a residential enclave
in the urban landscape:
birdsong instead of fire engine sirens.
traffic noises come from parents
pulling in and out of driveways
taking kids to school
then going to work.
a woman who lives
on the corner of the block
feeds the strays, and sometimes,
even on a cold spring night,
piercing the darkness,
cats scream bloody murder
in the name of love..
©A. D. Joyce, 2017
i came here to love you
through lifetimes
i have sought you
in every pair of eyes
i have strained against
the touch of hands
needing to feel your essence
and in spring
when the air reeks
of rain and dirt
i pick your flowers
and see your face
strewn among
the fallen cherry blossoms
i am not here
on this earth
to pull punches
i am here to express
i unbalance the equinox
with poems
obsessive and fevered
this is the promise
my soul makes
time and again
in each incarnation
and life form i inhabit
on this brand new day
i awake in the hope
you will soon be here
with me
©A. D. Joyce, 2017
an odd new jersey february
the waning days of the month
as warm as spring
tonight a torrential rain
heralded by thunder and lighting
and a howling wind
what does this mean
other than what it is
first this strange weather
then the pisces solar eclipse tomorrow
the end of a long cycle
the death of what no longer serves us
and a new beginning
new possibilities
new choices
or is this
a simple storm
now losing steam
thunder fading
into the distance
deluge slowing
to a single
drop
©A. D. Joyce, 2017
on a hiking trail
a path barely as wide
as a footfall
marked only by flattened grass
and small rocks strewn
haphazardly,
maybe someone with a bum knee
has fallen,
someone who was out too late
the night before,
or a child running giddily,
too eager to reach the top of the hill–
not watching her step.
whose clothes were torn?
whose skin was broken?
who was bruised?
who laughed it off?
who cried?
who pretended it didn’t happen?
who stayed down?
who got up again?
©A. D. Joyce, 2016
a crooked knobbed
sturdy brown stick
in my 6-year-old hand
a caveman’s tool
i stab the jagged edge
into the ground
all else falls away
as we become one
the stick
my hand
the earth
the worms and ants
underneath
©A. D. Joyce, 2016
When I was a kid, I was fascinated with all things outer space–planets, the moon, stars, and sun. Solar eclipses were exciting, and I remember trying to make an eclipse viewer with pieces of cardboard. There’s a total eclipse happening tonight, so in its honor, here are a trio of poems from past posts. They hint at the possibilities and flights of imagination that the heavens inspire in me.
©A. D. Joyce, 2016
©A. D. Joyce, 2016
©A. D. Joyce, 2016
As anybody who has following my writings here and elsewhere know, I’m have been pondering the question of labels, especially as it relates to gender and race. I’ve concluded time and time again that there is no need for them. The video I’m sharing is a spoken word piece that states the case nicely. It was brought to my attention by a like-minded soul.
I would add that many people hold on to their racial identity as if it truly defines who they are. They are afraid they will lose themselves and somehow betray their ancestors if they don’t fiercely uphold that racial identity. In my view, though, racial identity has nothing to do with who we are as individuals. It is pushed upon us by society.
So while there’s nothing wrong with celebrating our cultural traditions, it should be understood that mindlessly adhering to a so-called cultural norm can be limiting.
Like, how many of us won’t objectively listen, ever, to a certain type of music, go to a certain movie, vote outside of a particular political party, or be friends with a particular person because of our race and culture. I’ve written before about people’s assumptions concerning poetry written by a black person.
What activities or professions do we not attempt because, according to our culture, we “don’t that sort of thing?” How many of us form an immediate opinion of another person based solely on their race or culture? For those who say that black people can’t be racist, I beg to differ. Racism is not based on outcome. It’s based on mental programming.
And I’m not saying people are not hurt by racism. They are–hurt and even killed. Daily. But it’s not because this person is bad or that person deserved it. It has nothing to do with the individual. These atrocities are based on ideas and knee-jerk reactions.
It’s hard to imagine, especially in America, but what if you were not defined by your race: Who would you be? Better yet, the question is: Who are you? Who defines who you are?
When the world looks at me, they see I am a black woman, but what does that mean? There is no limit to the definition of who I am.
©A. D. Joyce, 2016
A. D. Joyce 