MY APOLOGIES TO THE WAR HEROINES

*Inspired by the last line of Mahogany Browne's poem "Working Title": I'm so afraid to have a son.

Dear [Black] Mothers,


I will now
refer to you as
Warrior
since you're at war
with your faith
in peaceful days
cuz you birthed black boys

I'm sorry
every time your black sons
walk out the door
you picture mine-filled streets
ensnaring them
bombs donned in blue
with loose triggers
suspect intentions
precise aim

you dread their steps
knowing it doesn't matter
how lightly they tread:
their existence
is the only weight needed
to split the thin ice
they're skating on

I'm sorry your hearts
are too fragile
for simple good-byes
see you laters
be right backs

I'm sorry they're no longer simple

they sound like lies
your sons have no clue
they're telling

fear pillages your heartbeats
dines on your breaths
siphons the hope from your soul
when you hear them

I'm sorry
that in your world
sending them to the store
is synonymous with sending them
to their grave

you weep
pray
second guess
before saddling them
with that lethal task
cuz these days
they're more likely to survive
a freeway pileup
than the trip there and back

I'm sorry you wake up every day
choking on the stench of fatality
the knowledge that your sons
no longer have to be incarcerated
to incur a death sentence
that their melanin
is the revised definition
of "dead man walking"

I'm sorry your love
will never be
big enough
strong enough
mother enough
to protect your sons
from blue-clad bombs
explosive-teemed clips
excuses
tales
jurors
and the rigged system

I'm sorry
there's a war on your sons
you haven't been prepped
to defeat

©2014
Charlene E. Green

Hear Mahogany's poem here: http://youtu.be/ygWnVzFbrN0?list=UU5DH3eN81b0RGJ7Xj3fsjVg

CURFEW: FOR OUR NIGERIAN GIRLS

I wish this could be as simple

as broken rules

about

the street lights are on

and you’re late

about

git’cho butt inside

it’s dinnertime

come clean up this room

finish that homework

as easy-peasy as fed-up mamas

snatchin’ back curtains

throwin’ windows open

hands on hips

peerin’ down the block

to growl your name and shout:

“I’m not gon’ tell you again!”

while you whiz by on your bike

plead for just five more minutes

and she smiles

chuckles

shakes her head

remembers her youth

her pleads

her eyes soften

and she lets you ride

would do anything

for it to be as “uh-oh”

as fire-breathin’ daddies

sportin’ shiny brass knuckles

waitin’ impatiently at front doors

for never-be-good-enough boys

to bring you home from first dates

that their mouths blessed

cuz you begged

but their hearts didn’t

would much rather this be about

200+ mischievous girls

quietly convergin’

and sneakin’ off

on a secret forbidden journey

fingers strung together

like paper-doll chain

squelchin’ the high-pitched giggles

ticklin’ their ribs

runnin’ free

wind coolin’ their backs

sun meltin’ the cares in their hearts

trekkin’ with no fears

gon’ be right back

gon’ be all right

cuz they got each other

but these wishes are in vain

the street lights have been on for months

and still

none of you are where you’re supposed to be

cuz you were force-fed this broken curfew

into the Sambisa

into marital slavery

and you’ve been gagging

on the bane the forest’s bowels

on coerced $12.00 vows

trying to unbind the silence in your throats

to find enough voice to scream for help

for directions to lead you home

from the detour of Haram

the government’s search has ebbed

and we will not rely on them

to continue to care enough to find you

their time may have been cut

but these clocks in our hearts

will remain ticking

  

we

are your spiritual search party

at night

in our uneasy sleep

our snores

are surveillance helicopters

fueled by the inferno in our blood

that keeps our tanks from running dry

our rapid-eye movements are searchlights

in the murk of our dreams

powered by determination

to illuminate your path

show you the way to freedom

and they will never burn out

no matter how long the nights

how hard the days

piece by piece

we will link the jigsaw of you

back together

rip you from the filthy grips

of the insurgents that body-snatched you

from your rights

from your school

from your learning

from your homes

and we will annul you from your captors

interlock your fingers

to remind you of oneness

of sisterhood

of love

of safety

of strength in cultural numbers

and lead you to your dwellings

where the street lights will beam

and mamas and daddies will be waitin’

impatiently at front doors

to envelop you

inhale your scent

stroke trust into your faces

nurse your spirits back to certainty

revel in your touch

tribal dance in your smiles

to exhale

to live again

©2014 Charlene E. Green
To listen to audio of "Curfew: For Our Nigerian Girls," click here

Haiku #24 for January

EMPTY CHESTS

When mothers bury

their kids, who helps exhume moms’

thrashed hearts from the graves?

Copyright 2014

Charlene E. Green

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KILL SUICIDE: STAY ALIVE AND FIGHT!

My self-transformation poetry is meant to shake you up, make you look at your life honestly, make you face yourself ... and wanna strive to be better. It's also meant to do the same for ME. I may write like I'm only talking to YOU, but when I pen these poems, the messages are just as much for me to heed. I have to do my own work every day on my life, too. This is no holier-than-thou mission I'm on. It's me and all of you, working together to change for the best.

In December 2010, I was suffering badly, emotionally. It was to the point where I felt I was drowning in my own misery. I hated the feeling, and I wanted an out. I knew a woman (still know her) who was also struggling. She owned a cafe I visited frequently. We would have long talks, and she would often tell me about the deep issues she was dealing with and I would offer encouragement. I decided to get out of myself and go down to her store to check on her to take my mind off my problem. When I arrived and asked how she was, she told me that she wanted to kill herself the night before. Not only that, but she said she saw herself doing it and felt GOOD about it. This stunned me at my core. I was actually speechless. I had heard [of] people saying they wanted to kill themselves, but no one had ever said it to ME, and I had NEVER heard anyone say they saw the action and felt good about it. I was truly shaken on a level I had never been. Fortunately, she moved past that moment and came to work that day, though I apologize that I can't remember what she said made her decide to stay alive. What I do know is this: Her comment disturbed me so deeply that when I left 2 hours later, my soul ached for her and everyone who's ever felt like her. That conversation made me reassess my own life and problems and how I was handling them. I had been in distress, but [that time] I didn't wanna kill myself, and I felt fortunate. But I suddenly realized how important it is for us to put our own suffering aside, come out of our shell, and embrace other people. You never know where they are in THEIR suffering, and hearing their story may change the way you view YOURS.

Later that night, as I was still flooded with angst about her, and about my own issues, I got angry about how we sometimes treat ourselves, the ways we don't protect ourselves, the situations we allow ourselves to be in because we haven't learned to love ourselves enough to steer clear of them. And then "Zookeeper" spilled out of me with fervor. In this poem, I was talking to her, myself, and everyone else out there who has ever carried burdens so heavy that they feel they're gonna break at any moment, but because of their lack of self-esteem, and often the heaviness of whatever mental health issue they may be struggling with, they sometimes can't push themselves to fight for their happiness. 

I still revisit this poem regularly, to check in with myself, to make sure I'm fighting. Cuz sometimes ... that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel just doesn't seem to be there. The darkness feels like a ruthless, weighted pillow suffocating my soul. I, too, have experienced that awful feeling of there not being any hope of getting to "the light"—of not even believing that it existed—and consequently, I've felt hopeless to go on. Thank goodness I pushed through those times.

Please listen to the poem, and then please share this post with others who are suffering. This self-work is serious. It's necessary. People need it. And I wanna encourage as many as I can to dive in and swim to the light.

Click link to listen.

ZOOKEEPER