Portrait of a Lady

Martin Luther King Blvd. (Atlanta, GA)

I take pictures. She dazzles. Not only does she dazzle, she sparks. She is an Independence Day sparkler. Mostly beautiful, something you would want to pantomime your name in the sky with. But a potential danger, when you forget to keep your fingers low to the tip. She lights up when she marches, and her steady fire ignites those next to her. Her flame holds injustice hostage. She burns its tips. I flash my film at her. I steady my hand so that it captures her look; the creases on her forehead that increase my pulse, and the tenaciously glinted eyes. A 'don't mess with me' smile. She leads a procession of five-hundred. One voice, a five-hundred toned pitch. "No Justice, No Peace!," they amplify. My peace is found in her step.

Emily Jean is a good woman. A phenomenal woman.

A poem for such a woman...

last night, yes
last night i
was moved to
know you, in the
way that your knees grind
against the floor when
you are pushing
hard for a prayer
that has no words
but only groans.
I hereby declare
that groans are
the new standard
English, the new
pledge of allegience
the universal
language of love,
the way to reach
the sun without
talking your way
around its revolution.
I revolute
that as my sun
rises, and as my
ocean guises, as
my moon pauses
for a glimpse
through your window
I will daily raise my alms to the wind
for you.
For you my dear.
For you there are
not enough words
per minute, tornadoes
without limit, a wise
man would not give
your reflection
a second thought.
I imagine he would
give his life for
mirror images.
Imagine if your
justice met my
pen. Would the
paper set afire?
Would the rich meet
their Maker? Would
the whole earth
temporarily groan
and shake for
liberation in the
face of a storm
of words that
professes nothing
but sheer joy, hope,
redemption and
a son and daughter
stepping in line
with gold, yellow
bricks, in a fancy
hopscotch toward
their beloveds
right hand.
To the alter we go,
I call us both to
the alter on a
Sunday in the old
brickwork shadow
of the resurrection
where as small
children we can
run on the felt
of the red carpet
to the foot of
the crosses feet.
I want to hear the
Heaven and Hell man
with all his might,
with his red curling
lip, to tell us to be
sent forth, to be
freed, to wheel
around and sprint
to the back of the
Sanctuary, punch
the golden doors
and stumble
into the grasp
of the light
where we may
proceed to fight
lions, slay pirates
or just simply wait
with hands held
for that light to
draw close and
affirm with
a million watts
that our hearts
are pure, that
our love is ripe,
and that with
us he is well
pleased.