Burdens Q & A (with Charles Banks, Jr.)
for Spilt Ink Poetry
Solace
To tune out the horrid sounds
of the outside world,
I will do anything!
It should be outlawed to openly discuss
celebrity tweets and political scandals.
Well, at least outside of coffee shops,
sports bars on Super Bowl Sunday,
and crowded Irish pubs on St. Patrick’s Day.
Such extraneous talk is not worth absorption.
I’ll settle for a dingy gray hoodie,
Beats headphones
blaring a symphony of Marshall Mathers
my encomium transmitters
of pertinent information
an outlet from impurity and bullshit.
© 2014 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as Black Angel
WHAT STALKS ME
Something, or someone, stalks my dreams.
Though I have grown accustomed to it.
In my most susceptible state, I wonder what is
to blame for the unknown that combs my insomnia.
In the dimmest moments of dawn’s arrival,
I am reminded of the likeness I do not wish
to have in my possession. It seems to only appear
when I visit Mother’s tombstone, this something,
or someone, never forgetting to taunt.
For years and years, I did not see the face
of this something, or someone—until my last visit
to Mother’s grave. This something, or someone
I speak of, appears at a distance, in a torn, red
silk dress, midnight skin, and a mane of hoary.
And my tightened flesh is like the newly
tailored suit I slip into whenever
I mourn the unknown.
© 2014 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as Black Angel.
Excerpt from Burdens
Published by Spilt Ink Poetry.
JUST HOW
How am I supposed to reach for the sky
When I know a storm lurks in the distance?
How do I entrust my faith in a God
When uncertainty always overpowers me?
How am I supposed to French kiss with life
When the thrill of adultery has vanished?
How do I embody a father’s dream
When doubt sinks me like the Titanic?
How am I supposed to appreciate fireworks
When I am blind to color?
How do I trust in a desert visual
When I know that mirages exist?
How am I supposed to believe in love
When it hurts so unbearably to trust?
How do I reach out to a sick mother
When forgiveness escapes me?
© 2014 by Charles banks, Jr.
Writing as Black Angel
Excerpt from “Burdens.”
Published by Spilt Ink Poetry
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I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.
~Weaving Words in her Web~
(re)Living History, with occasional attempts at humor and the rare pot-luck subject. Sorry, it's BYOB. All I have is Hamm's.
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