Writings and Books . . .

New Poem . . . “Here We Go Again”

 Here We Go Again

Earl Stewart, Jr.


The Lord be praised,

For here we go again.

 

Oh, how I dare to praise and glorify His name.

Yes, here we go again.

 

Trying desperately, defensively to escape

The horror that shadows bring.

To motion the clouds away . . . to live and not die . . .

To thrive . . . to stay.

 

For just one more day, but a moment

Among the handiwork of the Master.

 

The barrel stares at me—follows me as a walk quickly down my street.

How it does swallow me up in victory—gone too soon.

Yet I keep too busy serving my Jesus,

Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Ain’t got time to sit down.

Ain’t got time to saunter in this world,

So I run.

Surely, it’s no fun,

But I don’t want none.

 

But how else can Moorish skins stay free

Of being tainted a reddish hue, lest I

Bow down before him,

And humble myself to be exalted?

For if I make just one step, one very bad step in any inadvertent direction,

Laughing out loud . . . my heart be halted.

 

Slowly moving as aging molasses being spread thickly upon my Mama’s cornbread,

Change comes.

My change gonna come.  I believe that—the substance of things not seen.

Somehow.

 

“SMH . . .,” my sister texts me.

I dare not trust the sweetest flame.

How can one but lean on the Savior’s name,

As I dare to be seen for more in this world that just

My permanent overcoat.

My epidermis is but a tainted hue,

Yet the spirit that lies within, quite frankly, my brothers and sisters,

Looks just like you!

 

So, leave me alone.

Just let me be my Black self with a capital “B,” all by myself.

May I pose a quite rudimentary inquiry to you, dear friend in the Spirit,

 

“Why do you always want to shoot me?”

 

Not only with the bullet, but with your looks, your ill-defined history,

Your words like bullets?

 

Tell the truth.  It’s time for all this bullshit of the sitting bull to end.

The excrement of war flows in a quite diarrheal manner, so I come in peace.

 

Grandmama gone home to be with the Lord, but, like she would say,

“If it ain’t one thing . . . it’s two.”

 

I simply take a stand in saying that I’ll be damned if I’m just going to stand and take it.

 

All I desire is not some ill begotten fame.

All I want is to be your friend.

If the shoe fits, then I loudly speak your name.

The blossoms in the cemeteries are tired of whispering to each other . . . “Here we go again.”

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