Poems inspired by an upcoming collection of poetry, short stories, prose and more.
Absentmindedly, I clenched thoughts of you in my fist– forgetting the point until I bled.
I hid the wounds, but not well. They were palm-sized riverbeds, overflowing.
I did not intend to bathe you in blood. Nor did you mean to break the skin between us.
~Rahk.
If we discarded egos
as quickly as we discard people
We might be able to build that tower to God
Inaugurate this address
This petition of just cause
This foremost amendment
that predates the deadbeat dads
who hated us as much
as they lusted after our
mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s curves
Still, we rise above poverty lines
police stations and prison cells
and projects and culdesacs
and estates and dorms
and factories and sawmills
and diners and churches
We faithfully await more than a night
of living slaves, leaving severed hands
in their shackles.
You will know that a reckoning is afoot.
And there will be no hooves pounding
Wall Street warning of invasion
We are already here
We Malcolms and Kendricks
We Jasons and Patrisses
and Alicias and Opals
We Derays and Olivias and
Kamalas and Sandras and Shondas
and Baracks and W.E.B.s
We will never be moved
and our discarded egos
will staircase our tower to God.
Not our brown bullet-laden bodies
Not our blood striping the American flag
We are children of Babel.
We will no longer let deceitful tongues divide us,
Rather we unite with forehead kisses
Kisses lacking the viscous spit of betrayal
We will be redeemed as we weep in the clay
that formed us, we will construct visions
rather than undervalued dreams
Our name is America for we have been,
and will always be, the brave.
~Rahk
It’s possible that I found God
on a lonely road to damnation
where my GPS guided me with
words of discouragement
If only I were David instead of Jonathan
If only my love was inherited
instead of ordained
If only my psalms were sanctioned
by chosen men and recited in times of turmoil
rather than demonized
It’s possible, that I walked by God
on that lonely road to damnation
Likely, that I didn’t even see God’s hand
My eyes weighing my feet
with each laborious step toward hell
I felt a hand on my shoulder
I heard a voice telling me to turn right
I smelled a burning bush
but I did not feel worthy
to remove my shoes
I could not stand bare
on holy ground
or so I’d been preached
I kept walking on that desolate road
I kept looking down in resignation
I kept overlooking God
so busy focusing on my steps
My feet too sore to continue
My legs quivered with the strain of the cross
nailed to my mannerisms
My eyes, forty days and nights of storm
My prayers, overtaken by thunder
or so I assumed
My God, a hand to anchor my soul
My God, an arm across my shoulder
My God, a chest on which to weep
My God, a finger lifting my countenance
My God, a rainbow of liberty
on the road to internal damnation
Urging, urging me to turn back
Turn back for once
Back toward Me
Turn back, and run.
Your steps are now redemption
Your tears are now baptism in My Name
Your eyes are watching Me
This is the path that they have given you
It’s the path they taught you to choose
Choose again
This is the path that they have given you
It’s the one they taught you to choose
Choose again
~Rahk.
It crumbles soon enough
or slowly sinks back
to the earth
It is hard
but not indestructible
I will never be rock
I am indestructible
but not hard
I should probably
see a doctor about this
~Rahk
On the day that marriage was honored equally
I got into a bit of a debate with
A young minister
About the context of things
About how it would make sense
To know what a forest is before you decide you can see through it
Context was revealed
But I’m sure he only saw through it
Trees compose a forest just like people compose a marriage
And weddings are forests in autumnal garb
Brilliantly reflecting sunlight as newness fades
And people thrive in the context of love
No matter the clothes they put on
Or the measure of their melanin
Or the fault in their constellations
We are and have always been zodiacs.
Dusted destinies and big bangs
We are and have alway been celestial bodies that will die long before our light fades
From forests riddled by winter
From forests lacking petty concerns like
people sleeping together
night after night
We are both trees my brother,
But I would never vote to prevent your forest
So long as it grows and nurtures
I see your forest, my brother
I see your forest
Yet, you begrudge me mine
Because you are human, I greet you.
But because you are racist, I do not greet you dearly.
Because you are racist, I cannot appeal to your sense of morality.
You have spat upon the flag of freedom. You have denied the pursuit of happiness. You are no patriot.
Having tainted history, both past and living, with the bile of your existence in a world that was never your own.
You do not seek to reconcile. You do not seek to understand. You hold on to the hoods that hide you from yourself.
You are no godsend. You are not divine. But you are a spook, preferring to possess people rather than truth.
Oh racist, no patriot holds you dear. But how can we when you are ashamed to show your confederate face?
Remove your hood.
What do you have to fear, don’t you claim a god is on your side? Don’t you have righteousness burning crosses inside you? Remove your hood.
A born American would.
Don’t give up when it’s right,
When your soul becomes sky at the notion of success.
Don’t give up when it’s right,
Even if your body quakes at the hint of failure.
You have withstood Tsunami
You have withstood Hurricane
You have withstood Pharaoh in his many forms
Don’t give up when it’s true
If, when you speak it, you are humbled
As if that truth is a mountain you must climb barefoot
As if that truth is a bullet you must catch by hand
Don’t give up
When it is water after generations of thirst
Don’t give up
When it is a sun rising on a new day
And it will rise
Because you waged war to see it
I see stained glass families
Smashed to the ground by presidential decree
Then separated shard by shard
Shredding the American flag
I see impatient rivers of blood
Wandering wildly from brown rainbows
Gunned down in neighboring homes
I don’t see no whips
I don’t see no rope
I don’t see no canines
Just soldiers cradling rifles
In inner city malls like land mines
And I see civilians teargassed
In social media posts,
Not yet riddled with bullets
But uniformed handprints on brown throats
Live recordings of homicide notes
Claiming no foul play exists
The Whites Only signs
Camouflage as red lines
Around neighboring hoods
Brown faces appear as viable goods
And we’re still marching
for colored lives
Still deemed uncivil and disobedient
I see war cries against voter suppression
I gape at documentaries by white people
Discussing their privilege
But still
I see people snatched from the front lines
I see obituaries for innocent women and men
I see Jim Crow puppeteering all the party lines
I see warnings of white hoods again
And new Columbines
And the Charleston 9
And the Pulse of 49
I don’t see no whips
I don’t see no ropes
But I see presidential tweets
Threatening military force against black lives
In 2020, the most malevolent mobs
masquerade as ardent allies
SMS Draft: Ma says I look like you. I take her word for it–it’s hard to compare memories to reflections.
[delete]
SMS Draft: Man, what can I say to you besides hey and happy new year, besides one day soon, besides I love you too, besides mama’s doing fine, besides silence?
[delete]
SMS Draft: Dad stands hesitant behind my teeth–Barred, and though there is this gap, Dad does not slip through despite a gentle push from my tongue.
[delete]
Mama raised me to be careful of namecalling.
-Rahk
And thou art
pen and blank page
No mic upon wooden stage
And silence
Is a poem that
Holds a finger to the eye
That weeps
From the movement within
And thou art the answer
To the prayers
Of a warless soldier
And silence is a kiss on the eyelid
From lips that touch like the truth
And truth is the revelation
That love is a touch
Softer than tears
Therefore it can be touched
Even without hands
And thou art the words
That strike seeds with will
That they might grow
From their natural casings
That they might unearth sunlight
No matter how deeply buried
Their intended birth
And thou art the words
That spring forth from fatherless pines
Who took after their mothers
Both promising shelter and tempting lightning
To live is to burn
Kindling sunlight
In every unbidden tear
-Rahk
#faith, #hope, #love, #love-poems, #poem, #poetry, #relationships
i sat between your feet counting
the hairs on your legs
(two hundred thousand twenty-four)
rather than the number of times you frowned
when looking to me for answers
(once…)
one time.
i never asked, that one time,
why your head shifted in rhythm to revolution
why doubt tilted your axis
why you couldn’t trust your world in my hands
i couldn’t God for you
i couldn’t God for you
~Rahk.
#faith, #fathers, #gender-norms, #hard-conversations, #love, #love-poems, #poem, #poetry, #raw
Be the man
that grows beyond
what people presume.
They mostly mean well,
claiming to know
how certain roses bloom.
Men, too, are enchanted flowers
Blossoming during monsoon.
~Rahk.
Lil bruh, I thought
maybe you’d rise
on the third day
after a releasing of purple and gold balloons
confirmed you had
in fact
died at 28
But you did not rise
You did not rise
from your sick bed
in the certainty of youth
When did you grow old in body?
I did not know.
I could ask why
but what are petty reasons
when you, Lil Bruh, simply did not
have strength to rise
three days after
laughter and normalcy
outhummed the motor
of your oxygen tank
I thought you’d breathe again
on your own
considering
how much we laughed.
I thought:
What is hospice to your little brother soul?
You were not old
We were not old
and even if we were
would hardearned wrinkles
have remedied suspended time?
I do not know
what more solace a silvered crown
would have bestowed.
I am not old
and I remember you clearly.
Sometimes my laugh echoes yours
as if my body is a canyon.
Other times, tears carve fresh streams
toward healing.
I wonder:
What is death to kinship?
You were not old, and your little brother spirit
still blesses the laughter
between my tears
I am not old
Though I fear I have aged
without you
Where do I start?
Originally published in print August 2018, “The Pulse in the Pews” is a knee jerk reaction to the terrorist attack at Pulse Nightclub and a particular church’s response to it. It expounds upon a pivotol period in my spiritual journey. One that sought to mediate religious doctrine with personal revelation and tragedy. One that sought to distinguish God’s voice in a sea of loquacious voices. The following is the first entry in “The Pulse in the Pews”, originally entitled “For Gay Christians Who Consider God When the Church is Not Enough” as an homage to Ntozake Shange. Comments are welcome. You can also message me through my Contact page. Enjoy.
Poetry enables us to speak the truths we may not readily communicate in common, everyday language. Because of it’s nature, poetry empowers the individual who harnesses it to discover insights ordinarily hidden in everyday language. As a spoken word artist and published poet, I had performed poetry on numerous occasions in bars and nightclubs, schools, parks, etc.. But one particular venue used to terrify me because I felt as though that place would not receive who I am as I am.
Poem Against Terror
And I’m afraid to perform in church.
In my truth. In my As I Am.
In my burdened and heavy laden
Which weighs more like angel dust and
defeating Satan-
As I Am
I’m AFRAID to perform in CHURCH
Because I am with Pulse
Because I am without my rib and
C R E A T E D
Because my faith has challenged mountains
Because my faith has challenged me
Because my love is created by God
I am with PULSE
And sometimes I CAN’T BREATHE
And sometimes I BELIEVE
that God is so GOD that even ME
Even me
He doth LOVE as I AM
As we are created
As we are hated by the love of god
As we are berated for the will of God
As we are related to the children of GOD
As we are
As we are
As we are
I am no longer afraid to perform in church
I speak those things that be not
as if they be
I am NO LONGER afraid
to perform in church
As I am
I am beloved by God
I am with Pulse
I CAN breathe
And I must breathe whispers
Into the soul
Because whispers are seeds that grow
Because I am a seed I know
Can move mountains
And walk in the valley of the shadow of churches
Because He leads me beside still bodies
that should not be without pulse
They should not be still
We should not be still
We should not be afraid
to seek God in church AS WE ARE
We, too, are BELOVED by God.
#black-lives-matter, #death, #excerpt, #faith, #gender-norms, #grief, #history, #hope, #journal, #lgbtqa, #love, #memories, #poem, #poetry, #raw, #spoken-words
-Rahk.
Rahk's Water 