Discourse on a Summer Moon

A Poem at 39 (Discourse on a Summer Moon)

A personal reversal
The artistic episteme
Philosophy through verse
The pedagogy of the city

And the African roots
To the rhythm of the pulsing drums
The intoxication of a summer moon
The sweaty stench of collective human flesh in collective heat

As stadium rocks on African soil.
Know that my thoughts are with you
Wherever words can travel
And know that we are beautiful

We are power beyond measure
May we live to see a century
May we live to change the world
One stanza, one voice, one people

And dance in laboratories
Spray epithets in the chambers
Infuriate the numbers
The civil disobedience of poets

The call to metaphysical arms
The invitation to ecstasy
The discourse of friends
And their happy dysfunction

40 looms
The world on baited breath
A half-filled champagne glass
The Malibu sun

The absence of race
The end of constraint
The smell of forgiveness
The middle phase begins

Acts of Love

Acts of Love

Trapped in a chamber of wood and stone
Distanced by miles and orientation
Drowned in white sheets of perspiration
Rocked by the rattle and hum


The gentle lies, blind to the maelstrom
Baptized in symbolic initiation
Deaf to the cries of those who’d fallen
Amid the shouts of those reborn


Guitar strums sacred notes of freedom
Pages turned versed emancipation
Murals sprayed resistance and rebellion
Opened his palms raised them towards the son


Acts of love refuel a generation
Acts of love reverse the destination

Sports is the greatest classroom

After another season of coaching I reflect on all that my athletes learn from the beautiful game of football. After five months of grueling practices in the heat of July and the mud and chill of October. After the constant barrage of encouragement and constructive criticism, and of course the ups and downs of wins and losses, dropped passes, and missed tackles resulting in opponents touchdowns, my fourth and fifth grade boys sit on the curb in tears following a first round play-off loss to the mighty Santa Clarita program. The boys are upset of course, because they lost, but what they really regret is the end of football. Where else will they develop that kind of teamwork? Who else is going to push them past the limits they thought possible? Where else can they find the thrill of playing Saturday night at 7pm under the Calabasas lights? Football is as tough as anything these boys are asked to do but they love it because it makes them feel good about who they are and it rewards hard work and commitment to team more than it does individual ability. I know the media loves a good story and college and professional sports provide stories of selfishness and greed. But they are a small part of a larger story of why those of us who are in or near the game feel such a privilege to be a part of it. It is only December and I am already in withdrawals. Already talking about “off season” and July’s training camp. My playbook 2010 is already a file on the computer. What can I say? I love this game because even though I have a Ph.D. I have learned as much on the gridiron as I have in any classroom.

Words

Glorious, abundant, falling from the skies. Poems, plays, books, blogs. Beautiful words. Silly words, important at times. Often too little or too late. Words, served spicy. All mine, and yours if you'll have them.