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About Eddie Bell

Black to Blacks—A Writer’s Plea

Collateral Damage

M. J. (not the basketball player)

American Dilemma

Antique Lessons: September 11th, 2001 Style

Striking Flints / Wet Leaves

Side Streets



Black to Blacks-A Writer's Plea


Why won’t they help?
My people, save some, close their eyes
and don’t see me
close their ears
and don’t hear me;
most of all
close their hearts
and don’t feel me.
Others do,
why not we?


Collateral Damage


Ain’t no cure for these missin’ man blues
blues tucked under the covers of a lonesome bed,
blues not filling the dent where my missin’ man laid
my goodbye-man that didn’t hear my goodbye words
didn’t feel my goodbye kisses, didn’t see my frozen
goodbye tears stuck in these fear-struck eyes.

Ain’t no cure for my missin’ man blues that wail
Siren drumbeats pounded out by a stone heart that thuds
with an unfamiliar rhythm driving ancient blood
through timeless veins unable to nourish a timeless body,
unable to return me to my former self when my stone heart was
once was flesh and blood.

Ain’t no cure for my missin’ man blues and steal-away
thoughts that were stole away and hung out to dry,
Jesus incarnate sour sacrifice bearing witness
never to be thought again by My missin’ man
never to stir an anxious sleep
never to move a body closer or send a hand
around my sleeping breast.

Ain’t no cure for these missin’ man blues,
hot steamy Saturday night blues unable to satisfy
my unsatisfied womanhood sticky with
dreamt up love that can’t come, won’t come
leaving moans cried to my empty room and
my spent body drained with un-fulfillment and
wifely smells wasted on boiled sheets.

Ain’t no cure for my missin’ man blues
’cause The Took is dead and the cross kept its victim
unadorned body parts placed in pants pocket purse slop jar,
their raw trophies set for the sacrificial table.
waiting and The Took didn’t rise, no stone rolled away,
no veil rent. The earth is quiet and my missin’ man blues
play loud in these hear ears.
Come to know it.
Ain’t no cure for my missin’ man blues.


M. J. (not the basketball player)


I see two tragedies:
the loss
of a continuance,
stagnated, picked too green;
and the lost-ness of those
clinging to all-right thought
Suffer the little children,
Come unto Me...

The voice of worthiness a
light to young eyes;
darkness pushed aside, aware that God don’t like ugly.
And He got the last word,
judgment being a bitch,
understand.


American Dilemma


What about peace
always made last
and ending?

What about rumors
and war
and judgment?

What about decline
the inevitable conclusion?

What about life?


Antique Lessons: September 11th, 2001 Style


What do you do when the world shakes? Who do you call
and what do they answer?
The enemy threading in a dangerous land
tickled the monster’s feet,
troubled the boil on his neck
took him from his slumber,
death’s shadowy valley coming brutally alive;
the easy chair occupied, the table set
the ancient promise muttering above the noise.
God let the waters be troubled
seeing if the monster waits on the Captain…
Yes, King Jesus is my captain and He fights for me;
before the war is waged.
He’s never lost a battle and I know He never will.
The chosen people vindicated / if/
the price is met, the Piper paid.
He said He’ll fight my battles
if I’ll just be still.

“Repent and know that I am God.”
The enemy listening wrong
smiles too soon.


Striking Flints / Wet Leaves


There and not there
/ lover's asymmetric reasoning/
doubtful hesitancy instant urging,
decisions for self
/ as it should be/
though there can be something left
in the cracked corner of a split heart
in the depths where secrets dwell
dormant in resignation,
warm coals burning.


Side Streets


Life is good
For some on the main drag, but the
Side streets tell a different story.
Young brothers and sisters
See mostly folks doing real bad.
The rude game of having not
Lays bare the unprotected
And makes the beauty harder to find.
Bullets fly and people die
Playgrounds lodged between scarred curbs are
Littered with fractured glass, discarded autos
And broken lives.
It is all there,
The love softly silhouetted
By steamy clouds of arduous despair,
The strength of those knowing it’s not in vain.
Through the bumpy rhythms of the days
Some are comforted by the sights of
Grandmothers lugging their grandchildren,
Saints singing in the gospel choir,
The white Episcopalian bishop adopting
A poor black child
Jesus mending a broken life.
Power is what Suburbia flaunts and
Children of the side streets only dream about.
Those with dreams can walk in the hidden
Beauty beyond the dirty pavement.
Trees and grass and blue skies
Are theirs too,
Only they must wait to touch the real thing.