Sunrise... a poem

Sunrise

I have finally awakened
to sun rays streaming through my windows
beaming on my face
warming my brown skin
hot cocoa on a cold night in.

the light replaced the darkness
it cut through the shadows
brightened the blue-black sky to a golden peach
sweet as the juice on a summer day.

Hope is that ball of fire
burning from the heavens
commanding the night to flee
and dreams to be realized.

I look to the sun
and reach high to the cumulus clouds
I listen to the quiet morning
where night terrors are no more
And the day is waiting.

~cdw~
11/26/13

Your Name ... a poem

Although it has taken me about 3 months to control my anger and emotions enough to write, I'm glad I waited and didn't write out of frustration. Trayvon deserves my best. And now that time has passed and his plight is no longer the top story in the media, it's all the more important that this poem publishes now.

Read. And remember. ~cdw

Your Name

Let me write your case to justice
since your neighbors ignored your screams.
Let me pen your life immortal
since a gunman stole your dreams.
Let him see your bloodied body
in his nightmares every night.
Let him feel remorse and seek forgiveness
in your mother's pain full cries.
Let us recognize complete humanity
in all black American boys like you.
Let us not accept the violent culture
that protects the lighter hued.
And let the God of justice roll like thunder
and shrink us to our knees.
Let the last be first and the first be last
for equality is not our reality.

Let your life not be in vain. 
Let us never forget your name.

Let your spirit dwell though your body is gone.


Remember Trayvon.

~cdw~
5/10/12
revised 5/17/12

Intangible Memories ... a poem (Part 3 of The Detox Trilogy)

Intangible Memories
(part 3 of The Detox Trilogy)

I can look but can't touch

the reels of underexposed film

that capture our moments

our memories

together but not.

I can look but can't touch

your hand holding the camera,

your finger on the shutter,

the flash flickering bright

before my hopeful eyes, blinding me

before I can recover cynicism.

I can look but can't touch

the globs of paint, the gluey paper,

the brush strokes of color 

that smoothed out a lone house 

on a deserted street

in mixed media and 3-D.

It hangs on my wall,

a permanent fixture in my memory.

I can look but can't touch

the pain behind your coal black eyes.

Passion slowly sparks a fire there,

but you let self pity and the determination

to suffer alone snuff it out and me out, too.

I stumbled from your quaint bluegrey stone home

choking on mary jane and incense,

the stench of responsibility smoked me out

and left me dazed and confused 

and missing you.

I can look but can't touch...

can't turn the page on the story.

Fate had begun to write about us.

You're a storyteller

and a prophetic dreamer.

You knew how it could end,

but even Fate gives us the right

to choose to change her.

I can look but can't touch

and can't turn off

my dreams that haunt me

whether I'm awake or asleep,

at my desk or in my bed -- 

dreams of you courting me --

useless, hopeless fantasies

of a Ghanaian king 

who had finally found and wooed

his ebony queen.

It's wise that I can't touch my memories

or I'd grab and fling them into the Atlantic sea,

anchor first, and watch them drown.

The chain locked and wrapped around 

my ankles and knees.

What's the use in saving memories?

~cdw~

03/22/12