Friday, July 5, 2013

SYBRINA FULTON (MOTHER)

No mother should have to take
the stand to screams in the background
and say, "that's my son." NO MOTHER
should have to identify the dying moments
of her son on tape in live court. No mother
should have to be badgered by the defense
attorney who's smirk needs to be slapped
off his face. No Mother should have
to be looking in the face of the man
who killed him. No mother should
have to watch that man, that killer,
smile in relief. No. Mother.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 5, 2013

Thursday, July 4, 2013

4TH OF JULY

Perhaps I should have a revolutionary
war poem in me, railing against the 
imperialistic machine, the death
that comes in dollars and cents
today, maybe I should lament the aftermath
of U.S. policies and be careful of the chicken
I eat, knowing (wink) that it is filled with
hormones unnatural to it. Perhaps,
I should proclaim the truth that this day
we celebrate is not the Independence
of very many people: it wasn't in 1776
and damn sure ain't in 2013
the bombs bursting in air
banks exploding credit
and slaves to a dream that
turns quick to nightmare
Perhaps I should care
about all of it today
but I'm closing my eyes
and ears to the grief of this land
is your land, my land does not
exist blues. Forget the 
way Brittney had to school
someone just today
about their BS racism
but she already knew, really she did
I know she did and maybe I should
rail against it today
but ice cream is the salve for
right now and that's all
it takes to make the day
go away quiet behind the
boom of fireworks just
outside the window
I'm tired, besides
I don't have a revolutionary
bone in my weary body
today.... catch  me
tomorrow, though
I might have a war poem
a revolutionary love
a kiss to hope
a dream
maybe
tomorrow

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 4, 2013

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

HALF WAY

For Jaha

We are half-way there
on the poem-a-day trip
of our lives, pushing ourselves
to brinks of truth-or-dare and
please care about what's happening
in the world people, I mean--why are
you posting about candy when
babies are burning up in houses
being shot in minivans--get some
perspective, people poems

I am thankful for the journey
With you—not just of poem
But of prayer, of conversation
Of laughter, of tears, of breathing…
Please breathe
Of promise to each other
Of encouragement
Of ain’t no stopping us now
Of love, always love
We cannot help but write of love
Speak of it, want for it,
Long together, pray for it
In us, for us, for all the world
In spite of the world, always love
You have been my greatest gift
These five years
The discovery of time
We thought we lost
As aunt/as niece
Time stored up for
Deep, deep late-night,
Early-morning
mid-day what-are-you-doing-
can-you-talk-now moments
The I can’t take another
Day of world gone bad
Moments, I want you whole
Moments, breathe, just keep breathing
Moments, thank you for reading
Moments, thank you for caring
Moments, thank you for answering the phone
In this moment… for answering in every way.
Thank you.

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 3, 2013


Tuesday, July 2, 2013

TRITE OVERUSED TRUTH

I love you
I have no other words than these
they are trite/over-used
repetitious
but they also
are truth
like the bed
that lies in
wait for
you
your arms
your legs flung
against the sheets
your face pressed
on my arm, tender
the way you sweat
underneath my breath
the way you wait
for me to brush
my teeth, wrap my hair
turn out the light
I love the way
you wait for me
and hold
the space
for my body
to impress
the bed
the way 
you press
against
by heart.
I love you
trite
overused
truth

© Valerie Bridgeman
July 2, 2013



Monday, July 1, 2013

JONYLAH WATKINS

Dear Jonylah,

I am thinking of you today. And of all the babies who've been murdered--no matter what their age. But there you were on March 11--dead. On the streets of Chicago. You, you are haunting me today, floating in and out of my mind because of how you died. And why. No baby should be killed while her father changes her diaper. Your father, Jonathon, was holding you on his lap, changing your diaper. Changing your diaper. I can't get that detail out of my head. He was in the driver's seat of the minivan and you were shot once, 6-month-old, and you couldn't finish your life. Minivan. Changing Diapers. Sounds so innocent, so safe. But  you're dead. Because ... because bullets kill and there was a drive-by and you were... there. On the streets of Chicago, in your daddy's lap. Your dad, 29 with a "long criminal history," a gang member... but he was changing your diaper with such care. And I'm sure he didn't see them coming. I'm sure he didn't. Surveillance cameras saw the getaway car and Facebook has the posts threatening your father. But nothing about the bullets. Or the diaper. Or really, about you. Your mother Judy must be besides herself with grief. I can't imagine how she understands dead and changing diapers.

I wish I could tell you the world will be better for other little girls, that there will be no more 3-foot caskets or diapers left on seats with naked bottoms of babies who won't see their first birthday. I wish I could tell you we were better, can be better. But you're haunting me today. And all I can think is.. he was changing her diapers. I'm sorry, sweet girl. I'm sorry I have no answers beyond these tears, beyond this slow moving rage that has no landing. I'm sorry. I know that's not enough. But I really am sorry.


Please rest, Beloved. Please.
Valerie
© Valerie Bridgeman
July 1, 2013



Sunday, June 30, 2013

ON THE COUCH

"Because sometimes a woman needs to be alone with her thoughts" ~ Jaha Zainabu

I am alone with my thoughts
shaking them loose from my tendencies 
to make the worst assumptions 
about what's going on around
me, even when the worst is going on around me
The neck pain of worry
the eyes that cannot close easy
I'm folding over like the wet towel
crumpled, not neatly arranged 
for this moment... the jumble of it all
presses against my spine
against my resolve
I'm not sure of anything
in this right now, which 
is probably crazy since I've
been assured today that I have
nothing to worry about

so why in this moment, 
alone with my thoughts
is worry sitting on the couch
next to me?

© Valerie Bridgeman
June 30, 2013

500

Kimberly Lagayle McCarthy, 52
Number 500 of Texas death-row inmates
Killed by state-sanctioned lethal injection
since 1982, the lusting for death penalty
renewed and made possible
she deserved it, they said. At least they
knew on June 26, 2013 that she
had "done the deed" sixteen
years earlier: in a crack-induced
rage, fiending she killed
a 71-year-old retired professor
It was brutal, unforgiving
A butcher knife
a candelabra
stab/beat/stab/beat
then used the crimson-filled blade
to sever her left ring finger
and take the wedding band
there is no doubt--she did it
it was brutal, maybe evil
crack-induced rage as it was
Right before they gave her 
the last drug she could fiend,
she had the state-ordered meal:
pepper steak, mash potatoes with gravy, 
mixed vegetables, 
white cake with chocolate icing
Maybe she's not the case
to ask Texas why they've
killed more people since 1986
than the next 6 states
combined, why Texas has
a death lust, why the state
can't be more creative in building
a more perfect union than
killing its citizens--some proven
"not guilty," but that doesn't 
bother Governor Rick Perry who says:
I never lose a bit of sleep over it.

And what kind of person
doesn't lose sleep over death
laid at their feet? Who sleeps easy
with that smell in their nostril?
What kind of crazy easy is that?
How you eat steak/potatoes with gravy
and top it off with cake 500 times
and not even blink?

© Valerie Bridgeman
June 29, 2013