©Alfreda Williamson, 6/29/12
Spring’s first day . . .
as cold as
Winter’s first blast.
Until . . .
as hot as, blazing,
Then . . .
as I stood in,
the midst of the seasons.
I felt it,
ever so softly, almost imperceptibly,
a brushing against my cheek,
a landing on my bare feet,
that I almost could not feel.
that I saw in my mind’s eye . . .
swirling speedily to the ground,
as if heralding,
TIME, catching up to itself.
SEASONS, catching up to themselves,
All at once . . .
July 2, 2004
Outside town boundaries,
bustling, noisy din,
Deeply in the serenity of peace, calm,
the country County,
Around a curve, sharp, blind.
There it leaped out at me.
Catching me off guard,
Not foresightedly, not scary
Just by way of wonderment
. . . why this unfinished business?
The house without its finishings.
. . . It rose up in the trees,
reaching the tops, for two stories,
Reaching towards the sun.
Or was it toward a full autumn moon,
Or could it be the direction,
from the ancient star compass.
Harnessing a cloud drifting by, for clearing?
It stood among the ivory,
Entangled, entwined but
Not overgrown, not overtaken.
The roof covered in tin,
The setting for magnificent, earthly,
heavenly sounding of
The windowed eyes of this
Finished, painted, shadowed, framed
. . . in pink.
Its back bone wood no longer
yellow /white/beige with youth.
The grey/brown color of rotting age and elements;
. . . time, neglect, exposure
. . . nature scraping and shearing away,
year after year,
after month, after day,
The frame finished, nearly so,
Peaking spaces left, or now,
There, some frame filling
Having been ripped/rotted
Away for outsiders to look in.
This business unfinished,
And not overtaken,
In the gulf of time.
Nature working reclamation,
Of the space, crawling,
Yet unfinished in recapturing.
This unfinished house, standing
Alone in the word,
Sharing a space with no one
In its place.
The windowed souls,
. . . looking, peeking at
in a flurry.
This unfinished business,
Begs questioned consideration,
Sufficient structural invitation
? who went there
? what past passed
? why this unfinished business
Where . . .
am I begged to inquire,
invited to draw close?
But I can’t get there.
Though attention drawn,
And pondering invoked.
I can’t finish it,
By Alfreda Williamson
© July 2, 2004
©by Alfreda Williamson, January 1, 2004
and the day.
Isn’t it funny?
The new day begins at mid night,
the middle of the night,
in the midst of the night.
The new day begins at dark,
in the dark.
A new day, begins . . .
A new beginning starts
when we cannot see it,
when we might not imagine it,
Cloaked in the darkness.
The light of day,
. . . in the dark of night.
The dawn of tomorrow’s day,
in the mid night.
of yesterday’s day.
The Rich/the Super Rich/the One Percenters.
Then there’s the rest of us,
The Disappearing/Shrinking Middle Class.
Our “good paying “, American Dream financing jobs gone,
The Chinese/Japanese/Indian/Korean/Malaysian, etc. have them.
We are left to grovel/slave away at many PT “jobs/employment”,
We work all kind of ridiculous hours for even more ridiculous rewards,
At the same time watching the American Dream slip away, being taxed away, shipped away. The dream is taking wings,
taking majestic and dramatic flight like the Bald eagle, proud symbol of America.
And the number of the poor, that we will “always have with us”
Is steadily whispering, calling out, shouting out to us-
And in the gesture of come on down, they extend an invitation to us
Come join us, come “eat cake with us”
You can exercise the right to just lay down and die with us,
Then the Money Changer Bankers and Crooks that are continually rewarded,
Can just roll us up in a blue tarp, and into an empty ditch,
step over us in their Armani shoes, keep going and never break stride.
And their Bought-and-Paid-For US Congressional Representatives,
And State/Local ones as well will see to it,
That left behind family/loved ones will not receive,
Any so called governmental assistance that we need,
Though we paid for it with our taxed-to-death money.
And we will end up in an unmarked mass-grave ditch,
And finally be out of the way of the folks who are really in charge of
The American Dream.
September 21, 2013
A boy and his dog, a dog and his boy,
The dog, the boy’s faithful/constant companion,
and secret co-conspirator in mischief,
keeper of the boy’s secrets, desires, dreams, fears, etc..
Naturally Puppy/Boy, first wanted food for
his emaciated, cloudy-eyed best friend.
My heart shattered for the both of them.
Even as the boy needed food, It wasn't for himsef that heasked.
But . . .as intensely as I wanted, to feed them both, with,
Love, and hugs and kisses, and encouragement,
I said to the little one, I’m very sorry to say,
That this food today, Is much too spicy.
In less than an instant, a frozen, blank stare,
Came over Puppy/Boy’s face.
That stare said to me,
As loud as thunder on a hot August day,
And as clearly as the bright sun after the rain,
You are not the first, to come here,
To help, but . . .instead, fall, short,
Then without another mumbling word,
He turned and left,
With only the sound of his worn flip-flops,
Ringing, echoing in my ears.
I heard those flip-flops, Pop! Pop! Pop!
As out the door Puppy/Boy went, until,
I heard those flip-flops, No more.
Here I am, in my space, far away, comfortable,
healthy, after countless days, and months, and years.
The sight of that gaunt, little boy,
With the blank stare, haunts me, day and night.
When I’m awake, the sight invades my thoughts,
Like someone strolling by.
At night, my subconscious presents that face to me.
But more than that, Is my constant companion,
Of the sound of Puppy/Boy’s flip-flop’s, Pop! Pop! Pop!
Ringing in my ears, every hour, of every day,
©By AlFreda Williamson, 2/18/04
You don’t know?
You don’t think so?
A little girl, in shorts of blue,
Heard you talk; yes she heard you.
In a little halter of white,
Heard you say, “girls are alright”,
But, give you boys.
She heard a noise.
What did you think?
Did you hear her heart,
And the sunlight, bright,
Is still the present light,
After many years of days and night,
Still shine on that day,
When parent, prophet,
Had to say,
That she was merely, okay,
Had your say. . .
What an occasion – a Washington inauguration,
A second one of the first US President,
Of color. The occasion more than merely exciting,
A Chi-Town girl of color,
A participant, an honoree:
She was –
She went home, to be heard from never again,
Like stalked prey.
In the street.
The reaction? We shook our heads:
“What a shame”.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A Chi-Town man,
[Three] decades long,
Dozens of Chi-Town’s kids,
His/Their work, discipline, talent,
Their Angelic voices,
Chi-Town, merely days afterward,
Enveloped violently; massively.
The message? Evil speaks.
“You can have your pretty talented little back girls”,
“You can have your decades long workers”, . . . but,
I got this!!!
The message? For evil to flourish, all it takes,
Is for many good Men/(Wo)men to do,
Nothing. Alfreda Williamson, ©9/20/2013
Our caravan from afar off, finally, noisily pulled into the parking lot,
The crunching gravel ‘neath the tires, heralded our arrival.
We all had been excitedly chatting, about our destination, our work, our aid.
We hurriedly bounded out of our transport, tired, yet excited, exhilarated.
We immediately began the tasks at hand; unpacking, organizing, setting up.
We were readying for the work, when you bounded into our midst.
Your eyes sparkled, your smile was infectious, although, marred
by the need for dental work, which matched the need for a shampooing,
Of your scraggly blond hair, and more patching of your frayed jeans,
Although, they probably could use no more;
Just like your scuffed cardboard lined, oversized shoes,
you were wearing/sliding along, could be repaired no more.
And not surprising your faded shirt was missing most of its buttons
which apparently were long gone. But you were such a resilient angel
You could not dare care.
You merely brightened our day, hanging around,
following us around, eagerly all around us, as you stole our hearts.
Then as suddenly as you appeared, you bounded out the door
and disappeared into the evening night . . .
There it is, way deep down,
In my loins,
Boiling upward, to my belly,
Reaching the pit of my stomach, tightly tied in knots.
Surging up my esophagus/windpipe,
Making me feel sick, gasping for breath
Running, dashing headlong
There at the back of my throat,
The scream surge intersects the brains message.
The two intertwine and merge to become
Forceful, powerful, ferocious, etc.,
And together force its way
A scream, bloodcurdling.
A scream, deafening.
A scream, attention getting.
A scream, head turning.
A scream, imploding instead.
Tumbling down from the heights,
Falling back as ordered.
A scream, silent,
Hear it? See it?
December 15, 2013
Then the third day, as we were packing up,
finishing our work, completing our tasks,
We scoured the horizon for you.
You finally appeared again.
Your cough a little less severe,
Your head a little less bowed, your smile regaining its brightness.
your little hand just waved and waved at us, until you disappeared from view,
as we pulled out of the station,
You dear, little, frail, blond W-V-a boy,
who stole a piece of heart, from every one of us.
Then I walked through my front door, and my own little grandson,
bounded up to me and hugged me tightly, with brace straighten dazzling white teeth, and several pairs of new shoes;
A closet full of clothes some with tags;
overrunning school supplies, and a regular Pediatrician,
And more love than he knows.
However, there is a piece of my aching heart,
and thoughts, and prayers, and wishes for strength,
That’ll forever reside, with the frail little blond headed boy,
from W-V-a, the Third World/ America