Lupus?! A wha dat?!

Just another emcee who gets free. Vessel of philanthropic vision fueled by theophilic purpose.

Tag: poetry

“Splashpad” featured on Human/Kind Journal

Biggup Human/Kind Journal for featuring my poem “Splashpad.”

You can read “Splashpad” and other poems on their site here.

https://www.humankindjournal.org/humanities/a-poem-by-chris-burton

For Aunt Phyllis/For Mother’s Day

I wish for you to dance again

I wish for you to be healed

I wish for you to feel the wind in your hair

I wish for you to be whole

 

I wish for you to laugh

A deep, belly laugh

The kind where tears fill your eyes

I wish they were the only tears you shed

 

I wish for you to remember

And feel warm

Surrounded by past moments

I wish for you to feel loved

 

I wish for you to sing

Sing a new song

Lift your head to the heavens

Remember your help

 

I wish for you to feel full

The completion of a life well lived

The ease of having run your race

You ran it well

 

I wish for you to know joy

Deep refreshing joy

The kind that puts a smile on your face

When it doesn’t make sense

I’ll do what I can

God knows I do what I can

To make it make sense

 

 

 

I couldn’t call when You were dying

I’ve let my loved ones know

That in the event I’m on a plane

And think that I have arrived

At the end

I won’t make a phone call

No terror, or reminders of love

No semblance of intimacy thousands of feet in the air

No delusions of a life wrapped with a bow

Too dissimilar to death’s scar

The jagged pieces of lives shattered to pretend that we can ever truly be prepared

Earthquakes happen so frequent

We believe it’s man’s machinations

A revelation of Revelations

Or Mother Earth’s menstrual cramps

How regular and majestic

Coupled with threats of tsunami that kept me refreshing the page until the alert fell asleep

I forced myself awake determined not to find Wednesday with news you were no more

I opened WhatsApp to close it

Texted then wiped it away

Impersonal at the very least

And that’s never my intent

So I relearned that inaction is an action

And determined that I’d rather refresh then prepare myself for a final conversation

We’ve been doing so much better!

Rebuilding what never was

Though false alarm

I’m reminded that my instinct is well founded

A monument to catastrophe

How small we are in the face of the ineffable

Gardening

Dutty tuff doh, don’t it?

Miracles mi Lawd, miracles

Memba when we never expect a rice grain

Now we plate abundant and water a flow

Wha? Unnu think when you pray the prayer of Jabez

Poopa Jesus only have material things in fi him closet?

Repair better than reparations

Forgive without a man say sorry

But when him sorry?

Bitter tears tun sweet

Impossible, invincible things a gwan

Like falling in love with the wutless

Ab(solve)

i absolved You for myself!

i did it stealth.

Not for my wealth to accumulate when i humiliate my foes.

Am i gaining weight when i step on Your toes?

my heart burns at the suggestion that i should hate You.

Indiscretions pathetic yet i left You lesser in Your lessons

Your Mistake did not predate my absolution

it wasn’t immediate or without confusion

partly regretted i never asserted dominance

neglecting the puffed chest whose exhale is ominous

it’s obvious!

averted eyes, rapid glance

but it is of no matter

i will give You a chance to clear history,

my health matters more than my hubris

Scales measure Our friendship

can i really lose this?

afford the discord perhaps, but the scars stain still, no changing that

Sorry, Doc.

Wanted to apologize for last night.
You came in to do your job
And my elder only saw your youth.
“You’re a doctor?!” she exclaimed,
“I thought you were a nurse!”
Subsequent conversation was unpleasant.

I was not offended but understood
Your grasps for authority.
My elder could not see
How her question accused you.
Fulfilling for a moment your fears
Of being an impostor.

And I’ve felt it.

Like no matter what I do,
Take me to Oslo,
And my aunt will always see me as six.
Take me to Richmond,
I’ll give you a speech
And they’ll still ask if I am from Africa.

Eventually.

The horror of being lowered.
You being a nurse is like me being a janitor or some thing.
But I’ve learned so much from custodians.
Lunch ladies and the least of these.
These people, my people
Respectable carrying receptacles.
Walked so we could run away.

Mi nuh know

looking-out-window-6-7-07-001

(Picture taken from https://scoutdog.files.wordpress.com/2007/12/looking-out-window-6-7-07-001.jpg)

Youse a stupid dog.

Wha yuh a look fah een?

Deh deh a look pon window…wha yuh tink?

Parousia nah start today, papa.

Yuh nuh see seh we nuh ready?

Bwoy mi tell yuh!

I think Jesus show up right ya now we’d kill him again.

In all a him glory (tell the story!)

We so fool fool, we see him and tink seh

Di big man fit di description.

Bwoy mi nuh know!

Yuh tink dem woulda stop and frisk mi King?

Have a picnic, put a fiyah pon a cross or wha?

Baptize wid di firehose.

Last supper wid skittles.

Iced tea a fi wi blood type.

Mi like him, me’d a show up as a dawg.

No mongrel to wi ting.

Haffi purebred.

Collie.

Retriever.

Deh yah a wait pon mi Shepherd still.

unravelinG

Loathe this place.

Always showing up for dinner, forever on the menu.

Unspoken speeches turned tourniquet,

The Educator must entertain.

 

You cesspool of spiritual violence

A blasphemy incarnate.

You promise me an audience for oratory

Yet have no interest in others’ story.

 

I cactus here.

Remember.

Love sustain I.

Pancakes (Sticky out deh, een?!)

aunt-jemima-pancakes-old2

I’m ashamed that I buy Aunt Jemima pancakes.

I could probably eat pancakes everyday.

they say abs are made in the kitchen but for real

if i gotta give up pancakes to get a six-pack, screw a six-pack.

bri still loves me and so does Jesus.

how am i supposed to give up pancakes?

would eating hungry jack make me more just?

what if next week i learn that hungry jack was a tool of oppression too?

i’m scared.

 

Pancakes might mean too much to me.

But I listen to Shabba Ranks when I eat pancakes.

I’m in my kitchen when I eat pancakes.

It’s saturday when I eat pancakes.

Grandma is still alive when I eat pancakes.

Don’t know if my hands will ever get clean.

Without Works

For Patricia.

 

When does politeness solve poverty?

Can saying “God Bless You” solve a rumbling belly?

Is there solace in your sincerity that you don’t carry cash?

Or is it just plastic?

Patricia asked me if we talk about poor people in my studies.

“Only in electives,” I said regrettably.

(Like my ivory tower tears quench thirst.)

 

I get heartbroken hearing about Chicago’s southside.

Eyes welled up on Newark’s Bergen Street.

But survivor’s guilt ain’t helping nobody live. 

Brian Mooney

Educator, Scholar, Author

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