discovering jazz

the saxophone sang the sweetest tango while
the keyboard wept melodic tears and
the guitar plucked longingly at the air.

discovering jazz is, I imagine,
like making love for the first time,
after knowing only sex.

Words which speak louder

listen not
to the words, they
are only symbols, collecting
dust and soot, these words enter
and then they are gone, so easily lost
against the thumping pavement, these
eyes which squint but do not discern, these
truths left unfelt by calloused hands.

listen instead
to the thoughts, which
lie stooped by every doorstep,
wearing jackets that no longer fit,
their grounded hats turn up to face the sky,
listen to their
mumbo-jumbo, their crazy, their
talking selves, listen carefully to their
cracked lips, their smoke-stained shadows.

do not assume
that thoughts need food,
or homes, or even crumpled dollar signs,
do not offer
what cannot be received,
or given, or even promised in confidence,
remember
how sight deceives,
how truth often comes,
in lies dressed as thieves,
remember
that you are man, 
alone with your fellow thoughts,
that peace is singular, never plural,
that murals are many single scenes,
that memory fades until only
shared hands and 
regrets are
left.

I don't think you can know

I don't think you can know.

As I roamed countless empty beaches, when
I still did such things, the sun would 
set on the other side of
the island, so I
never saw it setting, only saw
the dim fade of light,
as night came, I
made myself
a promise,
that I wouldn't believe in sunsets anymore,
not the ones I couldn't see, even
if there was reason
to believe.

There are games we never played as children, they
are the disguises we learn to wear, we add layers
with each heartbreak, this coat of distrust, 
this cap of shattered confidence, these
pants that hang low with grief, these
shirts that never fit, too many 
buttons of betrayal.

These games we play like shields of war, they
serve no other purpose than to hide our
shame, our tragedy, our brokenness,
we once wore hearts on sleeves,
but now we lock them and throw out the keys,
we once dreamed of being heroes, 
now we'd rather be knights 
in shattered armor.

I have tried to be honest, but
even I cannot say how some words mean
more than what any dictionary can ever explain.

And the question of love remains on our lips,
And they remain dry from lack of use,
And the question you asked I cannot answer.

So I do not know, but I do feel it.

And I, too, am scared.

I remember
when I was younger, 
while visiting the beach, 
the tide rises and my toes
inch closer, I want to enter
that great torrid sea, but there is
a moment of hesitation, like fear, like
realization, because I never know if I should
jump over the waves, or dive beneath 
them, I can't rush in, 
my heart heavy, but I 
enter the waves, 
and sometimes the water burns
my throat, but sometimes
I open my eyes 
and see the
setting 
sun.

Simple lives in simple times

His voice was like whiskey, coarse and to the point. 

Hers was a reflection, like a wading pool, like an empty room.

Longing

There is

a breeze, past

the empty seat next

to me, this park bench

shadow, reaching out over

the harbor, there is

a breeze and

it carries

past the hill,

over the water, no

waves, but

the sprinkle of a crest,

a thousand crests, 

rippling, the

sun, which must 

set, it lingers,

not yet.

My throat

is dry, can barely 

breathe, the breeze 

fills, with its swell,

I rise,  still

not able to say 

what needs 

(to be).

There are

sailboats, the

breeze fills them, they

could travel

a thousand miles,

they could

carry a man, like

me, to the

place where 

I long to 

be.

Suspension

It must be a terrible thing,
to be the air,
never seen,
ever there,
unable to make
a sound,
always breathed in,
never breathed out,
carrying the world
in such small
space.

Arrogance

at the bookstore, the superstore

in Baltimore, on the bayfront that

used to be the power plant, waxing

brass into a Hard Rock Cafe, 

where the coffee shop sells

tea, but offers no outlets, 

there's a woman, she

asks where the

SparkNotes 

are.

at the bookstore, the 

power plant turned

brass, where history, 

where passion, where 

the musings  of ghost

writers past and 

present soak 

into the very walls,

she asks where the

SparkNotes

are.

you have already made

half the battle, half

the fight, you are

here, at the store,

why pay $4 for 

summaries, 

why not $5 for

masteries?

this temple to literature, spoiled,

this ivory tower wrought from

the mold only age can bring, 

where is your sympathy,

where your passion?

It seems like theft.

My own hands rise,

before my eyes, guilty

they remind me of

only moments before, 

when I traced  my way through 

the  bookshelves, in bookstores I 

have no qualms, I touch every passing 

book, I smell them, their newness, 

listen to their crinkling backs, as I 

open them for the first time, 

then put them back.

My guilty hands ask

if they too should be cut off, if

it were such a sin when they rubbed

through Robert Frost, lingering on 

the white page, before taking the whole

collection of Glück, seventy years in the making,

and leafed through it in 15 minutes, sucking

inspiration greedily, randomly,

before putting it back on the shelf, 

dirty fingerprints having

taken their fill.

Or this morning,

waking up at seven, seeing

the sun with its rays filtered by 

downtown streets, the early morning

heat, reborn in steam, risen from potholes,

the top of Federal Hill, looking over the city

so close, so far, 

seeing all that could be dreamed, the

people in their workaday suits and

jogging shorts, the kids doing  

wheelies on the pier, the 

pigeons grabbing at

any bite, all things

received freely, 

without

cost.

An incomplete first impression

Baltimore, you are a Catholic city,
when will your blood be turned into wine?
there are bullet marks next to your chalk drawings,
when will your kids stop fearing the dark?
there aren't enough night lights in the world to hide
the ringing of gunshots in their ears.
when will your playgrounds stop sounding like graveyards,
how many families  moved away today,
how many children not at school, today,
how many fathers, lost,
how many mothers, lost,
how many sirens did you hear, today?

Your Old Town Mall left vacant
its cobblestones filled with cigarettes,
Your Fells Point facade,
all pirates and streetcars and tourists and sex,
Your Baltimore Sun,
its prison windows say, "Light for All."

I can't see through your stained-glass churches,
I can't buy a candy bar without your bullet-proof corner shops,
I can't sleep, it's so dark, and
I can't walk at night, I have to take a taxi
to go two blocks.

I overheard your conversation, it
was near Orleans Street, you were a black man
hanging off a brick wall, you were laughing as you said,
"But the next day,  that motherfucka
was dead as a doorknob. Someone popped hi--"

Oh my god, I'm living in downtown Baltimore. 

There are Poets hanging from high shool rafters,
the joggers afraid of their own shadows, if
they wear headphones they gonna get
mugged, I leave work and friends
tell me, "Don't get jumped,"
life and death separated
by a single block.

I'm dreaming of an open parking spot,
one where you can park any day of the week,
and you don't have to leave on Monday or Tuesday,
there won't be any street cleaning on Wednesday,
there won't be a traffic ticket on Thursday and Friday,
maybe I can finally sleep in on Saturday, without
worrying if I'll be towed by Sunday.

I'm dreaming of a city without stoops,
without boarded-up tenements, without
blinds that are always closed, where people
look each other in eyes, where I'm not
reminded constantly of my hidden racism, 
where I can roam Patterson Park,
at night, naked of fear and prejudice, 
wearing only my wonder, 
and dip my feet into the waterfront and 
watch the sun rise over
a sailor's sky. 

Mr. President, a word please

Mr. President, a word please

I look down from the top of a thousand Syrian apartments,

through windows of glass and seared light, see the
uniforms, shouting, pointing, waving their beards which

touch the ground like a fading plume of smoke. I see the flames

licking the salt of a thousand desert homes, emerging

tanks and machinations of war, blown apart by

the perfect American missile, see
uniforms shot with tongues hanging dryly in

the summer heat, and women’s wails fill the

days and the nights, no rest for any hour of any place,

children running and screaming away, emerging

from the flames, but one, who walks,

his arm already covered in a perfect swan of fire, his

eyes erased, his hands held open to the sky, he

stumbles forward, opens his mouth and

releases his failing breath, his lungs

on fire, his tongue on fire, his

heart on fire, his skin

on fire, he falls.

I see the image of this day etched on the minds of countless youths,

of a different color and a different race, see its memory curling around them

like a deadly snake, see their eyes look back on their homes turned to salt and

their brothers, too, see forty years from now, when they will hold a gun to
their heads and pull the trigger while watching this image they have seen
in their dreams, in my dreams,
across a thousand Syrian apartments,
across a thousand days and nights.

I see America, sleeping peacefully, its war done in a single night. I see Washington, its perfect sun rising, a crisp day in a soft winter. I see New York, waking up and reading its newspapers and turning to its cappuccinos for comfort.  I see Atlanta, once too engulfed in flames, complaining of its own sweat by noon. I see Baltimore, its police scrambling after another week of dead teenagers, while its penthouses shine like diamonds in the sky.

This, I say, this is power!

But within me, a soft whisper rises, “Words, too, are power.”

Abby's poem "A Slice of My Life"

Abby had to write a poem for a school project. Here's the result!

A Slice of My Life

by Abigail Dekroon

A pizza is spicy, its

pepperonis add more flavor.

Its olives are surprising, when

they mix with the cheese. Its

purple cabbage is plain, like its name

The mushrooms are goofy when they tell

their jokes. Its tomatoes and spinach

are fresh and healthy.

The pizza has many toppings, and so do I.

Strange lightning

It's strange
this lightning that strikes
without thunder
a flashing bulb against
the beaches
a warning, a call?
this shout
without a sound
echoing on
the moon-bleached
shores, just
another wayward light
another aimless sign
another question mark