Over, Under And Out 3s6b6f

OVER, UNDER AND OUT

Alonzo Stevens

AuthorHouse™ 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.authorhouse.com Phone: 1 (800) 839-8640

© 2016 Alonzo Stevens. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/05/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4297-6 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5246-4296-9 (e)

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Contents

Preface

Acknowledgement

Whistle Stop

Whistle Stop

First Light

Old Blues/New Forms

Benny’s Theme

Carousel

Double Edge

Old Flame

Ode to Swallows

Mendacious

The Big Dance

Carte Blanche

September

Day’s End

Fishing Trip

Faye

Moments with You

Yesterday

Webster’s Galley

Medicine Balls

Scenic View

Crossroads

I’d like to see

Jazz Interllude

One Bass Hit

Perpetuation

Caged

Explorations

Collaboration

Elocutions

Doodling

Inner-Soul

Concert

Warnersville Suite

Bulldozing

Nostalgia

Old Town

Bloodline

Tapestry

Home Brew

Evening Tide

Homespun

Reflections

Bittersweet

On Being One

Wolf Tickets

The Education of Rat

Native Dancer

Vagabond

Sun to Sun

Civility is that intangible which carries us over obstacles, tempers us under pressure and takes us out of harm’s way.

Preface

OVER, UNDER AND OUT is a collection of poems that speaks to the idea of what we should do at the close of each day. It reminds us that we should reflect and review what has transpired in our lives to bring us to where we are, in essence, we should look back to see ahead.

Acknowledgement

Reaching selected plateaus, generally, is not a solitary trip. It takes the finances of many to pave the way, some visible – others invisible. They grow on you like interest on loans and stay for the long haul. With that being said, I must express my appreciation for those who help finance this trip. In no special order, I’ll start with of the writing classes at The Shepherd’s Center of Columbia(SC) and Prime Time at Palmetto Baptist. Although all chipped in, several made a greater impact. They include Francie Markham, Carol McAlpin, and Dottie Boatwright. Then come the never ending voices of college professors: Robinson, Marrow, Bright, Eller, and Porter. In addition to these, recognition also goes to the people and community of Warnersville in Greensboro, NC.

Whistle Stop

when you can only see my baggage, I become a non-entity.

Whistle Stop

At strategic points, we need to take a coffee break, Stop where we’re going—relax a moment Then determine which way we are going – A look back to look ahead. Calculated stops reveal new avenues, Igniting fresh insight, Clears out tunnel vision clouding our minds, And relieves pressures pestering us Like gnats in mid-July. The unknown is really not unknown. Closed doors open opportunities, But quick glances present fuzzy images – Glaucomatous versions of reality.

First Light

The first day of a new year, spiked with procrastination, Brings a litany of presence from past, present and future endeavors. Excluding job related activities, it includes sweet sounding lies Squeezed inside of twelve intriguing hours. Starting slow, the movement seldom changes speed, Preferring to lounge away time leisurely, Waiting on the big game. Holidays are playgrounds for lazy living. Morning eases along casually. Following meditation, a parental throwback even retirement can’t change, Bran flakes mixed with peaches and milk disappear with the speed of the Rose Parade. Midday silently slipping in without warning Allows space for resolution, A timely collection of false illusion which seldom pan out, Yet seemed as real as exploding firecrackers. “This year, I’m gonna’…” the rallying cry Dies for the lack of a second.

The old, embellished couch, like cotton candy, invites attention As sleep tries to worm its way into the act After a rendezvous with brunch. A quick shot of Thelonious Monk stops sleep in its tracks, Setting the stage for liquid refreshments. Eventually, evening bangs in with a conglomeration of noises Rattling pots and pans ing the cheers Produce lascivious smells – Pot roast, mashed potatoes, chopped spinach mingled with sliced tomatoes, iced tea and marble cake – Reviving the dying day.

Old Blues/New Forms

Echoes keep coming Bleating voices, throbbing hearts, pounding feet Repeat the same cry, same rhythm – over and over. The past has not ed … totally. Its spirit thrives like a hurricane in hot water. We are not far removed from “Lee Daniels’ Butler,” Yesterday’s morals spring into action, unexpectedly, like goblins on Halloween. In spite of cosmetic surgery, tomorrow’s promise has not arrived, Think Rodney King, Henry Louis Gates, Trayvon Benjamin Martin, Same action, same result – same reason. The spell remains unbroken. Changing complexion in strategic places does not alter culture. The dogs and hoses are gone, but brown is still brown. And the chains remain. Attitudes are steeped in tradition. Enhanced in that curious institution, division ran amuck, North versus south, house servant versus field hand, Light-skin versus dark-skin, white versus black.

Remnants ed down through generations, Stinging like cancer, Peaceful when in remission, destructive when aroused.

Hope brings new light, new resolutions. I rise with the elevating sun, My thoughts above the clouds. For a moment, all is calm, But the echoes keep coming. Politician fight among themselves in the name of salvation While people’s lives hang in the balance. I realize, then, all hopes are not noble.

People are created equal; they are not born equal, This opens the door for the “good old boy” system By introducing an uneven playing field. Eventually, the system will conform to the nation’s creed And embrace those self-evident truths, Leveling the playing field while exploding ill-needed myths. Hope, like desire, a life-altering drug stronger than nicotine, Can outlive every storm.

But the echoes keep coming.

Benny’s Theme

Dawn speaks eloquently. Work all done, Ms. Ben’s at rest, Lying there, eyes closed as if in slumber, Looking like “Big Ben,” the man she was named for. When she was active, The town knew it – A light illuminating the community. Not relegated to just changing diapers, She was sister to the bees. Her fingers strayed into many overlooked places, Schools, churches, homes, In her kids’ hair More ways than one. Her strength was her will, Propelling her through projects with the cunningness of Red Tails, Providing escort service for sitting duck battleships Extrapolated from a playful childhood,

She became a classic missionary Developing disciplined families, She was a mother before she was a mother -After retiring as a mother.

Midday wind whistles a wistful melody. Before breakfast, “Little Ben” stares in the mirror Combing his hair, smiling. He’s a “Daddy’s boy” Not a “Mommy’s” one. No aprons – no head rags, Nothing defaces his exterior, its appeal to the eye. He cut his teeth on raw veggies and well done pig ears, Tones his muscles with thirty minute drills Pounding a hundred pound punching bag With the spirit of “Big Ben”, a real Jack Johnson. Strong, independent, enterprising, He’d take an ax to a tree before picking up dried limbs for fuel. When dawn smiles at him, he smiles back Runs his mile, then sits down to a manly breakfast, Three scrambled eggs, three pancakes, smothered in syrup,

Coffee with three sugars, no cream, and three slices of buttered toast. Satisfied, he checks the mirror before bolting out the door. Following his daddy’s habits, he arrives at work ahead of time, His empty bin waiting on the mail. Flipping letters into pigeon holes is like shooting jumpers On the playground. Seldom does he put an address in the wrong slot, Taking the best clerk’s trophy three years in a row. Work all done, he heads home – Wife and dog meet him at the door. Content with the day, he looks to tomorrow, “Big Ben” clearly in his vision.

Dusk sings a different tune. B J’s world is his own, nobody else’s. No one can invade or control it. They enter only at his request, Take a seat and leave when told. He’s cold that way about everything, A self-made man – real to the bone, The way he likes his “likker”

Straight from the still. Unlike “Big Ben”, an ex-slave, Hard work doesn’t whet his appetite. Easy living is his forte. Alumni from another world, night lights bring life to him, Beer, booze, and bacony women highlight his menu, Scantily-clad with blood-colored lips, fashionable hips, Ingredients for the main course. During darkness, they marry – Dawn, however, destroys the union. Bright lights bring abscission. He assumes his status-quo. Corner-Pocket, his street name, reveals his hustle, A badge of honor in the poolroom, Heralding his fame as a player. Bob’s Poolroom, his crib – twelve/six. Rarely does “Big Ben” cross his mind.

Carousel

Relaxing, I sit on the porch after dark Watching stars pop out Twinkling – light, then bright Illuminating the sky, one by one, Mediating with a higher power. Arbitrating time, Creates space for random thoughts. I think of tomorrow, today disappeared with the sun And yesterday is like Willie Mays’ fifth homer. Moving at will during the day I hit keys, push levers – Occasionally, viewing the scenery after six, Theaters, clubs, churches. But finds comfort in the den With the kids, Television roaring in one room, Music from CDs bouncing off the walls in another.

Peace, at last.

Double Edge

I

Each time the ball is over She returns, Glowing from within, Like bubbles in a glass of champagne. Little ones snug in her arms, Eyes close – turned-up lips – oblivion. She will have it no other way. Her sun rises and sets with them, Day after day – year after year. Time is not a factor.

A reigning queen, she’s a smiling servant, They rule. She belongs to them From the cradle to the grave. They cry – she comes,

With the force of a tsunami, Clearing a path. Her life changes – the smile dies, Loving hands take control, Manipulating. When they giggle at her touch, The smile returns.

If they get too quiet, She worries – The smile turns upside down. Investigating the noiseless room, She hears their subdued voices Sees them calmly playing with their toys. Her face lights up, Wrinkles disappear -- she backs out the door.

After they leave, Worries remain, Still concerned. she relies on prayer. Has she provided the right tools?

Is there anything she forgot to say? She doesn’t know – But she believes in them. When the first letter arrives, she knows. She bows her head, whispering, “Thank you, Lord.” If they’re at peace, she’s at peace.

II

He, too, is there, The staple of the family, From inauguration to cessation, Quietly going about his business Maintaining stability Mostly from outside. That the light seldom shines on him Is not a problem. His presence is clearer than the North Star. An ordinary man to his peers – To his kids – Emperor Jones. His pudgy body -- protruding stomach, Disdained by many –

A second Paul Robeson in their eyes. Educated knees bounce them like horses, Galloping gently over rocky terrain. Strong hands holding them firmly in the saddle, Invoke genuine laughter. The way he tells stories captures their attention They go crazy over Brer Rabbit Feel sorry for Farmer Brown

Serenely quiet, he never says much, Shies away from public consumption, Like he’s out of place He could be. To them, there’s no other man like him.

He treasures the kids. Besides playing catch, Throwing a football or baseball, He takes them to the barber shop – On Sundays to church, Encourages them to the Junior Usher Board –

Cognizant of their souls, as well as their bodies.

At day’s end, his weary bones finding solace In the quietness of the room, Plops down gingerly, In the easy chair As long as his eyes hold out, he reads. Once they tire, he moves toward the bedroom. Tomorrow is another first day.

Old Flame

For this old couple, Retirement sparks new fire, Personifying old traits. Elders still parenting – Shoulder solace from different positions. Ben in her soft chair Hems Ozella’s dress, Humming – listening – watching. Robin, at the piano, is cognizant Of observing eyes and open ear Her little fingers run up and down the keys Like squirrels scampering up a tree. Sharon, stretched out on the carpet, Pushes the crayon over colorless animals. She smiles at her purple cow But frowns at the orange chicken. Charlie’s in his recliner, Relaxing.

Gray head tilted to one side Looks blindly at the flat screen. Old Flames, like banked fires, seldom go out.

Ode to Swallows

Flocks of people, like swallows, Return home – chasing yesterday. Though gone, it’s not forgotten. Young, old -- male, female, melt into one Raising songs of praise For the school they hold dear – Saluting the Herald class On its fiftieth anniversary. Their voices strong and pure Rattle the banquet hall.

Despite the pestilence that plagued their day “Foundation built”, they strove ahead, Bitter with a taste of Mother’s wit. Returning yearly to eat, drink, and rejoice From banquet hall to hospitality suite To hallow grounds. Separately yet tly,

They nestle In air-cooled rooms filled with exhilarated noises Chunks of sounds in a fierce tug of war Vie for attention,

Wearing lightweight slacks, polo shirts and soft shoes Snow-bearded men Waddle gingerly on freshly minted knees Exchanging hugs with friends, shaking hands with others, Share space with men bearing clean-shaven head, While partially gray-haired ladies, stylishly dressed, Fit fluently with straight-haired miniskirters, Like eyes in black-eyed peas.

Unscripted remarks roam round the room like model airplanes They pick favorite teachers like selecting designer jeans, Endlessly debating their laurels. As knowing tables, dressed in white, with rainbow colored foods Arrest their attention. Standing solemnly in strategic spots, They tease the senses with savory scents,

Drawing bodies like fly paper does a fly.

Steamy July heat enhances, rather than disturbs, the atmosphere. Sweat becomes a positive commodity. Inquisitively, they amble over the shadows of trees Going from tent to tent – table to table, Sampling friendships, Reliving the past. Housing twisted feelings, The pleasantries of the present, Coned with the pains of separation Adds a tinge of sadness Which runs onto the plate like cold molasses. Some energetic revelers refusing to be outdone Challenge the sun – dancing with abandon From the Cupid Shuffle to the Electric Slide. As music, moving through the air with gusto, Mimics butter on freshly baked bread, Momentarily stops time, Letting Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love” Invoke a lust for reality—

And thoughts of what have ed.

Mendacious

Anticipating certain visitors can be mind-draining Placing clear thinking on hold. Reasons flutter around like butterflies. And deep thoughts vanish quicker than roadrunners, Replaced by exorbitant, elaborate lies. Normal good samaritans turn into overzealous zygotes, Changing what is to what is not. Perfumed air sweeps swiftly through sordid rooms, Disturbing stale scents sleeping under carpets. While often ignored counters get a brief brush-off, Resurrected china pulled from its cabinet grave Glows like freshly minted coins. Seldom used, but brightly colored tablecloth Gives the eye-catching appeal of holiday festivities Completing the molding for a never-before-seen façade.

The Big Dance

Mild mystical music pipes in with late August breeze, Which swirls around the room sluggishly, Cooling the bodies Not the adrenalin of the betting crowd Debating how the game will go down. “They’ll be in a zone.” “No- no, definitely man to man.” “It’ll be an orange blitz or a blue death.” All have opinions, Bantering like bookies during March Madness

Dimming lights introduce excitement, And the noise level rises. Oohs greet the entrance of the teams. A diminutively small color bearer paints a path With nature’s finest pastels Sashaying from side to side Ahead of the manly strolling trophy bearer.

Gasping fans welcome the swinging players Half-stepping through the flowery lane. A group of “I told you so’s.” Accompany the slow moving troubadours Prancing in their blue and white attire.

A change in music invigorates the spectator Increasing the excitement. Applauses bounce off the ceiling As captain and coach make their appearance. Huddling the captains at center court, the referee Recites the rules of the game. Ears stretch over fading music to capture every word. Accepting the charges, each captain exchange personal pledges Before facing the cheering crowd. Over a subdued body, the referee makes a final decree, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Carte Blanche

In her part-time world, She challenged the hurdles, Looking for a brighter day. A consuming tiger Fueled by a need to overcome, Running became her means of escape From an Iowa church basement to a Louisiana school dormitory, Reaping jeers and cheers along the way To Eugene – to Beijing.¹

Efforts notwithstanding, the cheering subsided With the fall. Her hurdle was her hurdle – Nine rows in. A kind of a cross hanging from her neck. In spite of training -- straining – paining, It became a trademark, Attached to her like fleas on a dog’s back,

Switching oohs to boos. After the fall, Her world fell with her tears Three seconds from glory. Dusk came early for Lo Lo in Beijing.

Pride often dies with a fall. She, like the Phoenix, refused to live in pain. Blame closes doors, leaving truth outside – Playing dodge ball with unheralded remark; She moves on courage Broken-hearted but unyielding, Carrying her cross and her torch to London.² Redemption at hand, Fate takes a detour. Night came before dusk.

September

Crown covering disappearing, Like leaves lyrically flittering from trees, Under the cloak of darkness, Switching colors as composers create melodies. Pianistic progressions reverberate through the bells Of well-worn diaphragms. Limber limbs lumber with guarded precision To chosen sites, Driven by staccato visions With a Miles Davis swing Dull by blurred lines.

Day’s End

The coal stove, cold and lonely, sits quietly in the corner, A subtle warmth, tinged with bitterness, emanates from it. Its cask iron armor, ashy from numerous skirmishes Is in full retirement like the hands that fed it, Encouraged it to be a buffer in the cold war, Fighting cold with coals. Glowing red, its pot belly numbed the chills That pestered us. Its scarred body and melancholy look disturb me. I feel its pain and wonder “Will my fate be the same?” The grandfather clock in the hall ceremoniously chimes – Tick … tock … Tick … tock… tick …

Fishing Trip

Skittering light from a 9 o’clock sun Shimmies through leaves, Painting little, funny images on the wagon trail Leading to a wooden frame mansion, Tucked away among the tall timber, Sitting calmly on a hill overlooking the Broad River. Inside, a colony of poets cluster around an empty fireplace, Eager to ply their ware. Not unlike babies in a crib, They test their lyrics on open ears. Papers rustle timidly – pens move cautiously. Words roam round the room Into ears, on note pads, and hang in the air Like ceiling fans.

Midday sun arrives at the break with a casual smile, Ruddy water carelessly cruises along the bank As a cool caressing breeze tiptoeing off the river

Energizes the poets on the deck above – They cast their lines, one after the other, In military fashion, As they pull together for the big catch.

Faye

She’s like cosmic dust, Powder light and shifty, Sifting into the mix as easily as flour to cake. Smilingly inquisitive, But cautious in the beginning, She gingerly tests the water with caressing fingers Sending merry little ripples floating freely And listening intensely to the tone of bubbling bubbles. Sensing a developing undercurrent, She springs into action Providing a calming touch. Using kitten’s strokes, She pacifies the water Like a surgeon general prescribing cure-alls, Expecting nothing – accepting even less.

Moments with You

Among the treasures of my heart Are memories we shared since we first met. The burning ion flaming from the start Leaves moments I will never soon forget.

Invading slowly my receptive brain While easily disturbing my proclivity, They quietly with grace enrapt my domain And paint your vision inside me.

The times we spent in Thompson’s and C.P.’s Or slow-walking with glee on Market Street Was like a rocket blasting through the breeze To help a bleating heart become complete.

Moments with you constantly roam Within my soul, making it their home.

Yesterday

Today seems cloudy. Never mind the brightness of the sun, the pain still linger. Even though you left years ago, it churns incessantly – collaborating with pleasure. The fun that came with courting, concerts – movies – parties Saturday’s games and Sunday’s church, squeezed in between school and work, and the silent, sullen, sadness of midnight which left dull hollow spots.

The collective “I do’s” filled those gaps, opening a crazy new world that ignored midnight, and placed us in a special place – forever. With the hope forever never comes.

But it came

with loads of memories of our suffling from place to place. Bus trips to New Orleans with a bunch of “brats”. Weekend jaunts to Atlanta killed a craving that the freezing rains in Amherst never could. These visions flooded my brains as I picture you on that day, (three months after 9/11). a beautiful – sad day in December. R. I. P.

Webster’s Galley

Compact – unappealing Being here erases tension, Clears heads Watching Boss work his magic On raw meat over a greasy grill Opening pores – whetting appetites In the tranquility of frying hamburgers and fresh tomatoes. Cigarette smoke mixed with subtle gossip Manipulates the atmosphere Scenting clothes, scorching ears. Occasionally, whiffs of reefer drift through the open door With the aroma of whiskey from the ading poolroom, Intruding, but not subduing the heavy smells of fried foods Bologna, greasy burgers, and burnt onions Will not be denied. Special friends, home, from distant places Chit chatting, Ignore the intrusion

As if it isn’t there. Limited space makes standing wall to wall The vogue. Regulars bunched like sardine Willingly wait for their tasty treat.

Medicine Balls

Sprung from “outta” space, Reverberating boomerangs Enter the body through open pores at wop speed, Coalescing ill-needed spirits with smiling sunlight Like stimulating fingertips, Massaging every muscle – every bone, First hard, then soft, As though they were skilled technicians. Contagion takes over the body, Giddily lubricating inner linings. The body shakes – the voice elevates, Drowning out despair. Laughter leads to healthy living.

Scenic View

Multiple alabaster chips – ballerinas in motion – Performing a carousel of ballets, Paint the sky the way measles dot the face. They dance with the wind – swirling … twirling, As they pirouette around in space in a downward spiral With the skill of seasoned skydivers Landing noiselessly on the ground – Innocent as a babe in a crib. Beautiful but deadly.

Crossroads

Before the storm, I was one, Moving contentedly in a deceptive world, Searching – finding – eluding pitfalls, But not without stumbling and falling. Now there are two of me United as one, yet containing separate identities Wandering through a long corridor, wondering, Both chasing a ghost, A dazzling ebony figurine Which may be more fantasy than reality. Still avidly, we chase her Down this narrow ageway, A winding, echoing tunnel with no end, Darkened by the absence of light, Yet brightened by our illusions. Each step, it seems, leads us unceremoniously into a wall, Unforeseen and unexpected, Leaving bruising stings

That reminds us of the futility of it all, Warning us to subside – to go back, Creating turmoil within, “Retreat,” says one of me – “Advance,” says the other. But the wall makes turning back as fearsome as going forward, Leaving the two of us at odds and in a living hell. The way of the infidel is lonely and hard.

Infidelity, though, is not born from lust alone Nor like a babe – nurtured and pampered for months Before being welcomed by a superficial society. It comes not like a UFO, Systematically scanning the earth before landing. Neither does it come haphazardly, Bursting upon the scene with reckless abandon While running amuck in a sea of sin. Contrarily, it springs out of a barren wilderness, (Or the thought thereof), Devoid of comion Longing for something that has died or is dying, Like an untended rose plucked from its lair in a moment of ion,

Then ignored.

Born out of loneliness, it is not an escape from reality to fantasy Rather it is a haven for crumbling hearts Trying to fill a void, A cortege to the graying charcoal that ebbs away with the smoke As the meat sits on the table waiting.

Loneliness, with its cruel tormenting powers, enters the body On broken limbs, Slyly sneaking inside With a smile and penetrates deep, Viciously cutting resistance Like a butcher hacking away on a slab of meat, Grinning as the blood gushes with every blow, And with its petrifying effect Drives reason from reason and cause to fear cause As it leads sanity to the brinks.

I’d like to see

Trust me, I really am happy with what I have, But I would like to see the seasons stay in their place, Let spring be spring – winter, winter, Instead of intermingling.

I’d like to see weather become more compatible Give farmers rain when they need it And stop holding them hostage for lengthy periods, And tornados, be reasonable; like clouds, cool the earth, not uproot it.

I’d like to see the American Dream become more than just a dream And people adhere to Rodney King’s plea – “Can’t we just get along.”

I’d like to see equality spread across the playing field Like a mother dispensing food at the dinner table And people stop taking differences as abnormalities.

I’d like to see the doctor who can perform the procedure to cure the need for guns And the person who can siphon greed out of money.

I’d like to see the day when the inequality of our birth Does not affect the equality of our existence And teachers are placed on the same pedestal as coaches, financially.

And finally, way up there, I’d like to see the blue moon turn blue, And the Northern Lights come south.

Jazz Interllude

like a river, Jazz takes us over, under and out, searching for truths.

One Bass Hit

I notice the tall thin man by the bass, Who could be Percy Heath or Paul Chambers Fingering the strings As the team goes through its warm ups. Posturing himself in the semi-crouch of a power hitter, Bow in hand On the first pitch, he leans into action, Striking the first notes, “YES – ter – DAY”, with smooth sturdy strokes, Sending out soft fluttering riffs that holds the crowd as still as statures, Before releasing a thundering applause. By the third chorus, he’s manufacturing melodies paralleling the theme, Squeezing lyrical moans out of each string, Like a pitcher creates strikes. In a calculated move, he turns the corner and heads for home With the subtle nuances of skillful base runners. I close my eyes, open my ears, and wait. The connection comes like coupling train, jarring my senses. I feel his spirit resonating within me -

His world becomes my world. Gliding the bow over the strings, he sends us travelling On a fly ball’s flight.

In between sets, he mingles with the patrons, Going from table to booth, exchanging fist bumps and high fives Until he chances upon her – In a booth, in the back, in a bright orange dress, A duplicate Tamron Hall. That hair-do, man, how does she do it? Each strand has its own place. He smiles at her, she smiles back. At her invitation, he sits, orders a round of drinks, Then makes his move. He knows the game, but I wonder, Will he strike out or start a rally. The answer comes ten minutes later. He departs, carrying a scrap of paper, a smile, And a lot of pride in his stride.

Resuming his position, he looks for the pitch, Steps into it with an easy swing.

Fingering the strings like farmers pick grapes, He talks to the team, Holding a one on one with the guitarist. They indulge in an elaborate call and response, A kind of father-son conversation, That reverberates throughout the crowd, Petrifying some- cheers from others, And an “I like that”, look from the lady in orange. His eyes closed, ears close to the strings, fingers limber, He erupts into rapid fire movements, Like Daddy de-feathers chickens. Sweat pops out on his brow, As he take us over, under and out of this world, Back through yesterday, today into tomorrow.

Perpetuation

(For Clifford Brown³) Brittle, piercing, unrelenting moans Like babies crying from their cribs Captured notes releasing hypnotic tones Burst fleetingly from his intriguing horn Biting, chewing sounds with teeth of dogs Shakes the bones of his mentor’s ribs

Weaving patterns from a dead man’s lip Molding them with deft-like strokes into New and blunter forms from out the tip Of a golden horn was his sole gift Born to die, he came and left (Snatched curiously from the fold) Leaving lasting echoes for the crew

Caged

Bird, On stage – a giant among men, Short, chubby, stomach protruding – Standing flatfooted – feet slightly ajar, Ax in hand, Eyes closed Mind transfixed to another world. After the bridge, his fingers become pilots Navigating brass keys Like monkeys with vines, Rounding out gut-wrenching melodies. Brittle, blaring blues uncovering bitter wounds That cringe and crawl and moan, “Come with me if you want to go to Kansas City.” Blowing life into dying men.

At the bar, just another customer, Sitting on a stool near the restroom,

Alone in a crowded room. Glass in hand, eyes dimly dazed, Watching ice cubes disintegrate Waiting for relief. Ears muted to noises bouncing off the walls Hear a different tune, “Feeling low down and blue.”

On the street, the shadow of a man Weakened by loneliness, vulnerable to exploitation, Victim of society’s pressures, An easy prey on sin-sick streets Drenched in false illusions. At every corner, a jug or a needle Chases away emptiness. Blighted by a bright dead light Resurrection returns hollow space. “Don’t know what to do …”

Thirty-four years took their toll.

Explorations

They came as one. Four men from different locations Bonded, Separate in nomenclature – Equal in desire, Seeking ways to offset the curse of contentment. Independent and dependent, They learned the lesson of maturation in Dizzy’s band. Inundated by the journey from adolescence to adults, They branched out in spite of fears. Running away from big, blaring crescendos To small, savory sounds With the magic that sets art apart.

Change, the meat of life, happens without altering the rhythm Different minds – one mindset, Chained to each other like cream in homogenized milk. Substance from the same clay,

Apart, they are unique in their own skin, Delighted with their special voice. Together, a new creation - another force Employing bluesy, swinging progressions Like pouring water on growing flowers. They distribute lullabies in easy flowing motions, Each nuance subtly swells into the other, Soft soothing modulations move through space With the flair of gentlemen going to the Ball.

Collaboration

Doom, doom, doom, doom, DA-dee-ee, da, da, da, da-dee-ee, da-ah. Sleek, soft, sounds, simmering like a pot of greens At level three, Trane moves patiently Out of Earl Mays’ walking bass. DA-dee-ee, da, da, da, da-dee-ee, da-ah. Flexible fingers skillfully slip up and down brass keys, Forcefully hard – eloquently light, Punching out melancholy melodies That frown – cry – and linger, Embellishing them, coaching them with great dexterity. Following the pulsating beat, Shadow boxing begins Between Earl and Art Taylor. Notes flatten, whirl like whirlwinds kicking up dust over a dry desert, Settling into a slo-walk through space -

Painting a mural for tomorrow.

Elocutions

Plunk – plunk – plunk echoes the keys, Driven by the man in the skull cap Rapidly – slowly, In tune with the rhythm section The bass walks Setting the tempo, While opening the door for the horn, Entering on long hypnotic notes, Then bursting into trebling triads To the piano’s dissonant chords And steals a share of the thunder. Drawing sighs from a devoted crowd. Spurred on by the oohs and aahs, And the pulsating beat of the drums, The horn takes one last riff, Easing Monk into his chance to shine. He complies. Right hand moving jet-like over the black and white keys

With the left hand pounding out consummate harmonies Bring smiles, Bobbing heads and patting feet.

Doodling

Creamy-brown, rich Verdean dust Created a venerable minister with keys for the weary. Resonating righteous riffs in a melancholy melodious voice That feeds on fatback and cabbage – He sprinkles truths through rubbery fingers, Striking at the core of humanity, With taunting progressions, Resounding from well-chosen chords.

Inner-Soul

Seventh and Tee Lounge becomes a séance after hours, On weekends. “Dust thou art to dust returneth Was not spoken of the soul.” There’s a lot of Silver in that age, I notice, As the pianist’s riffs rifle round the room While coffee cups tingle after two Like whiskey glasses before midnight. Looking beyond the bar, I smile at Janet, Moving with the music, “Just like her daddy, mannerisms and all.” Traces of ‘Trane emanating from the soprano sax Catches my attention Before Dizzy’s voice erupts through the mouth of the tilted bell of the trumpet, and the likeness of a Blakey’s bomb exploding in the background creates more allusions.

The calming effect of the ride cymbal Lets Mingus come alive in the chanting of the bassist, First, the fingers – then, the bow. From across the room Janet mouths a voiceless salutation. “The splitting image of “Brother” Charles,” I conclude.

Concert

Unbelievable, I think, watching Hennie Put a leather covered object to his mouth, Just as the horns begin cranking up. They have the same habit as automobiles when they’re cold. The screeching sounds stimulate my spirits, But irritate my ears, Still they seem soothing to some. Hennie puts the object back inside his coat. Camaraderie among the audience escalates with the band As people milling around exchange words, smiles and hugs Before settling down. “Look at that hat, will you?” Says the sleek little lady standing next to me “Unbelievable!” Moments of more educated noises increase the decibel And Hennie, again, reaches inside his coat.

When the little man called Pee-Wee approaches the mike, I spot 3D down front with her crew. I want to move closer to her, but hesitate, Listening to the unneeded gibberish of Pee-Wee. “Now, let’s give a rousing welcome – For Art Blakey and his wonderful All-Stars.” That brings a thundering ovation from the audience. Blakey reciprocates with a series of his patented “bombs” Which garners an even greater response. Bobby Timmons quells the crowd with his six notes Intro’ to “Moaning,” Turning the applauses to oohs.

I catch 3D’s eye just before the lights dim And give her my “love you” look. She blows it off smoother than Lee Morgan opening statement. That bothers me, but it’ll have to wait, Lee is talking. His breezing into the discourse Out of a roaring discussion, Causes my head and feet to vibrate in 4/4th time, up and down,

And the lady to my left to reach into her purse. Lee concludes his speech on a loud high note That brings a monster applause. Benny Golson, then, takes over, almost unnoticed,

With a control outburst of progressions, Stalling the applause in midair. I close my eyes and listen to the mellow moaning sax.

The pulsating pulse of Jymie Merritt’s bass opens my eyes, And I feel reborn. My eyes my ears. Together, we see and hear the plucking, slapping fingers Add color to an ever existing message Revolving around the ions and pains of every day living. I visualize 3D doing her sensual suite in front of the hall mirror, A kind of off-time dance use to ward off anger Lingering from years of abject poverty. Art slips in as Jymie fades out To close the discussion With a cluster of booming “bombs”

Ending gently on the ride cymbal Before blending in with the ensemble Hennie, once more, reaches inside his coat, 3D and her crew are dancing in the aisle. I, automatically, move my feet with the music, thinking, Unbelievable!

Warnersville Suite

though you’ve been changed, you remain in my memories, morning, noon and night.

Bulldozing

A mass exodus explodes. Helpless people running amuck, Crazily, Like a pack of spooked horses From a fast moving hurricane. Hoping – praying -Even fighting. The storm had been released Something had to go Joshua couldn’t fight this battle.

Nostalgia

Occasionally and with reason, I drift back into the old neighborhood, A robust teenager, wandering around In no particular order, Along Ashe Street – Into Doc King’s drugstore Complete with soda fountain and soda jerks. I sit in one of the ivory- colored cushioned booths Lined along the wall And watch energetic teenagers bargain for acceptance The tailor-made Romeos standing in line by the phone booth Waiting to sing their scenarios to any listening ear. I pat my foot to the juke box Providing stimulating sauce for talking turkey, Romancing or simply gossiping.

Behind the pharmacy counter is ageless Doc King Working his magic on someone’s prescription

His head bowed shows grains of grey Among a foliage of black. Glasses resting comfortably at the tip of his nose Accents his curious smile.

Across the street in the big brown house At Ashe and McCullough Streets, I get baptized in adult culture – at age five. Ms. Montrose’s piano echoes strange sounds Some people call high class music. Her brother, Bill, serenades me with silly stories, And brother George gets my attention The way he polishes his blke. But the hard lesson comes when I go walking with Pig. I get a peep at the outside world, Flashy cars zipping through the street, People moving like ants in and out of buildings, Weird-looking men standing behind buildings Drinking something out of a brown paper bag. When Pig sees me looking, she frowns, Squeezes my hand and walks faster.

Old Town

Warnersville was our vineyard – A preamble to our constitution Twirled around us like wrapping paper Inside an oasis of bricks and planks and mortar. A colony of multi-colored people Bonded through the need for love and survival In their “pursuit of happiness.” Born at the end of that curious institution, It survived a collection of turbulences. Here we began to bud Like spring flowers sprouting yearly from fertile soil. Soaking in every raindrop, We thrived with a lust for life. Developing slowly but thoroughly Within the throes of neighborhood schools, Engineered by the likes of Grace Woods and Abraham Peeler, We blossomed into glowing specimen, Highlighting Ashe Street, our “Time Square,”

Similar to orchid pointedly displayed in flower shops. We’d prop up against Doc King’s Drugstore Watching people parade in and out of stores Like ants on a hill. At intervals, we would leave, yet always return. Until the wrecking ball had its say.

Bloodline

Ashe Street was the dictator, Everything revolved around it. Augmented by a seamy side, It culled salivating entertainment for sinners and saints – Lemonade on a smothering, summer day. Running north and south through the heart of Warnersville Without interruption – Chugging along like a lazy freight train, Going nowhere in a hurry. Breathing energy into an unstable economy, Without thinking, it sliced the community in half. Dotting the core were houses, churches, offices, And small buildings with savory names – Doc King’s Drugstore, Headen’s Café, Coble’s Grocery, Moonlight Inn. Bob Stroud’s Poolroom, Church folks called a den of sin. False assumption assured the gamesters, Just another pastime,

A livelihood for some. Playing Nine Ball was a six-day-a-week job With flexible hours and Sundays off. Regular residents rambled daily through the streets Conducting their normal rituals ed by smooth-talking shysters Playing games with everyone – on everyone, In cafes, stores, churches, From Five Points to New Town.

Tapestry

Before Urban Renewal, The street is the picture of an eloquent society, A huge mural of interesting lifestyles. Living in the aura of Shiloh Baptist Church, Little folks become big people in the fabric Stretching boundaries. Deacon Alston, church custodian, Daughter Geneva – missionary in Sierra Leone. Eddie Griffin spells Richard B. Harrison With his booming voice. Across the street, tiny Raymond Hanner’s flashing fingers At age 7, makes Beethoven blush. In the middle of the block, the Hairstons prescribe life, J. T. from the pulpit, Martha at school. Nancy with the choir, Otis in his father’s footsteps, Elmer and Warren G just by being righteous kids, While mischievous brats roam freely Following Floyd Anderson’s devilish pranks

But steering clear of the cop In the house down the street. On the corner, Robert Smith, like his wife Jessie, is soft-spoken Epitomizing self reliance Draws designs for a living, His son Navarro outgrows his britches Selling candy at school – without a license, The girls, Peggy and Gertrude, sweet and shy Challenge the beauty of Dorothy Dandridge in her “hey day.” With a saxophone and a club foot, Herman Carter turns into Louis Jordan On weekends. As the street winds to an abrupt halt, So does the life of the Warren’s only son. Known by the curious name of Hadacol Arthur Warren’s life ended without warning In a senseless collision Similar to the demise of Austin Street.

Home Brew

Growing up here was being in an oven. I began to swell Like a pound cake – Baking slowly Rising at even temperature Cracking when too hot Dropping when shaken Tempered thoughts of Jacksonville – J.C. Price⁴ Controlled the moment.

A kid in search of tomorrow Young, ambitious, mischievous – Reveling in the intrigue of living Basking in the surroundings Watching – listening – growing Taking in everything Pains, ions, in betweens Nothing escapes.

Evening Tide

Inside, Mother’s at the piano playing hymns, Singing softly“Have thine own way, Lord – have thine own way.” Daddy’s in the easy chair Reading the Bible in whispers, Newspaper at his feet. Brother crawls along the floor, nearby, Playing with his shiny green car, murmuring inaudible sounds, Occasionally bumping into a chair. Alfonso’s at the desk in the corner, Sketching. I’m at the table writing quietly. Mickey, the spotted Bull Terrier shakes his body, Then settles down. And the radio hums incessantly.

Homespun

“You want me to tell ya momma?” I freeze. Those words make Ms. Bill the master. We are not related but closely tied. This is Warnersville, A collection of people and buildings In an imperfect town A mold, Like the one that shapes jell-o, Confining us in a small space Before turning us loose. For some, the mold breaks too soon Others, it holds fast, reluctant to let go And for a few, it simply eases the reins, Allowing us breathing room Yet maintaining its grip, Even after we leave. Ingrained on us like a tattoo,

It scars us for life But starts our soul jelling From a sapling to a spreading oak Ingesting everything within sight or sound.

Yet some of what we see is disturbing, Especially on Saturday nights Bricks, like footballs, fly pointedly through the air, Landing violently on closed doors Shattering glass windows Drawing screams that reach for heaven While careless gunfire rings loud and clear Scaring away the quietness. We hide and wait, like rats when the cat’s around, Listening – Wishing we were somewhere else Or invisible like a lizard sneaking through the grass, Somehow during this madness, Sunday slips in. Quietness returns. The natives, now, no longer restless, Prepare for church.

Sunday mornings are ritualistically quiet. In our house, Daddy is the boss. He rises early and starts us getting ready for the day. Mother fixes breakfast, Daddy shines shoes – Poached eggs for the adults; shredded wheat for the kids. Then comes the six block walk to church. It’s a nice leisurely stroll from Haywood Street. We take our time, Kids in front; adults behind. Up McCullough Street – Druid, I wave at Ms. Inez and smile at Mrs. Smalls’ flowers, They brighten up the neighborhood. After ing Bilbro and Johnson Streets, I wonder how Mrs. Brown is doing – If that sour note I hit on her piano still rings in her ears. My knuckles can still feel her ruler.

Reaching Ashe Street, we turn left Onto the “Block”, a shelter for the downtrodden and gutless. ing Doc King’s Drugstore,

Daddy’s face glows as people speak to him. To them, he’s Mr. Stevens. I wonder sometimes if being Mr. Stevens is different from being Daddy. He gives them a glowing smile but keeps walking the poolroom – Russell Street; At Georgia Boy’s, I want to stop and get some gum. Daddy won’t let me. I shouldn’t chew gum in church, he reminds me. I frown but say nothing. We reach Ashe and Austin Street And – Shiloh Baptist Church.

Entering church, we divide into separate groups for Sunday School; Mother and Daddy to the adult class, Brother to the kiddies’, Alfonso and me to Rev. J.T. Hairston’s. Rev. Hairston, short in size, is huge in religion Quite a card for a pastor. Next to Daddy, he’s the best man living. He’s a once-in-a –lifetime preacher Who can chastise you without you even knowing it.

He’d bet you couldn’t go an hour without chewing gum And you’d do it just to prove him wrong Of course, he’d be sitting in a corner smiling.

As time shifts, We, like the oak, spread our limbs Stretching the mold to its limits. But even though we grow branches of our own, We remain attached to our roots.

Reflections

Her words – Swiss movement Precise … concise “You think a buzzard hatched you” She’d say – bitterly When I didn’t write or call, Then report me to the military watchdog.

I knew it was wrong My attitude had gone south. I couldn’t tell her Everything she taught me I forgot, For a moment, Patrolling the line between and Czechoslovakia In a machine-gun jeep, Watching a machine gun staring at me – During a silent snow stormTrembling more from fright than the cold. Her words floated somewhere in space,

Waiting for a nesting place.

“Laziness’ll kill you,”. She’d say – gingerly As I looked, in vain, for shortcuts, Leaving greasy spots on glasses, crumbs on the floor, Rushing to play with the boys.

If I pouted at her polite requests Moved too slowly getting started She’d say – angrily “You’re going to do this or beat me one.” I’d say nothing, just pick up speed making my bed, Baseball would have to wait.

In bright light, she’d be at the machine, sewing, I’d sit and watch my brown suit taking shape. In dim light, she’d use my eyes Loading the bobbin and threading the needle.

“Ah, the devil,”

She’d say – disgustedly At each mistake she made Or something went wrong, Frown and begin again.

“You think you’re grown, now,” She’d say – inquisitively Every time I stayed out late, Got caught smoking. I’d hang my head, and drag my feet On the way to my room.

After carefully studying my report card, She’d say – tenderly “Don’t ever settle for second best.” I’d nod my head and start doing my homework.

When I received the Star Award for Journalism At the ’s Banquet, Her smile said – eloquently “That’s my son up there.”

Bittersweet

Not quite 17, I tasted the flavor of love, Unexpectedly. Entering by way of an open wound, It diffused throughout my body Differing from my childhood dreams, What I saw in movies, Read in books, Even what I heard eavesdropping. No intoxicating beauty at the end of the rainbow No lady-in-waiting, Love came tumbling out of a faded green bungalow On Gibson Street, Splenda sweet and mango-strong With the lasting power of dark chocolate, Leaving a serious aftertaste.

On Being One

Not a strange breed – The kind to run from Neither like Eagle Scouts Cut from the finest linen Rare as diamonds in a tobacco field, They move about the neighborhood like guardian angels Embellishing security. A mysterious band of urchins popping up as rainbow After a summer shower, Dubbed the “Ole Dublers”. Led by one, They exist as one With the brotherhood of a fraternity without initiation, Refusing to chastise a brother Yet silently sneaking in a trick or two Which never works. Their union has a community flavor Growing up within blocks of each other –

Being one – a birthright, not a given right.

Daylight finds them delightfully proud Randomly rambling around the community in a caring mood Performing Robin Hood chores, Carrying food to the elderly Or just hanging out Housing baby’s characteristics – lovable, precious Into everything, Especially after sunset.

Under night skies They light up Ashe Street Huddling in front of Dr. King’s Drugstore Lining up the night’s activities, Devilment to the old folks Fun time to the girls. It makes them popular. Arm in arm with their “main squeeze” for the moment They disappear Into the subtle darkness of their special place,

A cave hidden from spying eyes. The absence of light – though eerie Makes feeling better than seeing.

Thoroughly satisfied with their success Like a member of a relay team Ahead At the end of the bell lap They reconnect on the block Comparing notes – politicking, Vying to be number one In a field of one.

Wolf Tickets

Holidays promise rest and relaxation, A day of fun for the kids. Firecrackers, with their colorful explosions Can claim partial credit for this illusion. Their boisterous, boomerang sounds Are music to young ears. But they made my friend change his name – From June bug to Nub.

The Education of Rat

On this September night The moon gave off a cloudy light With silence lurking everywhere Mischief abounded in the dusky evening air. Inside the lightless school, they moved Cautiously Down the twisting corridor Searching blindly for the way out Hands leading the way Whisked the blackened air, Nothing in front – Wall to the right -— left, a mystery. Street urchins were they Miscreants, it’s safe to say In a place they should not be. A ghostly sound echoed through hollow space What was ten – narrowed to three Moving slowly

Hands spritely slicing air. The sound came again, louder than before Breathing stopped – pulses quickened Time paused Flaying hands struck a wall Dead end. A blood-curling scream rattled the walls. Three became one As the slow walk became a rapid run. Outside in the cool September breeze Rat ed the others -Minus his two front teeth.

Native Dancer

Light as a hoppergrass, Willie Joe was real cool, The high school girls thought. He ruled the floor at every Saturday night dance, His sneaky smile accenting his sultry style. A transplant from the other Carolina, He could cut a mean rug, Flinging his partner in a swirling twirl Easy as spinning a top. Some girls liked it that way, Their skirts ballooning away from their bodies. They giggled, the boys watched Willie just grinned devilishly.

Long and slim, Willie Joe had the shape of a ballet dancer, Wearing clothes molded to his contour like labels on tin cans. His peg leg pants highlighted his feet Like a teacher with a pointer at a chalkboard. His feet were his crown.

They were to him what a brush is to a painter, Controlling the movement of his hips In a swinging sleek motion That would make Bojangles smile.

On “Slow Drags,” Willie Joe could move his body Without moving his feet, Grinding his hips to the rhythm of the music On signals from his toes. Some people couldn’t stand that, But Willie Joe would show his pearly whites And keep on dancing. When the girls let him, he’d get “down and dirty,” Clinging to his partner like molasses to bread As the crowd formed a circle around them, Edging them on. My little red top, keep on spinning.

Vagabond

Jeremiah made their world a carousel, But he didn’t mean to. A self-styled vagabond – not by choice, Necessity pushed his buttons. Raising three modestly sized bread-eaters on minimum wages Epitomized living in a war zone. They moved often, At least nine locations before the battle was won – Chased by rent, lead-coated plaster, and a natural disaster.

The tornado set the tone Leveling the house in Five Points, Man did the rest. Each time, Jerry would cringe, hold his breath with his eyes close, Then exhale and keep on working From seven am to six pm Before he could reach for his bedroom slippers.

He took the plunge six days a week But never on Sunday. That was the Lord’s Day. For the bread-eaters, it was a holiday. They had their dad for the whole day. From the doorway, they’d look at him Sleeping in the easy chair and feel warm inside. He didn’t have to do anything – just be there.

Sun to Sun

During the storm, Unfettered minds dealt with adversity, Waving off pains while working tirelessly Repairing potholes and other bodily injuries, Creating new images out of fertilized dust With the skills of farmers planting corn. A new garden emerges.

Some residents left, but did not leave – Their faith remained. Sundays find them in their favorite churches, Singing their usual hymns and chatting with neighbors. Most remained, holding firm to the tradition of their ancestors, ing the legacy on from sun to sun Like pollen traveling with the wind.

End Notes

1 Eugene, Oregon, site of the United States Olympics Trials. Beijing, China, site of the 2008 Olympics. 2 London, England, the site of the 2012 Olympics. 3 Clifford Brown, a trumpet player with Brown and Roach, Inc who was influenced by trumpeter Fats Navarro, was involved in several automobile accidents and died as results of the last one, June 26, 1956 on the Pennsylvania Turnpike along with pianist Richie Powell and his wife, enroute to a performance in Chicago. Brown was 25. 4 These are Primary and Elementary Schools in the community.