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Kind like a caress on a bayou cat, lazy by the window 

Kind like a dollar given to a limping, sweating out of 

             rehab, black man on the street 

Kind but not fooled, a lie is between him and his maker  

Kind like the soft wind he doesn’t feel because his pain is too deep,  

             his feet too swollen to take a deep breath  

There does not seem to be any relief in sight 

Unkind like the fake smile of an un-felt “nice meeting you” and a slew

        of so called polite and stale formulas that make up 

             superficial social norms 

Kind like the sadness of regrets of a life gone by  

Kind like the gnawing of love lost, of lies believed in

             and finally truths untold 

Kind like a clear blue sky revealing that one is utterly alone  

But longing for a kind caress creeping slowly at dawn 

Kind like a summer night drenched in blooming jasmine stinks

Kind like memories shedding tears of never more 

Kind like a rising sun bringing strength to the searching souls 

Kind like the tongues that cry hurricanes and earthquakes and famines

Kind like words that denounce presidential manipulations and schemes 

It is kind to the earth and the soul to speak our truth  

Kind it is to join in the chorus against profits makers

             who destroy Mother Earth 

It is Kind indeed to protest the continuation of slavery 

             by mass incarceration, death penalty 

             and wages that do not allow one to live decently 

It is kind to “Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing”  

To sing what I sing 

To sing what I hear 

To sing what I feel  

To sing where I’ve been 

To sing where I am going

Something akin to the Blues 

Les larmes des mères, Mothers’ Tears 

Tears of tireless mothers  

The anguish of separation, the bashing strikes on the head, 

    the slamming baseball bat  in the stomach: 

       separation, separation

The death of a small child, robbed of its may-be-bright future 

Mothers having lost the strength to watch their babies die of malnutrition, 

       so emaciated with distended bellies and pleading eyes, usually black. 


Mothers’ tears 


The death of children in war zones. There is no protection against 

       flaming lethal  weapons 

The anxiety of waiting after the last earthquake, hurricane or mass shooting. 

The  excruciating hours of not knowing.  

That bitch “hope”, that will make you believe that there might be a chance, 

       after all. Sometimes there is, but most time, the drama and tragedy 

       of love and life and  death enfold, pitiless, in all its raw humanity.  

Then folks remember they are human and connected…for a split, 

       very split  second. 

Mothers’ tears 

The holler when your baby is pulled away from you by force 

       because a master’s profits, from cotton or sugar-cane,

       killed his very soul 

Secret tears behind bars at midnight, or tough tight-lipped glares, 

       still the same longing for your child; the not knowing, 

       the not hugging, the not kissing, the not  watching 

       and listening to their everyday stories…

Mothers’ tears  


Mothers who want to be mothers again to a child that seems distant and aloof,  

       lost in the malls and mazes of 21st century animated epopees, 

       until the wake up, sometimes brutal, will bring the child back. 

Mothers get tough, and resilient, the tracks of their tears 

       created the valleys of  their wisdom…well, sometimes. 

Unless there are junkies’ tracks. Your daughter? Your son? 

Your mother? your lover? 

Junkies’ tracks are etched deep in pain and  desolate solitude. 

A silent cry through toothless mouth, screaming separation, 

       alienation, pain and “where is the love I thought

       I was promised?”.  


Mothers’ tears 

All separations of the most sacred bond, another day to see the day when, 

       Inshallah, the joy, the laughter, the dance, the euphoria, the silliness 

       will hum and resonate around much awaited reunions. 

Tears of Joy! 

Mothers get tough.  

Mothers’ tears, shed for thousands of years, give the world its humanity, 

       mostly denied but still present, nevertheless, yin and yang in action,  

Mothers will always get tough. 

That’s life for most of them. Pick yourself up, raise  children by yourself, 

       there is no giving up on the life you gave. 

Childbirth made you tough, this was your rite of passage. 

Mothers tears, as abundant as we are strong! 

Tears, the water and salt that feed compassionate strength. 

Mothers’ tears.

People Who Loved Too Much

people who loved too much 

you see them in the streets 

they look like winos and crack heads

they are winos and crack heads 

the bum, the mad 

the unadaptable 

the asocial 

the leech 

the broken 

the dead 

people who cared too much 

broken hearts and shattered dreams 

people who loved too much

The Teeth of Solitude
or another lonely night in the hood!

Inexorable bite burning thru the night.  

Splashed by gunfire in the darkness 

of tortured souls left to their plight. 


The dawn forgets to soothe the hound. 

The blood of too many deceptions trickle on 

the concrete of broken promises. 


The teeth of solitude laugh in the face of 

lonely old men and abandoned women 

treading deep into blinding high-noon light. 


Slowly returning to the broken silence

of a glowing sunset riddled by  

bullets and  



She is still there, Solitude, 

gnawing, biting, doesn’t let go, 

awaiting the night 

night after night...

night after night…

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