Our beautiful world is
tumbling, falling apart
We’re destroying it
with hatred and beliefs
We’re living with fear
even to turn on the TV
to find just bad news there
and meaningless advertising
Poison in our food
New diseases
But fewer cures
Where the clowns now
wear suits and ties
wanting to rule the world
And justice has
closed its eyes.
(To Wuthering Heights)
As if in sleep she walked alone,
her subconscious stalked as a companion,
it is significantly strange
when darkness fell upon her,
on those settlements below
to see them, ‘gleam as small change’,
the beauty rising from her words
departs somewhat from what I’m told,
for there is no doubt in my mind
she reimbursed a thousand-fold,
and to her soul, her underlying tragedy
my wreathe is laid unto her mystery:
A long journey, a tiny creature,
a tired, winged migrant,
I wonder, did it call her then
through a rising mist like this,
was it wild October, calm and damp,
a state of empathy with mind
over moors to ‘Wuthering Heights’,
Did she see, standing in grey gloom
that old rusted barn, with tin-bell,
could she hardly see as I do, or hear
it tinkling to and fro, or feel it’s
gentle swing by moderate air flow,
did she look back, forlorn
to see her tracks, her past
banish her from sight,
lose what once was her true self
lost to the surrounding fog
and her coming nightfall!
Was she left within the moment
to brood and dwell on bleak things,
did she listen to the bleat of sheep
as I do now in isolated spaces,
undisturbed to graze there,
suddenly to loom, appear to she
who stared back as the uninvited,
as the thinning fog rose higher,
looking like unwilling hosts,
was she an unexpected guest too
looking ghostly from another world,
would she entreat me now to leave them
in her unknown peaceful place,
grazing on their ancient land,
she does not see heather now
or the tangled silver roots that
‘invite the whitening of her bones.’
More at roykaustin.weebly.com.
Black People
We are smart
We are brilliant
We are bright
Black People
We get judged
And shot
And mistaken—
Mistaken for being dangerous in the very comfort of our own home
Mistaken for being dangerous just walking down the street
Dangerous even while delivering packages because we are UPS drivers,
as it clearly says on our uniforms
Black People
They hate our color,
But love our culture
Black People
We see those who copy our hair,
listen to our music,
want to be a part of our culture,
but won’t stand up for us when times aren’t right
Black People
70,000 of us MISSING in the country,
But very few of those cases are in the news
Black People
We get SHOT because the phone in our hand is mistaken for a gun—
Black People
We aren’t allowed to be sad
To feel depressed
To have feelings
Black People
We don’t get hired because our names sound too “black”
And when we are hired, it’s for diversity
And we get fired for bringing cultural concerns up on the job
Black People
We are
Mistreated
Not trusted
“Dangerous”
A threat
We are “animals”
We are hated
We are Black People
And we are people.
We don’t deserve to be treated like animals
We shouldn’t be hated
We shouldn’t be judged based on the color of our skin
We deserve a fair chance at life
We deserve to be loved
We deserve to live
And prosper
And be happy
We are black people, and we deserve better, because
We are People.
Other paths
Would not have led
Me here
Some more attractive then
Than they appear now
Except for the bumps and bruises
Hardship and sacrifice
I would be at another place
I did not follow
My tribe in the mines
The bleakness
Of that fate
The source
Of my father’s admonition
The coal seam
Claiming the youth
Of generations
Of my kin
But I wanted more
Than the darkness
The choke of dust
That would coat my lungs
The bend of poverty
As a broken man
I sought the light
Of learning
A course
Strange to my people
A solitary walk
For me
Away from the companionship
Of classmates
Enjoying their temporary prosperity
Of cars and boats and homes
Luxuries I would have to defer
If at all
But now as sick old men
They no longer scoff
But question
Their own life course
Tonight
I am stuck with
a strange kind of loneliness
that even wine can’t wash away
the shackles circling my wrists feel tight
how did I even manage
to get them on?
it seems like half the country
has gone mad
as if they don’t realize
that other people
don’t believe what they do
and are just fine
it’s all part of the personality
of individuals who believe
a certain thing and
have to force it on everyone
an insecurity that runs deep
a need to control others
seeing everything as a threat
to their way of life
thinking they’re more real
than those they call others
My urge to save
The screen
Never ceases to be…
And I know,
there’s still a lot of love
Left behind
and left beyond.
The onion peels unwrap,
Unclothe,
And the gritty flavour
Arouses my bones.
The spice seems eternal.
I remain a happy chef.