When you open your eyes,
you see your friends and family cry.
You see them dressed in black,
but you don't see their faces, just their backs.
You feel sad and lost.
You see a girl turn around with a shiny cross.
She looks at you. You look at her;
and feel guilty and hurt.
She walks toward you.
As you try to walk you realize you can't move.
She takes your hand and puts in a rose.
You look at the rose and feel your hand close.
When you open your hand the rose is dead.
You look at her eyes. She looks at you.
"I love you," is all you hear and all that's said.
As she removes her hand from yours,
the rose goes through your hand to the ground.
She turns around
and starts to walk.
You try to talk,
but realize you haven't made a sound.
She comes back to you with more tears
and says, "I will always love you, my sweet dear."

My dirty jeans are
sitting over there.
I wanna wash them
but I'd rather stare.
They are folded very
neatly 'cause I love them
very dearly.

They are a little faded
and also a little ripped
but I really don't care
because they don't stick
on my underwear.

Sometimes at night I
think they are alive.
I imagine them dancing
all through the night in
a beautiful jeans
fantasy land.

They travel all over the world
and throughout space;
see Jupiter and go through
Spain. They
dance the mambo, merengue
and the cha-cha
with lots of muchachos and muchachas.

But, then I wake up.
They are just sitting
there.
I wanna wash them,
but I'd rather stare.

They might tell me
a story so I won't
have a nightmare.

What do I see when I look in the mirror?
I see deeper than a reflection.
I see the truth no matter how painful
or sweet it may be.
I see myself in the same light others see me,
a confused, but kind, person.
I see a dreamer and a fighter
waiting to get on
with her life.

   Have you ever looked at something you've done earlier one day, and, when taking a night's walk, saw someone passing who is doing the same thing? Some might call it a coincidence, but I see it as a late reflection of God's universal mirror which is set strictly to let one see his particular acts and errors, to see what he's doing from another person's standpoint. But that other person is you! Because you are the only one who can correct or analyze your own actions, who can criticize yourself and can make justice for the error of your ways.
   But this is not the only purpose of the universal mirror. It is also to see the likeness of oneself through another and to know how another person would look acting your part; someone else wearing your personality, your outfit, so to speak. But there is one similarity that the universal mirror always shows: Everyone is human, has feelings, and wants the good things in life. Everyone is a sole reflection of yourself.

The only tree;
no leaves at all.
Its death we see,
this cold and windy fall.

My black brothers and sisters,
remember me as a man of love,
a life well-lived,
an open minded black man with pride and dignity,
who is willing to give a helping hand
to any one or thing.
Not as a dog or a pimp. No!
My black brothers and sisters,
remember me as a free black man
who is willing to help each and every one, day or night.

Like a baby
stuck behind crib bars:
able to look at everything
nearby,
but unable to reach
beyond invisible barriers --
keeping me far from
my dreams,
holding me back
from a distant future
that I see as the end
not the beginning.

Please don't go
don't leave me
leave my side
my lonely side
lonely tears drop
tears of pain
of gray hurt
gray turning hairs
turning marshmallow strong
marshmallow sweet pickles
sweet and sour
and painful too.

The river runs to the
creek to the
bare feet
that I'm looking
down at.
Hair on my
arms
spikes up.
Reflections of sun rays
shine up from the snowy lake.
Winter pancakes defrost and
breakfast
meets
spring.
Flowers are beneath the
syrup.
I run
across the creek
as a naked child
lost
in
seasons.

Life is like a pair of sneakers.
When you're born,
you just come out of your mother's store
brand new.
Then as the years go on,
you break in
and wear out your life.
When life gets dirty,
we have to clean it.
But, yet, we still get older.
Then we get too old
and start to rot away.
Then we're declared nil and rotten
and, last of all,
dead.
Then we get thrown into the ground
buried under dirt, grime, and plants.
If you were important and known to many,
you would be remembered
as the first pair of Jordan sneakers.

Take me to the place I called home
where the trees had no leaves, and children
weren't allowed to act grown;
a place of yesterday, where tomorrow
we'll never see.
Deep thoughts roaming from mountain
ranges down to the bed of the sea.
Sky light with sun light is the only
light we stay under.
So the streets, under chaos, are rains
without thunder.
After hours meant hostility to those
who ran in its way
where empty shells reflected the
sun rise as it made its way in day.
Out all night every step just another anthem
of words that can never leave our mouths.
So the wise never chant them.

Does the way I dress describe my personality?
Does the way I speak give you the right to disrespect me?
When I walk, can you tell I'm a virgin?
When I talk, do I have to put a curse in it?
Because I am light skinned, sweet and short,
why must I be called a ho'?
But see, I am much smarter than all of that.
That's why I look straight and stay in my path.
I am not made out of glass, so you can't fool me.
Why don't you speak words?
And maybe you will get to know me.

We are not alone as we think we are.
There are not only nine planets, but more.
We are not alive physically, but spiritually.
We are not intellectual beings, but close-minded fools.
We are not who we are
or who we think to be.

Am I a thought or a dream?
Do I really exist?
Do we exist?
Can we prove it besides the usual explanations?
All we are is a force of energy.
Can you prove that I'm wrong?
But, how can you prove you're right?

We are never right but always wrong.
All we do is look for answers,
For questions we can never answer.
Does "right" really exist?
Do these words actually have meaning?

   I wished for another family. I saw beyond the world I lived in and the life I led. I wanted to live a life of lies. I wanted to live a life of make believe. I knew, as a child, the truth hurt.
   My mom would call me to clean my room and I acted as if I did not hear her. I heard her, but did not see her. I looked from the sliding door in my room out to a world filled with many problems. I looked beyond the problems and saw a place like home. I repeated to myself, "There is a place like home."
   I watched TV and saw a family I dreamed of. A family with no problems. In my home I lived in an open cage. I was like a bird. I flew to the ocean in my dreams when I pleased and flew back to my mother's nest.
   One day as I was watching TV a knock came to the door. As the door opened, my social worker stood there with an officer behind her. She talked to my mother and my mother's spirit fell to the ground. I was taken from the nest I loved so much. So warm and so safe.
   I prayed to the Lord to let me stay with the mother I loved so much. I was now like a bird locked in a cage in which my mom was the key, but she was too far from me to fly and open the lock to set me free.
   As I awoke from this dream, I realized that there is no place like home.

It hurts when tears come down.
Your angry screams burn my heart.
My pain swallows the midnight's
wild fires.

Stone is strength
weapons
colors
grey, black, green
gold, silver
pearly, jade
Stone is power
flint
hard
mighty
solid
Stone is heritage
Arizona
Puerto Rico
pricessa
Stone is Alcatraz
wall
being buried
Stone breaks
women of Brewster Place
God
Stone is forever

---

It's there on the wall, ever since I was small
when I used to live over there near the river
ofthe east. . .
It was a symbol when I was little, couldn't reach it but I
could feel it. . .
It had presence in my house for so many years.
Sometimes I didn't notice it but it might have noticed me . . .
no longer a symbol just something on the wall . . .
had meaning to my parents but to me . . .
nothing at all.
They try to tell me it's important to see, if I lie
would I be free?
Should I just lie and say that I do, no I would never deceive
that I believe in you.
And again I grow more and more and my mind develops,
now my eyes deliver & I live by a new river...
on the other side of town.
leaving some memories behind . . .
but it comes along almost like a sign.
From whom I don't know, I could care less.
It's frustrating now even to look at it . . .
has more bad memories than good.
and I always must see . . .
in my rooms where it be.

And the only thing it's showing me . . .
is how I'm alone . . .
and how much I've grown.

His hands were his voice --
a dark, rich mahogany complexion,
long and thin,
sort of feminine
for such a powerful man;
rough,
wouldn't turn down a battle --
only to the same sex.

To the opposite sex his hands spoke of soft words,
very gentle, generous and respectful;
and always curious,
ready to explore all journeys.

Depending on your gender
was the way he greeted you;
sometimes relaxed
other times eager, enthusiastic, forceful.

His hand made one trip.
He ran them across her back
with hot oil,
digging them in her back.
His fingers embedded.
They were like the hot sun
that lay across the beach on a Caribbean island.

5 tears passed. . .

The color of his hands
remained the same;
instead they became
rough completely
and no longer had a double personality.

They were completely unattractive.
No longer thin feminine fingers
his hands
transformed into thick masculine fingers
with swollen, bulging knuckles
that always stared at her.

No longer respectful, generous and gentle
his hands were constantly battling;
but not his enemy
now his companion - his lover

His hands possessed her
terrified her
becoming her worst fear - her enemy.
They were brutal.

His hands were always exploring,
but no longer ecstasy,
just for a new part of fresh untouched skin
that he could beat 'til it turned numb,
until the pain penetrated into her body,
leaving her for days not able to move.

She asked, "Why do you use your hand
as your voice?"

He looked down at his hands
stretched them out
each mark on his hand a memory
of every incident
he looked up and said, "Well, because I'm
not good with words."

I look at myself, and what do I see?
In all, it's just a reflection of me;
My stare of wonder into the glass
bombarded by a wicked past;
or maybe pride that brings a smile.
Subjected to change when given a while,
I look much harder, deep within
and I see myself changing, now and then.
The harder I stare into the mirror
my acceptance helps me to see things clearer.
No longer does my silhouette haunt me
for I'm delighted by what I see.
I now look at my self-face value
and accept all praises due.
My will and soul are complete with marriage,
pleased at what's my mirror image.

A bud that our heavenly gardener gave us,
a pure and loving child.
He gave it in our keeping to cherish and to guide,
but just as our bud was opening to the glory of the day,
down came our heavenly gardener,
and took our flower away.

With love, peace, and respect,
the memory of Jamella T. Douglas

Beyond my window
I see the world:
the flowers dead,
the trees all bare,
the grass brown,
the sky dark and gray.
But, instead of trying
to revive the flowers;
instead of trying
to bring leaves back to the trees;
instead of trying
to make the grass green again;
instead of trying to make
the sun come out again;
I sit back
and shut my window.

Poetry is like an open gate.
It's the key to
thoughts;
the key to the soul;
to the way people
really feel
about
every thing.

Poetry is like a dead rose.
It is the sadness,
depression, guilt
of the people;
the way people
feel about
humanity.

My universe consists of the sun, moon and stars.
They are celestial heavens, meaning:
sun = man, moon = woman, and stars = babies.
In my universe everything is intact.
That is why everything around me is right and exact.