Posted in BlackPower, Family, Inner Child, Mental Health, Patience, Poetry Slam, Relationships, Self Growth, Self Help, Self Love, Spiritual Life Coach, Strong Black Families, Unity

Fool is As Fool Does

When you have some anger, hurt, pain, abandonment, and hatred tied to your father, how do you or would you expect for your children not to have those same affections towards you? When all you’ve expressed to them are those emotions. You’ve taught them to love you as you love your father, where and why should there be an exception?

These are the questions I asked myself the weekend leading into April Fools Day…

I asked myself these questions because I so desperately wanted to express those thoughts and feelings to my father, OUR father… Shaking My Damn Head….

This was the first time in history that all of my father’s known children graced his presence at once. You would imagine and think that this would be a glorious moment not just for him but his children as well. It turned out to be what my sister labeled a “shit show.” Showing favoritism, and abandonment in its truest form. I never expected my father would show his true colors in such a degrading way. I could go on and on about how not just I was hurt by him this weekend. But how all of us leading down to his grandchildren were also hurt by this weekend. Exactly how much good will that do? More than likely NONE, absolutely positively NONE. 

So let me allow this to dwindle into the learning and growing parts of this trip. My intentions were to make peace and in making peace that entailed me making peace in the way I wanted it to be not the way it was intended for me to find my own peace with not just my father, but my children’s father. That peace was necessary because my children needed to see and know that regardless to the bullshit, their parents could get along and have a good time for their sake, forget our sake. Well to say the least their father and I did have peace and I hit some of his buttons as the peace was being made. It was nice to be around him and us not argue and fight. To not be worried if he would knock the hell out of me, (or as I use to worry more about in my past with him,) our children seeing him abuse me and talk to me in demeaning ways and being so flippancy with his choice of words. I was happy that things went well in that relationship, I enjoyed seeing my children smile from that. Having a feeling of security within their parents and our behavior/respect towards each other. One of the greatest foundations to bestart building.

Now my father I cannot say the same about him. There were things that were said and things that were done that I may never ever be able to help my children heal from. I’m okay with them healing on their own at their own pace as long as they heal. The moral of this aspect is I realized as the comments and statements were made that my father still held hatred and hurt. There was still pain, and disappointment in his heart for his father, just like us. His very own three children had in their hearts for him. He was angry with him for all the wrong things his father did. Unable to appreciate the small moments his father was there for him. I realized that as much as my father pretended to forget things and act as though he had grown past those things, he truly had not. He missed his mother but was too hurt to acknowledge that he wished he knew more about her and had a better bond with her. I kind of got the feeling that he wished his mother was around to save him from the things he “says” his father did to him. What’s so obvious about all of this is knowing that my grandfather spoke of his father mistreating and abusing him. With the wisdom of our elders, you would think he would say and do the opposite to his own children. His own 11-18 children. It’s intriguing yet sad how the things we say and do, our behaviors seem to trickle down genetically. We begin to wonder where the act of foolishness comes from but we never turn in. We never turn in to look to self and accept that it is within our being, and our DNA. The blow that hit me the most is my father could not comprehend that he too was doing the same things his father had done to him and his grandfather had done to his father. Genetically we all were each other, we all were one ….

I was blocking accepting that I would become this very same person inside of myself. Holding back tears, pain, and so much more.

Fighting the moments of me wanting to just lash out with anger, I held it all inside of me to not become that person inside of me.

My father is not the healthiest man in the world nor is he the sickest man in the world. I’m just willing to take in that one day he will not be here. I do not want my last days living as an adult like himself, to be spent the way he is spending his. Looking at a picture of his father (that he claims he does not want in his house) and still having no love for the man who helped give him life. I do not want to be living in the turmoil of hurt.  Wishing I had a better bond with my parents on any level, when they are right here right now. I may not be able to get the relationship and bond that I want, but I am able to get something from them. What I am able to get, give, and receive is time, forgiveness, moments (no matter how big or small) of happiness, and just actually “knowing” my parents for who they are and what they represented. Their gift to their loved ones, life, and the world we live in.

I walked away with some bumps and bruises, and I’ll take those any day over scars and wounds that need more than just time to heal. 

I wanted to add “Maya Angelou’s Poem:  Mourning Grace” just to shed some light on the things we blame others for, they are  truly a part of us. If it weren’t a part of who we are then how are we able to identify it in others? How can we ask something of our children we are not willing to give our parents? Reflection is such an important niche to have. To me it is one of the key things that can help us pick up on what we need to address within self before we think about turning a finger on someone else.

Mourning Grace                                 By: Maya Angelou

If today I follow death, 

go down it’s trackless wastes, 

salt my tongue on hardened tears 

for my precious dear time’s waste 

race 

along that promised cave in a headlong

deadlong

haste, 

Will you 

have 

the 

grace 

to mourn for

me?

“Love with grace while they are alive and you can love them with peace when they are gone.”

 

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Poetry Slam

Poor Girl Just Like Me

By: Maya Angelou

You’ve got another love 

and I know it

Someone who adores you 

just like me 

Hanging on your words 

like they were gold

Thinking that she understands 

your soul 

Poor Girl 

Just like me.

You’re breaking another heart 

and I know it

And there’s nothing 

I can do

If I try to tell her 

what I know 

She’ll misunderstand 

and make me go

Poor Girl 

Just like me.

You’re going to leave her too 

and I know it 

She’ll cry and wonder

what went wrong 

to sing this song 

Poor Girl 

Just like me. 

Poetry Slam

My Guilt

By Maya Angelou

My guilt is “slavery’s chains.” too long 

the clang of iron falls down the years.

this brother’s sold, this sister’s gone, 

is bitter wax, lining my ears.

My guilt made music with tears. 

My crime is “heroes, dead and gone,”

dead Vesey, Turner, Gabriel, 

dead Malcolm, Marcus, Martin King.

They fought too hard, they loved too well.

My crime is I’m alive to tell. 

My sin is “hanging from a tree,”

I do not scream, it makes me proud.

I take to dying like a man.

I do it to impress the crowd. 

My sin lies in not screaming loud.

Poetry Slam

In A Time

By: Maya Angelou 

In a time of secret wooing

Today prepares tomorrow’s ruin

Left knows NOT what right is doing

My heart is torn asunder

 

In a time of furtive sighs

Sweet hellos & sad goodbyes

Half-truths told and the entire lies

My conscience echoes thunder.

 

In a time when Kingdoms come.

Joy is brief as summer’s fun.

Happiness its race has run

Then pains stalks in to plunder.

Poetry Slam

Remembrance
By Maya Angelou

Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek. On the
occasion, you press
above me, glowing, spouting
readiness, mystery rapes
my reason

When you have withdrawn
your self and the magic, when
only the smell of your
love lingers between
my breasts, then, only
then, can I greedily consume
your presence.

 

Poetry Slam

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

By: Maya Angelou 

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill 
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Poetry Slam

Touched by an Angel

By Maya Angelou 

 

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free

Poetry Slam

The Lesson

By : Maya Angelou

I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge.
 The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet
I keep on dying,
Because I love to live.

Poetry Slam

When You Come

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,

I Cry.

come

From me to you:

I cry because I know you want better; but it’s hard for you to give yourself more and to actually do better for you. You fear you will lose more than you can gain. But if you never stop to give to yourself you will never know life without its strains… 

GROW

Poetry Slam

On The Pulse Of Morning

By: Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words
Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A river sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I
And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear.
 They all hear
The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Speaks to humankind.
 Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name,
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot.
.
.
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need.
 Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes,
Into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.