Drums of mourning

Them hellos
that bellowed
and filled my
heart with joy
ain’t no more…
at heavens door –
no suffering decreed
in higher estates,
sorrow will not
borrow from
my stores
of grace.

Not to speak
On your nobility
would be…heresy.

Before I succumb
to the drums
of mourning
and tears
litter the concrete…
allow me to summon
verses to you
on your way home.

Queen Mother,
Black Queen
the esteemed,
I love you –

one of the
mightiest of
those who
ever poured
into me
and who told me,
assiduously,
to get up and
be mighty
shine brightly…
a love greater
than Aphrodite
to spread power
that make eyes tear
like onions
to water soil
of our humanity.

Amid the storms
in my spirit…
as a Black Boy,
learning
to convert
those arrows
intended to maim
into power…
even as my knees buckle…
I won’t fall, hello?

Grief is but a tool,
it will not rule
or destroy me.

Rest assured on peaceful journeys

I will get up, nobly
and give testament
to your might …
refusing to cower
or drown in tears.

If I don’t speak
of your power,
may the wolves
devour and scatter
my bones
across the landscape.

A reading of said piece over soundbowls and water flows.