There are some crying the blues
Exhausting all chances for love
With nothing left to lose.
One questioning God falls blind;
Afraid of questioning self,
Self destructs one more time.
Sitting in emptines–
Denying truth.
(C) Copyright 2013 Malcolm Jarell
Do not doubt possibility
in the scheme of things.
There is laid before all opportunity
to see with own eyes the unseen.
Do not doubt faith
To which each man is given
a measure; to apply the force of
belief amidst a climate of pressure.
What remains is the challenge
and boldness to answer the call
and stand Righteous and unchanged
though others journey to a fall.
© Copyright 2015 by Malcolm Jarell
I cannot recall you gentle
yet through your heavy love
I have become
an image of your once-delicate flesh
split with deceitful longings.
When strangers come and compliment me
your aged spirit takes a bow
jingling with pride
but once you hid that secret
in the center of your fury
hanging me
with deep breasts and wiry hair
your own split flesh
and long-suffering eyes
buried in myths of little worth.
But I have peeled away your anger
down to its core of love
and look mother
I am a dark temple
where your true spirit rises
beautiful tough as chestnut
stanchion against nightmares of weakness
and if my eyes conceal
a squadron of conflicting rebellions
I learned from you
to define myself
through your denials.
My fathers sit on benches
their flesh counts every plank
the slats leave dents of darkness
deep in their withered flanks.
They nod like broken candles
all waxed and burnt profound
they say “It’s understanding
That makes the world go round.”
There in those pleated faces
I see the auction block
the chains and slavery’s coffles
the whip and lash and stock.
My fathers speak in voices
that shred my fact and sound
they say “It’s our submission
that makes the world go round.”
They used the finest cunning
their naked wits and wiles
the lowly Uncle Tomming
and Aunt Jemimas’ smiles.
They’ve laughed to shield their crying
then shuffled through their dreams
and stepped ‘n’ fetched a country
to write the blues with screams.
I understand their meaning
it could and did derive
from living on the edge of death
They kept my race alive.
I almost couldn’t believe it
But then your fingers
Made their way
Through these locks and
I, awakening, knew
They were your fingers and
Your touch
Pulling me deeper
Into your current and
In your running stream am
I purified and made a
New mind.
© 2013 Malcolm Jarell
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