November 20, 2024
Oh, how it hurt so much just to hear
By Blanche Saffron Kabengele
I sat in that restaurant in the French Quarter
with that sign hung outside
shamefully high
boasting as if
it was something
to be proud of
SLAVE TRADER MERCHANTS SINCE 1717
as I sat in that restaurant in the French Quarter
with that wall just to the right
of me
just a heap of worn
red dusty leftover
bricks
many with cracks
in them that wouldn’t
fetch a quarter
seemingly all soon
about to fall
from their
righteous
past
glory
those bricks trying hard
to hold on tight,
but mortar steady secedes
chipping away at the privilege
allowed all too many, which happened
not long enough ago to be forgotten
I sat in that restaurant in the French Quarter
with that wall just to the right
of me
in that building where steaks,
and hamburgers with or without
fries, were sold to anybody
in this now upscale
fashionable
place
where the young the old, the black
the white, all those people who make up everybody
congregate, peacefully
chattering and drinking premium beers,
and chardonnays, and politely saying
pour me another if you please
hardly paying any
attention to those faint
whimpering sounds that I heard
seeming to come from
just a heap of worn
red dusty leftover
bricks
many with cracks
in them that wouldn’t
fetch a quarter
on that 1968 day
that day I seemed
the only one privileged enough to hear them
moaning and crying
feet shuffling not knowing where to go
teardrops dropping on a dusty flo
a man talking about teeth—open your mouth, boy
then I heard him say something about wenches cooking
and all sorts of other things I believe y’all know what I mean he would say
which was clear, in truth
so clear to me that it hurt,
it hurt so much just to hear
such despair looming in the air
seeming to settle for an available place to hide
in just my ear,
so that I began to wonder whether others
just decided not to hear
or misery being fond
of desiring attention
had detected compassionate
available company.
The poems of Blanche Saffron Kabengele, Ph.D., have been published in several print and online publications, including East Fork: A Journal of the Arts, Verse-Virtual, For a Better World, The Rockford Review, and W-Poesis. Kabengele also has published the poetry collection Quiet as It’s Kept, Me Too, and Other Poetic Expressions of Life! (with Xlibris Publishing, 2018) and the nonfiction book Conjugal Relationships of Africans and African Americans: A Socio-Cultural Analysis (The Edwin Mellen Press, 2016).
“Oh, how it hurt so much just to hear” was previously published in For a Better World (2023). It is used by permission of the author.
November 6, 2024
Where Wisdom Calls
By Paul Stroble
The Nickel Plate Line once rushed
toward East St Louis
near where Dad hauled fuel
for filling stations on old 66,
and in the city
shots were fired last night,
and in many cities, little towns,
schools shut-down, night clubs,
children, men, and women dead,
incidents of lethal force,
symbols of hatred sprayed.
I hear about them in television echo
as I get dressed and take notes.
—The armed man should be feared.
—Wisdom cries out in the street;
in the squares,
she raises her voice.
—Justice is turned back,
and righteousness stands
at a distance; for truth stumbles
in the public square.
—Why was man created alone?
Is it not true that the Creator
could have created the whole of humanity?
But man was created alone to teach you
that whoever kills one life
kills the world entire,
and whoever saves one life
saves the world entire.
Let us finish what we are doing,
go out, and befriend an ER doctor,
a nurse with splatter on the scrubs,
a chaplain who’s seen
very much, and learn of trauma,
grief unhealed,
and then we’ll go to the sanctuary
beloved by generations,
and it is filled with prayer requests
for victims of violence of all kinds,
and you can’t get inside
for the number of request cards
pressing against the walnut door
and light can’t pass through
the colored windows
for the cards are stacked to the rafters,
the social hall is full,
and the trustees have earmarked
funds for mercy’s work.
Let us sing hopeful songs
and pray while holding
someone around the shoulder,
and since we’re outside already
let us go to streets and squares,
the country places,
night and day
where wisdom calls.
Paul Stroble has published five chapbooks and three poetry books with Finishing Line Press. He is a semi-retired adjunct professor of philosophy and religion. Prior to focusing on poetry, he wrote Bible study books and church curricula for 20 years. He is a native of Vandalia, Illinois, and lives in Westerville, Ohio. “Where Wisdom Calls,” which is a section of a longer work, was first published in Walking Lorton Bluff (Finishing Line Press, 2020). The poem was featured in the film Poetry in Motion: St. Louis Poets Take the Mic at the 22nd Annual Whitaker St. Louis Filmmakers Showcase in July 2022.
October 22, 2024
What They Did
By John Burroughs
was elect a Dump
a D period apostrophe ump
counting dollars and nonsense
McPounds and Pence
wipe reason from the counter
order disorder with
a side of squalor
and scatter sense
What they did was
undo the fabric
of e pluribus unum
attempt to divide us
to undo civil discourse
with undue faux news
make America grave again
especially in Puerto Rico
and the homes of dreamers
in the minds of our allies
and the realm of morality
What they did was foster brutality
attempting to make America
gray white and male again
get us talking about Them again
even Van Morrison
What they did was chirp
G L O R I A to America
while forgetting that
Mexico is part of America
forgetting “One nation
under God” means united nation
not only nation or number one nation
because if an omnipresent God did exist
he or she would have to be
big enough to cover every nation
What they did was keep
churches tax exempt
though their Bible plainly states
that the church is not a building
or organization but the people
and yet they still tax the people
but not always corporations
though they claim corporations
are people too
What they did was spit
in the name of God
on the words of their Jesus
who they conveniently forgot
was a man of color, a man
of Middle Eastern descent
and when they heard his words
“Love your neighbor as yourself”
they spit on them too
When they heard his words
“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s
and to God what is God’s”
they spit on them as well
and took everything
for themselves
When they heard his words
“Let the children come to me
for theirs is the Kingdom of God”
they spit on them also
and detained the children
and deported the children
and sometimes even lost the children
while insisting that “Jesus saves”
What they did was hear the words
of the man they claimed to follow
and find them hollow
exclaiming “Hell no
we want a white Jesus
made in our image
one who is not a socialist”
and thereby caged
their thorn-torn Christ as well
John Burroughs of Cleveland was the 2022–2023 U.S. Beat Poet Laureate. He is the author of The Wrest of the Worthwhile (2023, Far Queue Press), Rattle & Numb: Selected & New Poems, 1992–2019 (2019, Venetian Spider Press), and almost twenty poetry chapbooks. “What They Did” is from his book The Wrest of the Worthwhile. Since 2008, John has served as the founding editor and publisher for Crisis Chronicles Press. For more information, visit https://linktr.ee/johnburroughs.
October 3, 2024
I, Solomon, @the Intersection
By Gary Huskisson
25th MAY 2020, outside the Cup Foods store at the intersection of East 38th Street and Chicago Avenue
20.00 hrs
In the night, 20.00 hrs, while the master sleeps
is the best time to run.
That’s what old Harriet said
when they was left for dead.
With a knee in my neck,
I, G Floyd, must run.
RUN!
The black race is on.
Don’t look back and run.
RUN
before daybreak,
before The GOON SQUAD’S breakfast.
As Nina said, “Mississippi Goddam!”
I, Solomon Northup,
get at least 35 miles away before they smell the quaking bait.
8 mins 46 seconds to run.
After that, I, Freddie Gray, stops breathing
and I, Freddie Gray, keeps swinging.
Just water left out on a plate.
Master gonna be running the proud boys’ slave churches,
drinking blood red wine out of the chalices,
saturating his brain with juices,
resting his arm from giving lashes
while he be guttering.
I, Michael Brown,
have got to keep running.
HANDS UP! DONT SHOOT!
Even when sleeping, I’ve got to keep running.
Whether or not I can keep on breathing,
whether or not Chauvin keeps on kneeling,
I, Solomon, got to keep on running.
Master’s head will be grumbling and growling loud—
very loud—
counting his stones and the good name he is losing.
I, Rodney King, legs are aching,
lungs fit for bursting,
as if the LAPD masters wants to stop me from breathing.
I, the Dramatics of Detroit ’67, become afraid of reaching the river.
Like Peter, I, George, saw the wind and felt the waves roar.
I, Four Little Girls in Birmingham 1964, faith is poor not just in The Almighty but also in the LAPD.
For 4 hundred years…
yet I still shout out to the Lord.
I have to believe he is also a negro father
feet bleeding from master’s thorns, cactus stabbing,
heartbeat accelerating, St. Louis rioting.
Let me breathe.
Let me have a belief.
Mississippi Goddam!
I, George Floyd, fall
on the rugged floor.
When I look up, I, Solomon,
is soaked by Mongrels with LAPD badges’ saliva.
Yelping.
Yapping.
Telling their drunken master they have got I, Floyd.
The dog who owned the dogs was laughing,
triumphantly slapping their face,
cracking his whip.
Sadly beaten,
I, G Floyd, want to be taken back to the plantation,
AWAY from this intersection,
while the slaves are cotton pickin’,
where I
where I
I, An Other, is
hung out in the hot sun as an exhibit number one at the crematorium
to warn others to always be obedient.
More cowskins whipping
when the workday finish,
more rookies pistol whipping
until I, G Floyd, is a—Hush!—a dead flower.
A Hush can’t run.
But as a P.O.W., “Prisoner of War,” it is my duty to continually seek
freedom
for I, Solomon.
Every day is another milestone
at the USA plantation,
United Slaves of America.
Each day I have to say my prayers and run.
Run fast!
Every day, I go on the “B” of the “Bang!”
As Langston said, I don’t want my freedom when I AM dead.
I, G Floyd, runs.
I, Solomon, is dead.
I, G Floyd, was born stillborn,
MIA, missing in action.
Black box stolen,
replaced with a colonizer’s accent.
I am a slave.
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
live, and take comfort.
Thou hast left behind powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies (William Wordsworth)
I was born a slave.
I breathe the air of a slave.
I will die as a slave.
I am a slave.
Hands no longer cuffed,
keys put away for a rainy day,
no legs shackled together,
face still, face l down.
I still can’t run away
as Chauvin’s knee stays.
I, G Floyd
I, G Floyd
I, G Floyd, can only hold this breath—
not that breath—
this one, for 8.46 seconds.
8.46 seconds of growling.
Growl—the howling,
a lone wolf howls like the last police siren,
at the moon—the Bat Signal.
The howling…
the Dogs serenely curtsy to their icons,
their majestic peers,
the Right Honourable Noble Wolves.
They Tango with wolves.
Rise and fall.
Rise and fall.
A milonga,
a tango party, with barking gauchos and wolves
to get this party started white!!!!
A tango—
a walk and a count to eight:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5678.
The Barking Bitches adhere
to the wolves’ chests howling.
Allured.
Wolves releases the leashes. Those Southern Wolves howl
and snarl at the strange fruit about to be swinging.
Don’t be fooled by Northern Foxes smiling. They are dangerous and cunning.
My master is called Franklin, and I ain’t got no Benjamins
They shot Lincoln.
They shot Lincoln in the box!!
They call this The Great Migration.
I call it breathing.
The massa release the lashes,
White rage…civil violation.
White wolves may be friends to the African American but it is they who have the starter’s gun.
Floyd, Brown, Gray, King…
“On your marks!! Get Set!!!!!!
GO ON THE B OF THE BANG!!!!!!”
GO! Straight out of the blocks.
Power.
Drive.
Power.
Drive.
1st stride.
Power.
Drive.
Stride.
Power.
Drive.
Run, run.
10 metres.
20 metres.
Stay streamlined.
Power. Drive. Stride.
Streamlined.
Movement horizontal.
Focus—straight line.
Power, drive, stride.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
Run!
The black crows migrate South forever,
leaving the Strange Fruit in the North to linger
not plucked, abused, and undernourished.
Left to swing through the blues for all to see.
LEFT TO RIGHT, RIGHT TO LEFT.
Run, run, run.
No more than 8.46 secs.
Run faster. CAN YOU HEAR?
Run, assailant, run!
30, 40, 50 metres.
My body rises
towards the high noon sun.
Run.
60 metres.
I am running as fast as I can,
as fast as I can.
Arms pumping.
Arms pumping fast.
Pumping.
Pumping.
Got to be first past the post.
I can’t be last.
Arms, arms,
pelvis neutral,
head looking up towards emancipation,
posture tall,
foot strike to be underneath the centre—movement horizontal.
Run, George, run!
Woof, woof, woof!
Snapping at my ankles.
Keep your form. Focus.
Head forward.
Stop squinting at the sun.
Run!
My Black back doesn’t matter.
At 80 metres,
GROOOOWL!
I can hear the night demons awakening,
egging on the pack,
to lick the skin of my Black back.
GROWL! GROWL!
Wooooo wooooooffff!
Rruff!
Southern Shields are blinding.
Fox News flashing
sparkling saber teeth.
Bad or not good, they smell my blood.
They smell the blood of another Black life that does not matter.
Run. Run.
They smell fear
seeping out of my derrière.
Head rolling side to side.
Breathing turns to anxious panting.
Huuuuuuuh uuuuuu…
I need my puffer.
Anxiety consuming,
heart rate increasing,
leg speed slowing,
the Goon Squad are catching,
growling turn to barking transforms to salivating.
The closer I get to the finishing line,
the more those Badge-wearing Dogs insidiously lick their lips at my behind.
Implanting narcotics to feed their psychotics.
We salute the flies about to die.
Skimming and sliding out of my behind!!!!
Run. Run, George. Run, Rodney. Run, Michael Brown. Run, Four Little Girls.
Run to the line.
Torso lean, chest forward.
Crossing the white line,
running through,
running past the demarcation line.
I, as a man of color, keeps on running to the next white line
then onto the next line and so on.
As the Grandmaster Flash stated, “My white lines go a long way on White line Highway.”
I, G Floyd, nose still bleeding, words still slurring, still not breathing.
I, Derek Chauvin and hungry dogs, are still kneeling.
Gary Huskisson is a storyteller, poet, activist, published author, and Pic n Mix event organizer from Peterborough in the United Kingdom. Gary likes specializing in jazz poetry, which fuses his love for jazz and poetry, as well as organizing Pic n Mix events. He and his sons created SAY IT LOUDER, an art and activism project with the purpose of initiating everlasting change in relation to systemic racism. The premise for Gary’s writing and performance is to evoke emotion with a joyful irony, and he wants his work to be shared by everyone! Gary views stories and poetry as everlasting gifts for the heart and soul.
Editors’ Note: Gary Huskisson performed a version of “I, Solomon, @the Intersection” during the virtual poetry event In This Together 2024. See the event recording on the Poets Against Racism & Hate USA YouTube channel here.