But this is not a drill.
		Hit the floor.
		Get under a desk, if you can.
		Shh!
		No shoving, no poking, no whispering.
		Hold still.  Keep quiet.
		Pretend this is an empty classroom

		The shooter breaks glass.
		Sprays bullets through the window.
		Teacher is hit in the leg.
		Makes no sound.
		Kids see her bleed.
		Freeze,
		too scared to whimper.
		A child also bleeds,
		grazed by a bullet.
		Clenches her teeth.
		The shooter hears no response.
		Moves on. 

		Time stretches.
		Every minute is endless.
		Darkness fills with breathing.
		Keep quiet.
		Hope he won’t come back. 
		Hope to get out of here alive. 
		Hope friends are okay.
		Can’t text—can’t risk a light.
		Hope.



		Close by, sudden gunfire.
		Shouts. Screams.
		More shots.
		What is going on?
		Who got shot?
		A brother? A sister? A friend?
		In the dark,
		someone begins sobbing.
		But no one moves.
		He’s out there somewhere.
		He might come back.

		Time drags on.
		Why doesn’t someone do something?
		Call the cops?
		Get that bad guy?
		Let us out of here?
		More shots. 
		When will this end?
		Why is he shooting at us?
		Can’t someone help us?
		Anyone?
		Anyone at all?