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Billye Okera

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The Woe Of A Child
by Billye Okera

Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Billye Okera
•  Savannah Street Memory
•  Inkling
•  Streets of New Orleans
•  By That Plot Of Soil Reflecting
           >> View all 17

Body memories? Spirit memories? Head Memories? Memories are held somewhere, somehow...whether in plain sight, or "a battered box".

It would'a made more sense
To leave me there
In the peace of the water
And let the sound of your breath
Calm me like a breeze.
I should'a stayed in the heart of God
And listed to the beat, boom, beat
Of angels feet dancing.  I am not for this place!
In his disgrace
I am the chance my father took in a drunken stuphor
That neither he nor she knew what to make of later.
I am the reason she called him, bastard
'n told his mama he was no good
And she had ruined him for any woman.
He said of her, "bitch, go slow" -
And the blow to her belly taught me
To steel myself for pain.
I can taste her smoke
Smell her gin, hear her whispered dream
Of "God, let it die"
As if I weren't soul within a brief borrowed house.
I came into the world, then
Eyes wide and able to discern spirits
And spirits of a clever sort roamed my room
And motioned me wise beyond my day...
You can't play having known eternity at birth
And truth perched upon the mantel crying.
When I am old and of no use to anyone
Save nursing home ledgers and vultures for the dead
That I have said these things
Will cause no warp in collective unconscious...
I have seen demons and gods laughing
And...the woe of child - stuffed in a battered box
  Of memory.

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Reviewed by Bill Grimes Jr. 5/12/2007
" I am not for this place!"

I relate so deeply with these powerful words Billye.


Reviewed by Mocha Sistah 4/18/2007
excellent posting.

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