Song 21

a poem of vivid imagery, narrative depth, and a cohesive flow to capture the introspective journey of manhood…

I’ve been waiting for what feels like a lifetime, anticipating the moment when my turn will come.

I know it’s close now—the weight of it lingers in the air, pressing against my chest like a held breath.

Soon, my song will play.

It began long ago, an unfinished melody

layered with whispers of who I was meant to be. The notes—soft at first, uncertain—found rhythm in the echoes of childhood dreams, then sharpened against the jagged edges of time.

Each chord carried a lesson, each pause, a silence, heavy with meaning.

I sit here, still, the quiet broken only by the faint hum of a life lived just beyond my reach. The song I’ve waited for feels familiar, yet distant, like an old friend who knows too much. Its melody rises and falls, a bittersweet harmony of victories won and battles lost.

There is something to be said for the passage of time—a truth buried in the spaces between seconds. We are all guided by the songs of our lives,

not mere background noise, but symphonies of who we’ve been,

and who we hope to become.

The dissonance, the hard rifts—those are not mistakes. They are the warnings,

the wisdom we carry forward. 

By the time the clock hands meet,

when the hour strikes its final note, we must have learned enough

to understand the meaning of the music

that’s been with us all along.

Do you dare to listen to your own song,

to the truths it carries?

Or will you only hear mine—

a reflection of what you fear,

or perhaps what you long for?

I’ve been here, waiting,

watching as the moments stretch and fold into themselves.

The song began long before I understood its purpose.

Its rhythm shaping my days,

its crescendos warning me of struggles yet to come. I think of it often,

wondering if it still plays somewhere,

even when I fail to listen.

And when the clock hands finally meet,

will the melody be the same?

Or will time have rewritten it,

just as it has rewritten me?

Parent Teacher Meeting

"Mrs. ______, I am Principal ______ and I've asked your son's sixth grade teacher Miss _____ and two others teachers who know him to sit in. We've called you to this meeting out of concern over your son's behavior. He is unruly and disagreeable. He gives a cold and distant attitude to Miss ______ and recently refused to shake her hand even at my intervention and request."

Well, Principal ______, you've called me from home to join you all at the school today for this meeting. I have heard your concerns. Now I will tell you a story my son told me.

A year ago he returned from school and told me the class had been taken to the schoolyard for a short recess. His classmates were made to form two lines, where one student from each line would race the other to a wall before running back to tag the next runner. When it was my son's turn he now ran. Upon his return, student ______ and the boy he was to tag collided. Perhaps the boy was overanxious for his turn to run.

Anyway, they collided head first before falling to the ground. The point of impact for the two of them was my son's mouth to his classmate's forehead. My son said that both his teacher and fellow classmates  rushed to help student ______; asking if he was okay and helping him to his feet. The boy, who was white, had not suffered any bruises, but my son, 

who is Black, was bleeding from his mouth. According to him, one student,  who could see him holding his mouth finally asked, "What about  my son?" He then told me everyone just looked at him in silence before the teacher finally asked if he was alright. 

When I asked how he responded, he told me, "I swallowed my blood and told her I was okay."

Now I have no reason to doubt his story because my son is my son. And I know what he can and cannot do. At this age children still act according to how they feel. This occurred just one year ago, when my son was just 10 years old.  And what I have noticed from that day forward, is that my son moves as if the whole world is out to get him.

I want you to think about that and how you yourself, at your age, would feel. Now imagine how it must feel for my son who is still but a child.

***SILENCE****

A Plighted Love (Martyr's Ode)

What story lies behind those eyes,

So burdened, so strained with pain?

Once unyielding, now tempered, 

they bear the gilded glare of dark despair.

What tales linger in the shadows

Of the African, Caribbean streams?

Of rigger sails and stolen shores,

A people bound by wholesome evil’s schemes.Yet, through the night of sorrow’s hymn,

We rise and chant, “The Black Jacobin.”

My Lady Love, how sweet thou art,

Bright star of an ebon hue.

From Heaven’s heights, you graced the day, lending light to we, the dark-like blue. Oh, how I long to take your hand,

And tread beyond the Age of Man.

Your face, my freedom, my decree,

And at your side, my soul set free.

So when the saints go marching in,

The dead shall wake, their lives begin.

All Heaven and Earth will bend the knee, as the Sufferah sings in jubilee.

Evil will flee, its power undone,

As all proclaim the Kingdom come.

For in you, in me, the King resides,

Eternal, unbroken, through space and time.

The Black Jacobins' Plea

What shall happen to you the Black child?

Far too long has your inheritance been tools for the soil's tilling.

Let not the fields tell the tale of your killing.

The land burns and blooms for its rightful owner.

Its deeds long purchased by the deserving dead.

Stand up.

For you have reason to be counted.

Have you not the will?

The Diary (Kenya): Speaking of Dreams

In Mombasa, boys are called upon to be men at an early age. It is reflected in everything from the manner in which they talk to the things they observe and speak on. At the end of each day I would engage these young men on a variety of topics. One night I asked two young men aged 19 and 20 about their aspirations.  

"Do you have any dreams?" After a brief pause, one looked to me and answered, "My dream. My dream is to have a job." 

I did not expect to hear such a straightforward answer from someone so young. And so I went on to ask, "You mean like a dream job? Like a big famous artist or actor?" With a puzzled expression the young man shook his head as if he'd failed to convey his intended meaning. He looked at his friend as if to ask for assistance in relaying more than an answer, but a feeling to me. 

The second young man then placed his hand on my shoulder and said, "My mom. She buys goods in Dubai and sells them in Tanzania. Then after about four weeks she comes home for two weeks before doing it again." 

The young man to whom I'd originally asked the question now added, "I want to go to work today and come home to my family--today. That is my dream." 

We sat in silence as I took in all that was said.  In their native kiswahili one speaks to the other who asks me if I heard what was said. I reply no, and the young man says, "He says when you leave--he can cry."

I look to the one who said it and he adds, "You--if you know how much I love you man. You're a big brother. We will miss you when you leave."

I return the sentiment before standing up to retire for the night. "Tomorrow," I say. With a nod of the head, they look to me and reply, "Together."

Sojourner's Truth: A Descant to the Negro In America

Oh, say, can’t you see, by the Brown Indian’s plight?

Generations derailed, as the valiant died screaming.

Genocide by the sword, in the name of The Lord.

And the vampires gorged, on the flesh of young seedlings.

But the Prophets said, “Fear—not, the day shall appear,

When the Murderer’s reign, will have ceased once again."

Oh say, does the Blood of the Innocent stain--

O'er the Land of The Thief and the Home of The Slave?

On the eyes it would seem, this was all but a dream

But Broken-winged birds still fly, on the winds that life brings

When I think of the people who suffered before me

Little Black boys and girls, who died sullied and stolen

Though the Caged Bird can’t fly, it will cry, pray and sing

Toward the day when all life shall remember The King

Oh say, does the Blood of the Innocent stain--

O'er the Land of The Thief and the Home of The Slave? 

Where are those that would call ugliness by its name?

Who will stand up for freedom and justice the same?

When the long day has gone, and the cold night done came

Who’ll remember to sing of the sufferahs pain?

In the valley of dark, in the shadow of death

Will your light be my compass? Will you love me no less?

Oh say, does the Blood of the Innocent stain--

O'er the Land of The Thief and the Home of The Slave?

Do you remember that day? Do you remember that night?

When the heavens and earth joined as one for your life?

There was blood; there was war. There was life there was death.

All the ancestors gathered to pray forth your blessing.

There’s a portion of triumph that’s yours all alone

Victory is your name so remember your throne

Oh say, does the Blood of the Innocent stain--

O'er the Land of The Thief and the Home of The Slave?

The Difficult Miracle

I sit alone--

In a four-cornered room

staring at candles

Dwelling in a den of despair

Sort of like Daniel

My Daddy said to, "Handle your business"

But Pop, I can't though

Somebody put a knife in my side

I'm bleeding bad now

Tears of a clown

When I cry, I'm smiling sad so

The next time you see me go down

Help me to stand bro

I pray toward the day when I can

Walk as a man would

'Til then, I'm going to stick to the plan

Just like a man should

Fears traded in for more tears

I lost my best friend

Cried, prayed and sang through the years

God bless the dead and...

The night before The Mourning, won't you--

Send me an angel

Like water breaking free of the womb,

Thats when the rain fell...