Your mother came again
to talk to you through me,
more persistent and more
measured, together even,
just wanting you to see,
stuck in the middle still,
and not wanting you to be
following in her footsteps.
I told her I could offer
nothing more than everything
I have already done but
assured her you could feel
if you so chose to do.
Then she and I sat awhile.
We had a cup of tea
and I laughed with joy...
To think of her name and
mine, and you, sweet king,
never your father's son
and ever trying to be. Then
at once it dawned on me: the
sweetness, pain of this knowing,
if not you or my own mother,
at least your mother talks to me.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
In the Whirlwind is a poetic storm that frees history from the cages of corruption and puts it in the hands of everyday people. Words are weaved into a new fashion statement that has nothing to do with runways but everything to do with projects!
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