Jason Reynolds's Blog, page 8

Day 20 of 30

BROWN PAINT (for the artist, Barkley L. Hendricks, RIP)

paint brown on blue

paint brown on red

but whatever you do

dont paint brown dead

and that aint ’cause brown

dont actually die

but why paint brown down

when you can paint brown fly

Day 19 of 30

PRODIGAL for my patient friends and family…(and yes, she found him)

this morning

at a cafe on lincoln

a mother poked her head in

she’d lost her son

said he was on a bike

his brother was supposed

to watch him

she was just gone

for a moment

he had been gone

for a minute

that must’ve felt

like a month

his brother felt

like a monster

like a mountain placed

on his mind

no one but his brother

could move

that fast

everything changed

that fast

i was supposed to watch him

i was supposed to watch him

he said his words a gurgle

matching the making of a

cappuccino

i did not see him

no child on a bike

pedaled past

i did not say anything

i could not

i could have

i did not

but did not swallow

another bite of benedict

could not

did call my little brother

not so little anymore

his voice a deep roast

i’m sorry

i haven’t been around

to watch you

been gone

for a minute

much more

than a month

i feel

like a monster

with a mountain placed

on my mind

don’t know how to

move it

to move things

so fast

everything has changed

so fast

Day 18 of 30

MUSEUM, FREE OF CHARGE, SUGGESTED DONATION (still working this out…hmmm)

went to the museum today

perused corridors of

artifact-clad walls

paintings and prints

of people from past

other times in

this world

and i thought

what if hate were here

a thing that could be

housed in a palatial space

maybe framed in gold

or incased in glass

or roped off by blood velvet

like the mona lisa

what if it was some

fragile installation

taking up every inch

so that you could step into

the museum but could not

move or touch or breathe or

what if it was

performance art

starring you and me

and you and you and us

where pain is part

of the art of it all

and we just clap

for ourselves

like damn

we a part

of history

what if hate came

with a pamphlet

and an exhibition tour guide

start at the top

work your way down

and what if your name

and my name was on

every piece

our signatures scribbled

across every canvas

each one like a mass

grave a mess of ink

everyone fawning and

falling over

what if it was outsider art

where everything is built

by that which has been destroyed

repurposed human

looks just like you

you’ll say to you

what if it was just

a hall of mirrors

or a hall of hallways

or a hall of fame

of people from now

this time in

this world

Day 17 of 30

TUCKED IN (or FATHER’S, KISS YOUR BOYS)

one thing i’ll

never forget

about bedtime

is the feeling of

father’s tired lips

on forehead and cheek

every night his beard

dusting the day off

but his breath

never broken

never hesitant

happy like this is how

i love you

feels son

like this is what

man means

16 of 30

UNTITLED (or, maybe, THROWING STONES)

the one rolled

away from the tomb

is also a stone

one must be careful

not to cast

Day 15 of 30

LESSONS (because I spent the day with my mother and we shared some random memories and now…this.)

my mother, i savor, as she inches older,

i think of the things she taught me way back,

like how to be braver when lifting the boulder,

like how to envision the strength that I lack,

how even if I am the glazer and molder

i can’t shape a life lived without a crack,

to know deep the pride of the struggling soldier,

to walk like a king, though treated as jack,

how it’s never safer to settle and smolder,

and airing out anger can avoid attack,

to speak like a razor, and hug like a holder,

to care and to cut such remarkable slack,

how it’s best to wager the chips on my shoulder,

and no matter what, to always bet on black,

to love like a laser, file hate in a folder

and leave it a pointless and pitiful stack,

my mother, my savior, as she inches older,

her weight and her warmth grow thinner and colder,

i think of the things she taught me way back,

i think of these things to keep me on track

Day 14 of 30

LOOMING (for DC, Baltimore, Brooklyn, Harlem, Chicago, Oakland, SF, Philly, and on and on and on..)

those of us

from here

know the feeling

of someone

something

tugging at the

rug we’ve been

resting on

the one we

wove once

referred to

as rag

soon to be

renamed by

someone

something

as tapestry

Day 13 of 30

HAPPY POEM

been in search of a happy poem

one that dont need no smile

one that chops the ends of its

words whenever around friends

one that knots its knuckles

with its mothers

one that thinks of kissing

then kisses with nothing on its mind

one that licks its fingers

after eating fatty food

one that smells of language

with a linger of simple soap

one that witnesses children

dance and dance a happy poem

one that don’t need no smile

Day 12 of 30

DOIN’ ME (for the haters)

it ain’t that i ain’t got no voice

or sanctimonious song to sing

it ain’t that i think i’m too good

some mannish prince or boyish king

it ain’t that i despise your choice

of gift or curse you opt to bring

but just so that we’re understood

i mind my business, do my thing

Day 11 of 30

A SIGN OF GOOD WRITING (For Brook Stephenson, especially since the homie Tyehimba Jess won the PULITZER in Poetry. I’m sure he’s smiling.)

there was a period

when i spoke of you

thought of you in this way

like your life was parenthetical

an aside or perhaps elided

an open em dash to illustrate

an interjection or interruption

but perhaps

you were such a complete

sentence supreme subject

verb agreement

spun effortlessly by a hand

so unseen so unwilling

to compromise on

perfection

that a period

felt more like a puncture

to the lungs of us left

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