PONDERING

If you had told me that he would
disappear from my life, cut me off 
like a stray string on a worn garment...

I would have called you a liar
told you that you were delusional
that he and I--no matter what--
would always be connected, 
that we would always be friends

I would have said Love is stronger
than the grave, that we would die
rather than let each other go,
that we belonged to each other
in this lifetime and to not be friends--
FRIENDS--would be blasphemous

I would have told you that gratitude 
alone would keep us in each other's
lives; that my getting into a car
and driving almost nonstop to 
support him and his partner would 
at least make him pick up the phone
if I called; that he would not
disdain/despise my voice
treat it like something that grates
across his heart, making him ill

I don't understand the sanctimonious
meanness... the notion that somehow
I, and I alone, transgressed some
boundary that led to hell and therefore
there is no way back. It is hell, and
he sealed the door on the other side
never saying, but certainly demonstrating,
that he means to see me suffer

I'm pondering how one goes
from endearing words to silence meant to kill?
I don't get it. I'll never understand it.
I will ponder this enigma
until the day I die.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 29, 2013

THANKSGIVING

I am thankful for 
clarity
sobriety
decisions
resolve
numbness (can be the best gift)
truth (you didn't even know you told me)
plans (still in the making but being made)
hope (even if it ends badly, ending is a good thing)
peace (I know when to surrender)
love (somebody's gotta love me; it might as well be me)
death (come quickly; life is too hard sometimes)

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 28, 2013

THINK

Don't know why I thought

Things would be different now

Must just think again.

© Valerie Bridgeman

November 27, 2013

BREATHE

Dear Valerie,
Breathe. BREATHE.
DAMNIT. Breathe.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 26, 2013

TRUSTWORTHY

You said you were trust/
worthy. Silly me. Believing
what comes out your mouth.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 25, 2013

SILENCE

There are days when silence
is the best gift I give myself
no talking out loud or in my head
no trying to work it out,
sort through the worst of
the world's problems, the best
it has to offer. I just need
the quiet, the stillness
the lack of words to fill the space...
this poem is a lie of sorts.
It's filled with words about
what it is not: silence.
Some days, it's the best
I can do to just shut up.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 24, 2013

NEEDED

This world needs us...
Women who believe there is more
To blue than skies and make-up
Who see rainbow possibilities 
In war torn neighborhoods, survive
Low grade trauma and sing
Lullabies to babies not yet born: we 
Are hopeful in spite of bullets
So common we know their cousins

We wrap ourselves in blankets
For prayers, sip hot mint tea
And remind the lemon it is
More than garnish. It
Is flavor and medicine.
These are the lessons of our
Grandmothers. We are women
Of history, made and still to come.
We are weighty in our power
And the world needs us.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 23, 2013

TIME TO PONDER

Sitting with Merlot in hand
back against leather cushion
a view of the Baltimore harbor
with time to ponder:
I think only of you

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 22, 2013

NOT A POEM

This is not a poem
it's just a declaration:
I love you and will
be here. Thank you
for working it out.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 21, 2013

TRANS LOVE

In recognition of International Transgender Day of Remembrance

I never knew you as "a girl,"
though I suspect you were "in drag,"
never a girl at all, but the world
labeled you such because
the doctor said that's what you were,
that you were born one
But you never were, you only
had the accidents of a body
that did not tell the truth
about your inner soul,
the mind that guided you

I knew that the first time
I saw you; I saw the man
you are, the man you've
always been--the little boy
who never got to do "little boy"
things, but who would have
had they let you. And now
everything about you,
from the way you held me
to the way you kissed
the pain away when I
never thought it possible
You were never a girl
That I know.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 20, 2013

UNITY

What brings friends together
like death and birth?
Not much. Not very much else.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 19, 2013

DESIRE

I miss being desired.
Desire. I miss
short-breath pant
how I want you 
now desire.
I miss can't stop
staring, putting
my hands on you
desire. I miss
why are you still
in those clothes
desire, I wish I 
could have you
every moment
every day desire.
I miss, let's eat
then spend the
rest of our time
soaking in each
other's sweat
desire. I miss
I can't stand
when I can't just
reach over and touch
you desire.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 18, 2013

SOMETHING DIVINE

Sunday morning
and the sermon has refused
to come. Oh, I don't mean I
can't preach. I can take a text
out of nowhere and preach!
It's like giving a poet two words
and telling them to write a poem.
A poet will do it. Don't mean it
will be good, or the poem they
want to write. Just that they can
because, you know, they're a poet.
It's Sunday morning and I've 
been wrangling over this sermon
and thinking about those people
who will be sitting there expecting
to hear from their pastor
and I'll stand up and the audible
disappointment will be sucked
into a fake smile. I know how 
they feel--I mean, if I get up to
hear Bishop, that's who I wanna
hear. But I'll be there and I
usually know that although I
wasn't expected, I am the
one for that day. But not today.
Today, I'm writing this poem
about the sermon I don't have
and the people I don't know
and the word that's not in my
mouth and I'm wondering
if God is at least laughing
about me caring about whether
I say something divine.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 17, 2013

I JUST WANT TO BE REMEMBERED

In answer to the question, "how do you want to be remembered," Dr. Henry H. Mitchell said, "I just want to be remembered.

He folds his aged hands one over the other

reaches for his goatee every so many words

laughs easy while he says he was married

to the love of his life: "64 years, 3 months,

and so many days." "I miss her," he says.

A lion among men. He is living history,

beautiful in his recall; steadfast as a 

teacher. Many tell him often how important

he is, how he occupies a place of honor

in my development and that of so many others.

He seems genuinely shocked, unable

to grasp that he is a universe all by

himself and we are stargazers, watching

the milky way, following his north star

as we trip to locate our own place to stand.

© Valerie Bridgeman

November 16, 2013

GRIEF AT REST

I had not allowed myself
the luxury of missing you
crowded my mind
and scheduled with 
so much busy work
things that had to be done
clothes folded while
watching someone 
else's scandalous life
emails upon emails
begging to be answered
anything but think
of you and the way
you used to hold me
close, breathe me in--
I miss your sigh
tonight. I miss the slow
gentle scrape of your
nails across my hands
lining my life out
in measures while
you hum a tune I don't
know--a generational
curse in difference
I miss your eyes
I miss your... eyes.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 15, 2013

RENISHA MCBRIDE #3

Renisha,
| will NOT let go.
I won't forget your name.
I won't let Ted Wafer off
the hook. I won't pretend
like it was ANYTHING 
other than murder.
I hear your blood
crying from the ground.
I will not let go.
I won't.
Renisha.
McBride.
You deserve
better
in death
than you
received
in 
life.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 13, 2013

THE HALF-MOON WATCHING

The half-moon is waxing
into her full glory
shining through parted clouds
as the tide laps into the shore
just down the beach from
the boardwalk in Atlantic City
She is grinning at us, I think
watching as we listen
for the Ocean to speak
to us. We need to know 
what the Ancestors buried
in these waters will bring
on the waves of the currents

It's cold and windy and the night
is promising. We wait. We listen.
We finger the water with hope.
We stare back at the moon,
so full of promise.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 12, 2013

VETERAN'S DAY

Today is Veterans Day in the USA. I do not celebrate it. I honor those who over the years have put their lives on the line, most often in service to greed and not freedom. They died in our names. They serve on our behalf, sometimes out of sheer need to survive. I appreciate the complexity of choices in our country where 1% of the population--generally from poor to working class social strata--bear the burden of hell that is war. They are wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities. And we owe each of them, especially the ones so damaged they never quite re-humanize. Every fallen military person takes to their grave a piece of the nation's soul. We owe them and their families. I do not celebrate on this day. I vow to continue to work for peace and justice so that our commemorating will not be in vain.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 11, 2013

OLD WOMAN

The older I get the less I am willing to pretend as if things are "alright." I've taken to raging against the world. I didn't imagine that I would be the old woman to lay down easy. And my imagination is proving true.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 11, 2013

RENISHA McBRIDE #2

He shot you in the face
because he was afraid
at 2 am of a 19-year-old
with no "juice" on her
cell phone, hurt from
a car accident, stumbling
to what she thought was
safety. I have no other
words except to repeat
it, what happened to you
Renisha. I can only tell
this story to manage
the terror, the rage,
the sorrow. I pray
for everyone who 
knew you. And now,
we have all been
reminded that accident
in the suburbs + black
+ white man with a gun
= (always) =
dead black bodies
grieving families
and answers
no one wants
to hear.

© Valerie Bridgeman

November 11, 2013

ON PREACHING

I'm told I make it look easy
that I stand flat-footed and
talk it down, the Spirit that is.
That I know how to conjure
the Voice of God in a room.
Let me tell you: it's not easy.
And still I keep trying.
I keep coming with that thing.

© Valerie Bridgeman

November 10, 2013

RENISHA MCBRIDE

I've run out of words for the rage

of it all--dead bodies strewn 

in the street and on porch steps.

We don't know why whoever

(the police won't tell us who, Renisha)

shot you in the back of your head.

Shot you. In the back of your head.

When you went for help

Help. You were already afraid

and I imagine you couldn't have

imagined that you'd get shot for

crying, "Help!" I'm crying as

I think of you, shocked by

the cruel irony of it all--

trying to save your life,

bleeding out on a porch

from a shot to the back of

your head, which--I mean--

does that mean you had

given up and was ready

to try someone else, to seek

help from another neighbor.

We can't know because 

your cell phone was dead

before you were and 

there are no texts even

telling us what happened

to you. The police

are protecting the person

who shot you because,

well, they're right this time.

We might very well

riot and rage in the streets.

Tired as we are of writhing

in the dust of our grief,

what else could we do?

Renisha, I hope death

was merciful and quick.

I hope you didn't have to 

ask yourself the questions

we are asking, like,

really? who shoots a

woman in the back of the head

for daring to come up on their

porch and ask for help???

© Valerie Bridgeman

November 9, 2013

THE TALK

We've all had it: 
the talk
the conversation
the sit-down-look-you-in-the-eye
I've got things to tell you
Melissa, I applaud you
for that very public
confession. It's not easy
to admit we've been
seduced by privilege
that the smell of new
car leather, a gentle
red wine, and money
in the bank can make
us believe we're
safe, a different kind
of black. It takes
some kind of ovaries
to admit that having
a white parent
makes us forget
that the world does
not see us as the
product of love
but just--a different
shade of black.
And then there is that:
the black side of 
the conversation
where we are forced
to look ourselves
square in the face and
say what the "average"
American does about us,
to own that no matter
how much power
we have, we are not
powerful enough.
But that's the talk
we all have to have
if we're going to
do more than survive
our lot. Starting
with truth is the
first sign of thriving.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 8, 2013

RECIPROCITY

Not sure I know what it means
but I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean
that you get what you want and need
and the other person gets what they
want to give IF they want to give
it on any given day. Daughter,
you deserve better than crumbs
from emotionally unavailable
people who use you. I really
just wanted you to know: YOU
deserve better. You ARE
better. You are.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 7, 2013

FAITH STATEMENT/CONFESSIONS

I love myself most days.
This is a faith statement
as I struggle to look in a mirror
at a face fatter than ever
gut hungover, body not limber.
These are the horrible things
and more that are in my
head about me, child of
God, of Universe, of
Ancestors who survived
real horror and still,
I cannot believe my lover's
words that I am beautiful
or brilliant or anything
good. Why are we often
the ones who believe 
the worst about ourselves?
No one has ever said--
at least to my face--
any of the negating
words that pound
inside my thoughts.
Self-hatred is a sin.
And I have been 
chief among sinners
in this regard. Today,
by faith, I love myself
fiercely; I love the pug
freckled nose; the arms
that know the value
of squeeze; the mind
that thinks and sorts ideas;
feet that walk and run
when necessary, that
bare pain and keep moving;
legs that hold up the 
weight of my whole body
and the weights of
my worry as well.
Tongue that speaks
truth even when my
heart is afraid,
a mouth that kisses
granddaughters and
lovers with the same
fervor; back that
sits up straight
when despair
could be my lot
My hair that is thick
and unruly, a
prophecy of who
I could always be
I love me when
I'm laughing,
and when my lips
are burnt from
prayer.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 6, 2013

DEAR LOVE #16

Your face lights up
when you see me...
did you know?
Nothing like
having someone
glad to see you coming.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 5, 2013

GUANXI

(N): A network of social connections based on mutual trust and the balancing of debts by returning favors so that the relationship's benefits are shared by all. (Pronounced: guan-'shi)

It was our running joke
"I owe her my life," one of us would say.
"I just hope you don't ask for the payment
in a lump sum," the other would counter.
And we'd laugh at the notion of life
being in a balance, teetering between
the debt and grace of forgiving what
was owed so that neither of us ever
really felt beholden to the other. I mean,
what was it to buy a Jack's hamburger
for 99 cents or a bar of candy from
the school's vending machine. We were
athletes and needed our energy, and
money was just the paper passed back
and forth between us: sometimes I had
it; sometimes you did, but we never
went without and that was the point.
Guanxi the Chinese would call it:
that life of trust, mutual and precarious
but always balanced enough to
benefit us all. We returned favors
like badminton birdies. We were
good athletes, after all. And even
if the birdie dropped, it was of no
deep regret because missed opportunities
never cost us each other. There were
the rides, first on bicycles, later on
motorcycles and later still in cars.
I never had a motorcycle, but you
didn't let that stop you from giving
me a ride. You knew, somehow, 
I'd figure out how to pay you back
in advice, or clothes, or secrets
told under makeshift livingroom
tents with flashlight beams staring
in our faces. I was good for a 
story, if nothing else. By the time
the car ride came around, I was
the most reliable. You never 
knew if your mother was feeling
any way generous with her
Impala; I could sweet talk my mama
out of the keys to her Chevy with little effort
and a full tank of gas on return. That is
the way it works, trust and 
connection and the making
of improbable bonds and 
unbreakable friendships.
(I don't know where you are, now.
But I'm pretty sure, we've gotten
Guanxi down).

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 4, 2013

LIZZIE WHITE

Ancestor, I try to imagine how you survived
the memory of bodies swinging in the breeze,
of the smell of flesh scorching your nostrils,
the unwanted hands grabbing your breasts
a mouth, hot and hellish, over your tongue
and teeth. I want to know how you survived
to bring us forward; what did you have to say
to yourself to bear the lash. Did you dream
of us? How did you do it, Lizzie? HOW?

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 3, 2013

After viewing the movie "12 Years A Slave."

INVITATION

When you invite me into your world
a deliberate opening of small spaces
a welcome into cramped and neglected rooms
I hold these moments carefully
When you say, "here--I know the closet
is full of mix-matched clothes and old
habits hard to let go and secrets I
meant to hide even from myself"--
but let me look anyway, I remind
myself not to stare--to be easy with 
your heart. I know what courage it takes
for you to let me in. I know the creaking
sound and the silence underneath
every yearning to be known. I hold
these moments very carefully.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 2, 2013

DEAR DARIUS (PAPA/BEAR)

I listen to the anguish in your voice--
the passion of a papa as you try
to figure out how to protect your girls
from a world that does not believe
in them the way that you do. I am
happy for the tinder in your mouth
that sits your throat on fire;
that raises your ire at teachers
who socially promote children
because they don't think brown-skinned
girls are smart; that your double-language
tongue talking daughter can learn.
I am glad for your warrior's rage,
the barely caged disgust that these
are the realities she must face
and the knowledge that you cannot
follow her everywhere into this
world--but you are set on giving
her skills, cunning, and armor
to face it. 

You tell me, "I got it from my mama,"
and this rising to bless me is just
the rest of the story. I have been
you, only wondering whether I could
ever help a boy-child understand
just how dangerous his mother had it;
what his grandmother had to do
to graft armadillo thick skin onto
my body; the plotting it took for
me to figure out boys to make
them safe for girls. Yours
is a generational experiment
in surviving and it seems the
grafting took. You look more
than a warrior defending a damsel
in distress; you look like a general
leading an army, and raising
up girls who can fight for themselves.

© Valerie Bridgeman
November 1, 2013

PERFECT SENSE

One day it will make perfect sense
the way the world keeps opening
up before you; the way you call
the best out of yourself, others
the way not even your doubt
can stop you.

© Valerie Bridgeman
October 31, 2013