Americana was my Grandmother's Glory
A needle and thread.
A needle and crochet needles.
A ballot.
Sewing American Democracy
together one stitch and vote
at a time since our grandmother’s
and Grace Wisher.
One silent stitch at a time.
Americana doesn't see us.
We're the silent seamstress
holding on to hope and
covering ourselves in our
grandmother's glory.
We vote because our grandmother's
couldn't.
We believe in purple mountain
majesties and vote for American
Democracy.
You will find us from sea to
shining sea standing nobly
above fruited plains.
Even when we're uncelebrated
and unacknowledged.
Even when no one sees me.
I'm there cloaked in belief
wearing deferred dreams as a
banner yet waved.
I'm the 91 percent of Black
womanhood that voted for a first
ever Black woman president.
Still holding needle and thread
in our weary hands.
Still stitching the red, white, and
blue together all over the land.
Unseen holding on to hope,
Black women believe in a system
of government that never embraced
us back.
We are our grandmother's glory.
Were it not for Black women in
America there wouldn't be an
American story.
In the quiet of life, the words
come.
They are there, formed, waiting
for you to become their
breath.
I listen to the silence.
I wait in anticipation for the
birthing of words.
In the quiet of life the words
form.
I seam them together then those
secret thoughts birth prose and
poems.
From the cocoon of my womb
the words lie dormant in the
silence, much like a secret tomb.
Birthed in the quiet of life,
the words come.
Fallen Stars
Our brightest and shiniest
lights within our lives burn
bright only for a season.
Bringing with them much
light and warmth.
We're warmer, happier with
their presence.
As quickly as the light
shines in our lives, it suddenly
becomes dark.
They're gone.
Taking with them their warmth
and light.
Our world is much colder and
darker upon their exit.
I now sit here alone in the
cold remembering the days
of warmth and light.
Winter has set upon me.
I can't believe you're really gone.
Recalling our season of sun that
burned bright.
Come home beloved of my soul.
Come home.
Missing you now.
Missing your light.
Crackling colourful leaves
falling from trees.
Bringing with them cooler
temperatures and howling
sweater wearing breezes.
Wrapping ourselves in
Fall cocoons of blankets,
scarves, hats, and other
Autumn cozies.
There isn't a more coveted
time to look so fashionable.
Time to promenade Fall
vogue on parade.
Harvest season has become
natures treasured runway.
We sip hot lattes and ciders;
then plan our impending
frigid settle-in.
Jack Frost is on his way.
The heaviest footfalls
my heart would
ever know, came
from family members
lined up, at my
parents front door.
The loud crescendo of
rushing mendacious feet.
Such a dreadfully pitiful
and gloomy day.
Saying last goodbyes to
everyone that made me
who I am.
Betrayal once seen
can't be unseen.
All these years later
those heavy footsteps that
landed on the front porch,
took with them familiar
faces, memories, traditions
and history my heart wants
so much to forget.
Estrangement comes at a
heavy cost.
This time, I have to save
myself.
Chyrel J. Jackson is an International Poet, a Literary supernova and #1 Ranked Best Selling Amazon Author. She is now living in the state of Mississippi, USA. Black Literature influenced her writing. Chyrel Jackson writes in the spirit of her past great Literary ancestors.
Previously published works: SistersRoc’N’Rhyme Presents Poems in the Key of Life, Mirrored Images and Different Sides of the Same Coin Her writings: appear in multiple poetry Anthologies, Literary Journals, and International Global Magazines.
No comments:
Post a Comment