Raymond Nat Turner Poems on Friendship, Observations and the Blues

Raymond Nat Turner shares four poems about a friend, life observations and the blues.  Journey into the heart and mind of this poet and see, feel and hear his perspective about life in these poetic words of truth. 

 
 
For Romy
 
My
Friend
fell and I feel it
in my gut, in my chest
 
My
Friend
fell and I feel it
in my feet, in my knees
 
My
Friend
fell and I feel it
in my fingers, in my brain—
so sad that I can’t edit out
the R-rated scene, depositing frames on
the cutting room floor, photoshopping it
from our reality— so it never happened!
 
My
Friend
fell and I feel it
in my clichés, in my truisms like,
“Why do bad things happen to good people?”
remembering how she searched for my
lost hoodie, as though it were the rarest book
on loan from the Library of Congress…
 
My
Friend
fell and I feel it
in my grateful gland, grateful I am
mailing get well cards, and will visit
when snow thaws and Birds Bebop &
Hard Bop in Greensleeves of trees On
Green Dolphin Street…
 
Line
 
Oink
 
I saw Satan high on Seconal—’Red
Devils’—zap an app for zombie-settlers.
Then they came by covered wagon,
stagecoach, horseback—bathed, and
reinvented themselves as programmers,
humans, condo-owners.
 
I saw rent refugees morph into miserable
Monsters—vapid vampires sucking soul,
air and chocolate out Tha Town. I saw them
turn into werewolves on Lakeshore, pushing
porcelain babies in thousand dollar strollers;
stressed-out Yogis practicing purse-clutching,
street-crossing, stink-eye Spiritualism on children
and grand-children of seventy-year residents.
 
I saw Dadaists driving drunk the wrong way on
10K gold-paved streets, killing dance masters,
like  policemen gunning down painters as a form
of critique
 
I saw the Best Burrito Shop, The5th Amendment,
and Africa By The Bay run off The Ave; their places
Taken by caffeine shooting galleries and Boer beer
bars for rent refugees trekkking13 miles, bringing
Butte with them.
 
I saw nextdoor.com Nazi-NSA impersonators circle
laager between OPD cruisers and string yellow tape
around drumming, dancing, BBQing, singing Gospel
and other verbs modified by the phrase: “…while Black”
 
Line
 
Stein Bop Blues March On Gentrifiers:
 
Shhhhhhhh
Decibel Dictators dislike drumming pouring
Poly-rhythms out windows of the Casquelord
Center, poly-rhythms propelling rainbows of
Glistening dancers into ecstatic community…
 
Shhhhhhhh
They’re bothered by Baptist, get-down Gospel
Choir rehearsal sparks, charging joyful noise
Spilling on to streets from stained glass windows …
 
Shhhhhhhh
BBQs by the Lake bother them, too. Perhaps
It’s loud laughter, line-dancing, clacking of
Black and white dominoes on tables, smells
of spicy foods feeding faces happy against all odds?
 
Shhhhhhhh
Maybe it’s not verbs bothering them? Maybe it’s
Nouns—Vooodo Children born of suspicious skin
Tone? Ebony, mocha, chocolate tones of thugs and
Thieves heard in creaking floorboards, rustling drapes
Unwelcome at home
 
Shhhhhhhh
We are Africans—Africa’s all humanity’s birthplace—
Mostly proletarians. ‘They’ are Europeans:
Italians, Irish, Polish, Scottish, etc., chasing their tales
shadowboxing ‘whiteness’ white noise next door.com
Techno-coated crackkkers, criminal lineage on Ohlone
Land…
 
Shhhhhhhh
It was Ohlone land Ohlone land it was was it Oholone land
They swiped with lead lead lead the way for swiping and flipping
Flipping and swiping swiping and flipping flipping houses like
flapjacks flipping people with blackjacks heads they win tails we
Lose…
 
Shhhhhhhh
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
Manifest Destiny Destiny Manifested Jerry had a plan a
10K Plan Jerry had a 10K Plan and a Pacifica program
‘We The People’ Jerry had a plan a 10K plan a 10K plan
10K plan resembling 3K plans 3K plans for Schaafing us
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
Unsettling settlers settle settling like sulfur over UN peace
Talks Unsettling settlers settle neighborly disputes using police
like cavalry and Kit Carson Indian killers going West Unsettling
settlers settle settling like pesticides on gardens
Killing everything living Unsettling settlers settle settling on whizzing
by whistling “Dixie” as they “Look away, look away” Unsettling settlers
settle settling in Tha Town rather than quietude of Tha Creek, or ‘Cord
Like libraries on putting greens…
 
Shhhhhhhh
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
Unsettling settlers settle settling on suspicious sub-prime activity
Suspicious scarlet streaks from Wells Fargo BoA and Fannie Mae
Unsettling settlers settle settling Post Racial debates in the Age of
Austerity we work too hard walking open-coated wide berths revealing
Weaponless palms showing we are not shady up to no good not potential
Threats to keep techno-coated crackkkers comfortable and at ease to keep
White noise next door.com down…
 
Shhhhhhhh
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
History repeats repeats itself
Automatic, systematic hardwired DNA they’re ‘race’ machines watch ’em
Get down clicking mouses playing ‘race’ cards doing old jobs every Euro—
No matter how dirt poor—did: check challenge question Blacks about
‘Traveling papers’ “There’s cotton/tobacco to be picked, where you goin’,
boy/gal, who’s your masta?”
 
Shhhhhhhh
Ducks, quiet geese, they came for Occupy, next they’ll come for you….
 
Line
 
One For Augusta
 
Bluesman, we ‘discovered’ you
and the other two—your Bluesy
crew—at Pizza Pazza on Piedmont
Avenue.
We ‘discovered’ you like the owner
‘discovered’ you, like 10,000 others
‘discovered’  you—we discovered
something about the way you kept
Time: pattin’, stompin’, slidin’ your
foot like a Mississippi metronome;
the way you drilled down into mid-
night blue indigo Delta artesian wells
where spirit flows—crawlspaces, crevices,
creases between the notes, deep, deep
bruised, scarred Son House spaces only
card-carrying members dare go—roads
swollen with speed bumps, lumps and
‘kadrunkas’…
 
Swaying and rocking in our chairs, we
discovered gargantuan talent of the Malonga
Tribe, Casper Banjo, Michael Lange lineage—
We discovered a coffee brown Josh White,
Honeyboy, African elder, Keb Mo Medicine
Man, healing with strings attached to anti-
depressants called the Blues.
Bluesman, we discovered you stealing away
from the timely world of toms, snares, cymbals,
fills and rolls for your new world order of strings
and things that sing through our thick cumulus
clouds and acid rain, our demons, heartaches and
Pain.
 
Bluesman, sometimes you got on my last goddamn
nerve: pushing, ringing, tooting—speeding like you
Knew you needed to be seen and heard NOW, in real
Time—not tomorrow, not next week, next month, next
Year.
Bluesman, I understand. It takes one to know one.
We all operate on the model of scarcity, of capitalist
Competition—competing serially for the same miniature
Audience.
 
Bluesman, did you ask anyone to dig your grave with a
Silver spade? Did you get GPS from God? Does it show
streets paved with gold? Can you hear Blue angels singing?
 
Let’s close on this sweet note: every time we steal away to
Alameda Beach for precious seconds of solitude and
Close our eyes, transfixed by rhythms of lapping, singing
Waves, then open our eyes, looking out to the horizon, we will 
think of 
You, 
Bluesman, and smile, mirroring your sea blue, sapphire spirit smile…
 
Raymond Nat Turner © 2015 All Rights Reserved
 
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