Ocean Against Me

tell me what is to be done with this half-heart,
how to cope with Time while awaiting Destiny's verdict?
will Destiny speak the words, words much like poetry,
that will return me to you; words of potent conviction
that will cause the ocean to fall away
and no longer stand against me?
I cannot fathom what possible offense
I could have committed against the briny deep
that it saw fit to punish me with its very expanse.
I lay nightly upon the dwelling of my lonely stretch,
my lonely patch of shore, contemplating my bruised portion...
it aches where I tore us asunder.

Image: Petr Kratochvil, Ocean sunset, Public Domain Pictures.net

The Intruder on the Beach (Revisited)

This poem began as a short story written as a class assignment. I was a junior in high school, so the comprehensive editing that I've put it through over the years has been necessary. I wouldn't say that it reflected an immature tone of voice, but my writing style has changed drastically over the last decade and the story is one of my favorites. As I am presenting it here, it has been revised once more.

The Intruder on the Beach



I have traversed this beach for what seems eons; yet,
time upon time, what I seek always eludes me.
I seek it in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell
of the salt air, the feel of the chill wind—
which whips against my weathered face.

I walk farther from the water’s edge. eyes scanning
the distant horizon, searching an elusive peace of mind
in the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green surface of the ocean,
I walk. walking on sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks, and those of others, as evidenced
in the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.
a testimony of the pain of the world, perhaps?

a while longer, my steady gait has gained me silent ground.
the crashing waves and the seagulls and such that fly by
my only companions. then, I hear them, moments before I see them.
a young couple. I slow my already slow pace and lethargically
move along. so far I am unnoticed and…

suddenly, the girl turns her head sharply.

she is blessed with classic beauty. large eyes, deeper in color
than the darkest night—they sit above a small nose and bow
shaped mouth, the lower lip fuller
(sensual, soft, kissable).
about her oval face, thick mahogany strands of hair sway,
dancing in the salt air. and shapely curves define her
as woman and not girl.

she reminds me of my Heather. not in likeness of feature,
but in youth. she, this woman not girl, radiant picture of life
that she is... a life my Heather did not have the chance to live...
her youth, this woman not girl, also reminds me
of my advancing years. of how old I have grown
in the years since sweet wife’s death.
not that I need reminders.

I see my age as my hand moves my cane before me,
a third appendage which firms my limping stride,
a hand covered in wrinkled and spotted skin.
and too, I know the wind throws grayed hair,
mostly hidden beneath a black top hat, across my face.

I attend the woman not girl with an immovable gaze
as I drift inexorably closer, drawn to her
by the force of memory she evokes in me.
she attends me as well, and at her inattention
her young man jerkily throws up his hands,
joining in an intentional harmony with the rise
in pitch of his voice.

the woman not girl flinches, but does not take
her dark eyed gaze, which begins to show anger,
off my approaching form.
dear, sweet bliss, how she reminds me of Heather!

why? why, on this day come here?
a rhetorical question, if ever there was one for myself.
this is where I proposed to Heather, where we spoke
our vows, where...
...she lost her life—this day thirty years past.
but why, why on this day did this woman not girl,
with her midnight eyes, with her angry lover,
why come here!

I am mere feet from the couple now
and pass them by with a tip of my hat, a halfheartedly
spoken, “Sorry to intrude.”

I turn slightly as I journey on and have my first look
at the young man. he is handsome, tall,
and at an age I shall never again be.
as a flash of jealousy courses through my broken heart,
I turn and look out over the ocean.
cruel, wretched thing.
I wish that I had sweet wife back.

I sigh and look back at the young couple (they are embracing now,
the heat and anger gone, upon the young man’s face
a kind of wondrous peace, such unguarded emotion) hoping
that they shall love, be permitted to love...
until their dying days.

I look away, only to turn back moments later.
reason dawns.

I have become a man forgotten of splendor.

no matter that I turned from it, splendor still dwells here...
in the sound of the crashing waves, the smell of the salt air,
the feel of the chill wind, the sun’s reflection upon the blue-green
surface of the ocean, in the sand that bares much witness
to my habitual walks and those of others, as evidenced
by the footprints that crater nigh the entire surface of the sand.

Heather’s image firmly fixed in my mind, I turn away
from the couple a last time and walk into the water.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry July 30, 2009

Image: Unknown

This Life I Lead

by Cedric Pierce

Rufus Tooks was sixteen when a stray bullet pierced his forehead, cutting his life short. I was fourteen and forever changed through witnessing his murder. While everybody ran, I was paralyzed. I still remember the half cloudy moon, the barking of dogs, rapidly overshadowed by police sirens. He didn't die instantly, with his eyes open, sporadic breathing. I could hear him in pain. "Help me, Ced."

Rufus died within 20 minutes. I've been constantly haunted by his demise. I'm unable to shake the image of his body lying on the cold gravel road. I still see the small bullet hole, with a slightly larger hole, with pieces of his platinum brains loosely hanging from the back of his head. I waited while the ambulance hauled his body away. Hypnotized by the white chalk lines. Where not long ago, a living, breathing human once lay.

At the time, I was confused. Where was his soul? I half expected to see his soul exit the body. His precious soul, the essence of Man. It would be an understatement, to say I shed tears for Rufus. We became closer, due to his death, than we were while he was alive.

The funeral, held at Jones Mortuary—what would be the being of the East Palo Alto wars—was packed. Police surrounded the funeral home, to ensure proper respect. I played the background, not desiring to face Mrs. Tooks. The Washington brothers attended. Michael, Ray and Chris Washington. They were East Palo Alto, what the Kennedy's are to America. Dwayne "Insane" Henry, and Julius "The Camel," were also there to pay respect.

There were a lot more who attended; I singled out the ones who have since joined Rufus. I had 3 years of experience of the game under my belt at the time. During these times, I would learn all there was to know.

Police would interrogate the turf to no end. However, talking to the police was a serious sin, that was punished by death. Not the kind of death that God granted Adam and Eve after eating the forbidden fruit. Snitching was an instant death. It was explained to me that police don't care about our people or neighborhood. They care about control. Justice plays no part in their system.

When a black man kills another black man the neighborhood decides what is justifiable or what punishment will be handed down. Police don't care about the deceased or the killer. As far as they are concerned one bullet kills two niggers.

Revenge would become a mandate. No politics involved. If you kill one of ours, we destroy all that you represent, respect or love. In the beginning, there were rules... They quickly became abolished. Such a savage way to exist.

With undeveloped mentalities, depraved environments, poverty and the lack of education and life skills—most of us never have a chance. Many nights I prayed that God would save me, while my days were spent doing the devil's duties. The trap was not being able to process emotions.

When you witness death after death, it becomes unnaturally easy to deal with the process. It becomes an excepted part of life. Somewhere dying and killing merges. Murderer, killer, or any other label is society's way of branding the act. However, it's never perceived as survival, or self defense. It's a struggle, a contradiction that I haven't come to terms with.

If an individual poses a threat, do we wait to be struck, or should one strike? Even if cooperation with law enforcement were allowed, by law there is nothing that can be done, due to potential threats. If the government doesn't believe potential threats aren't serious, we would have never invaded Iraq.

This doesn't justify the inner city violence. We are truly at war and under attack, without the resources and/or intelligence to save our selves. I do want to convey that we are human. We love in the only way we know how. We become forever changed by what we are taught or what we witness. I've often desired more out of my life. Not knowing how to get there. And with no one attempting to assist such a journey.

When an individual has goals, dreams, and ambitions with no outlet for such endeavors, life becomes an unbearable existence of misery. We don't become drug dealers because we desire to infest our communities with poison or play our part in genocide. We do it to live. We do it to eat. We do it to escape that feeling of being a nobody. When a person feels worthless and finds something that makes them feel special, makes them feel like their life means something... Any cost is worth paying. It has nothing to do with the legality of the act. It's a human flaw. We all want to count. Why do celebrities do the strangest things to remain in the spotlight? They're rich, beautiful, and appear to have it all. But they can't accept falling off, no longer having meaning.

Once again, this is not to justify what we do. It is my attempt to explain why. What if you envisioned never having one dream come true? Or everything that makes life worth living, never having the opportunity to participate whether real or imagined?

I wish I could be a good guy. I respect and admire Barack Obama. My eyes water, knowing I will never have what he has. Beautiful wife, who's an educated professional. Two pretty daughters. Family is a man's greatest asset. Senator Obama is in a position, that when he talks, people listen. My voice is yet to be heard. I exist, but have not lived.

Life is about position and options. The position one is capable of being placed in will be defined by one's options. Growing up, I had a lot of options. However, I was ignorant of most of them. If a person does not educate self, to any and all of life's benefits, we can only blame self. This is the life I chose.

~ 2007

Caged

they lie in wait
below the floorboards of my consciousness
they try to find their way up
through the cracks
they try to seep through
through the damp porous walls
of the dungeon of my mind

their long dragging fingers reach for me
through the rusted bars of their cage
the cage i banished them to long ago
the cage of my dreams

they will not let me be
they will give me no respite
they will grant me no surcease
until i turn them loose
until i cry 'havoc!' and let slip their leash
these words
words much like poetry

Tuesday, 17 nov 2009 05:46:27 hrs By Michael Maina

Giving Thanks...

Wishing all our U.S. readers a Happy Thanksgiving!