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Bernice (AKA Five) by Hakim Bellamy for Martin Luther King Jr. National Holiday 2016
I agree.
Daddy was a socialist.
He gave it all,
to everyone. Belonged
to every body. Didn’t save any,
for me.
He made a rotten messiah,
couldn’t even save
himself.
When they hung our family a cross
in our front yard,
I thought it was a jungle gym,
until they called him “Jungle”
Jim.
The way it lit,
felt like perpetual Christmas Eve.
Like Groundhog Deja Vu…
like tomorrow is never
quite Christmas Morning
again. Like Jesus was never born,
again. Like tomorrow is never.
Again. But today adults say the meanest things,
like “Santa is never bringing you
your Daddy back.”
When they hung his marriage
on a cross in our front yard.
My mother was on fire.
But she never made a sound.
Neither did I.
Not even when they burned an effigy
of me on the front lawn.
Chanting, “One little girls! One little girls!…”
Most kids my age
are certain they will live for ever,
but my evidence to the contrary
is the empty chair at the head
of the table.
But daddy
was a good sharer,
ask mom.
He gave it up.
So, I gave him up
long before being properly taught
how to share.
He always belonged to them
and God and history books.
Never to me. I belong to
magazine covers and mommy’s lap.
To this very day
I still wish I
was the girl of his dreams.
But everyone believed in them.
Everyone believed in him.
Unlike them,
I was unable to believe in Daddy’s disappearing act.
Unlike him,
I was unable to believe in things I couldn’t see.
But I can do them one better, and LOVE him
instead.
Love him to death.
Even if I cannot make believe he’s alive.
My unopened gift
snatched from underneath the King Family Tree,
finally found one morning hung,
on a balcony in Memphis, Tennessee
like an ornament.
5 is too young to be told
you must share everything you have with the world
because Daddys are dying in Africa
and who the hell do you think you are?
That year, I learned that Christmas
in April, is called Easter. That the Holy Book
is predictable. That some people
are born for only one purpose.
I learned “socialist” doesn’t mean share,
it means sacrifice.
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We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me I never lost control You’re face to face With The Man Who Sold The World
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here We must have died alone, a long long time ago
Who knows? not me We never lost control You’re face to face With the Man who Sold the World.
*Editor’s Note: I first was exposed to this song by Nirvana’s MTV Un-Plugged cover.
*****
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“David Bowie was born in South London’s Brixton neighborhood on January 8, 1947. His first hit was the song “Space Oddity” in 1969. The original pop chameleon, Bowie became a fantastical sci-fi character for his breakout Ziggy Stardust album. He later co-wrote “Fame” with John Lennon which became his first American No. 1 single in 1975. An accomplished actor, Bowie starred in The Man Who Fell to Earth in 1976. He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1996. Bowie died on January 10, 2016, from cancer at the age of 69.” Read more about David Bowie here.
Moths and other sacred wings
Butterflies and bees whisper
And breath of the wind
Blessed way blessing way things
Dreams are the mind streams
Thought pictures of the spirit
There are dreams of the day
There are dreams of the night
Thinking and dreaming are related
Dreams of the day we make our own
Dreams of night, part of eternal stone
There are dream takers
Taking from dream worlds
Taking dreams as a way of
Stealing thoughts
Turning minds inside and out
Dream slavers want to change
Our connections to ourselves
Mess with our dreams make us unsure
Unclear about right and wrong
Feed our dreams and instincts
To industrial profit machine
Difference between dream and fantasy
Reality and illusion center and no center
Dreams of the day keep our spirit alive
Our creative mind who we really are
With dreams we can create and heal
Follow our original purpose
Dreams are protection good medicine
Blessed way blessed way things
Sun and Moon continue
We are all on one journey
*This poem has 2 parts and 5 sections. This excerpt is the 3rd section. Mr. Trudell recited the poem in March 2001, during a talk he gave in honor of the U’wa (Indigenous Tribe) and their resistance to oil drilling on their ancestral land in Colombia. Full transcript including audio originally published by www.ratical.org.
*****
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Credit: http://ilkahartmann.squarespace.com
“John Trudell was a poet, recording artist, actor and speaker whose international following reflects the universal language of his words, work and message. Trudell (Santee Sioux) was a spokesperson for the Indians of All Tribes occupation of Alcatraz Island from 1969 to 1971 and served as Chairman of the American Indian Movement (AIM) from 1973 to 1979.” – More about Mr. Trudell here
*The Chamorro people, are the indigenous peoples of the Mariana Islands. Chamoru society was based on what sociologist Dr. Lawrence J. Cunningham termed the “matrilineal avuncuclan”, one characteristic of which is that the brother(s) of the female parent plays more of a “father” role than the actual biological male parent.
**In colloquial usage, an asterisk is used to indicate that a record is somehow tainted by circumstances, which are putatively explained in a footnote referenced by the asterisk.
*****
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In a random sample
of 100 suicide notes
researchers have not found
the word “suicide.”
In a more simple sample
of people who have sampled
suicide, and lived to tell about it
researchers found
and lost
the word “suicide.”
In an inconvenient sample
of friends who let friends drunk text
it was discovered
that 81% of them disapproved of e-mails
that were too long.
Screw spelling,
give me a hammer
to my head.
Fingernails instead of foreplay.
Cut to the chase.
In fact, cut the chase.
Cut to the cortège and motorcade.
In the age of unread fine prints
and even finer princesses
Where one’s literacy is no longer big enough
and neither is anything else.
Where time is short
and e-mails are no longer novel…
Where this poem
should have been done by now.
Where a serious conversation
consists of,
at least two people
sitting next to one another
looking
each other
in the phone.
Wouldn’t you rather be a letter
than just a l.e.t.t.e.r.?
Wouldn’t you rather be a song
than a scream?
Would you rather be a pie
than a piece a….
Our circle of conversation
has become the finish line
of a transaction,
We used to be whole.
There use to be a person
on the other side of that phone.
There used to be a person,
on the other side of that note.
And if you read this far
you’d know
there used to be some one.
on the other side
of this poem.
I like to believe that
my poems, are a string
of receipts.
Documenting
my time spent
on this planet.
Part paper trail
of my net worth,
part net
between me and the cement
as I ponder out the window
of everything I’ve built
myself to be.
In a natural selection
of random people
dying alone…
75% percent of suicides
are unaccompanied
by a note.
Unassisted.
So long.
Solo.
And I tried to borrow her pen
to write this,
so she wouldn’t write that.
But she did anyways…
In hopes
that we wouldn’t be
too busy.
In hopes
that we wouldn’t be
too fast.
In hopes
that it wouldn’t be
received…
as a life too long
did not
read.
(c) August 13th, 2015 Hakim Bellamy
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On this side of heaven
houses are humble,
gods…
…are born,
and the walls of empire
are gateways to heaven.
Chora,
They will confuse you
with the daughter of Zeus,
as though every sanctuary,
a womb.
Vestibule a vagina.
Your narthex,
an immaculate birth canal
where cross marks the spot
between your legs.
Just like your matron saint,
you were born in the boondocks too.
But when your newborn is marked for death,
that bullseye on that baby’s back
is no Cavalry.
Chora, We crawl up inside you like the only way back to heaven is through your abdomen. Like your pelvis was the cradle to humanity.
We bend at the waist,
sometimes five times a day,
to open your hips
and see the light.
But your were once
just a wall.
A portion of a fortress, confused
as to whether you are keeping the divine
out,
or whether you are keeping the divine
in.
Whether you are
Constanti-pated
or regular.
Like me,
and every gentile, Jew,
and god fearing Muslim.
Chora,
you weren’t trying
to make a name for yourself
like Constantine the Great
‘cause somedays
you didn’t wake up feeling too good.
Somedays,
you were no Suleiman the Magnificent.
Those days
you locked yourself in the room,
looked yourself in the mirror
and said, “I’m not going anywhere
with this foundation looking like an earthquake!”
Those days,
you felt a lot like a foot
at the bottom of the Ottoman,
and on those days
It didn’t matter whether you were
a church
or a mosque.
Because what was going on
inside of you
could peel the plaster
off the walls
of the Virgin Mary’s stomach.
But Chora,
gods are people too.
And sometimes,
other people get them confused
just like you.
Sometimes they die
too young.
Sometimes people call them names,
say their mother
is a whore…
a holy, holy whore.
You never put them down.
You put them on your ceilings,
remembered them as they were.
So that whenever
we couldn’t remember,
all we had to do
was look up. *****
(c) Hakim Bellamy, 18 June 2014 Istanbul, Turkey Inaugural Poet Laureate of Albuquerque, New Mexico (2012-2014) Founder & CEO of Beyond Poetry LLC www.hakimbe.com www.beyondpoetryink.com
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In beauty may I walk;
All day long may I walk;
Through the returning seasons may I walk.
Beautifully will I possess again
Beautifully birds
Beautifully butterflies…
On the trail marked with pollen may I walk;
With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk;
With dew around my feet may I walk.
With beauty before me may I walk
With beauty behind me may I walk
With beauty above me may I walk
With beauty all around me,
may I walk.
In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, lively;
In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, living again…
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.
*****
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Stephanie Galloway is from Santa Fe, New Mexico. She has been writing poetry since she was a child and still loves to explore the magic in words and their power to touch others deeply. She taught art to children as the Children Zone Leader of the Rail Yards Market and is the founder of Free Art Friday Albuquerque.
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Curated by Mary Ann Gilbreth, Ed.D., Department of Teacher Education, Educational Leadership and Policy, at the University of New Mexico. This collections includes the work of her students from several of her Reading Methods Classes, promoting cultural diversity in the classroom.
If I were to be pulled into that vacuum of mystery,
Alex Paramo is a native New Yorker of Colombian descent. He is an Author and Co-Founder of Community Publishing. He currently resides in Albuquerque, NM. Read More about him here.
