Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Poetry By Reginald Sinclair Lewis


And when the Angel unfurled the scroll in the womb of his Mother
He was taught to believe that God had fashioned him, SUPERBLY.
Certainly not to BE or to ACT and to THINK
Or to dare, WRITE, as if he was inferior, to YOU.
Shall he not, then, live?
His most beautiful dreams dissolved slowly into bright
Paradisiacal Visions-
Memories got pulled back way behind time,
Condemned to a caged arena filled with snakes,
Earth-shattering screams were trapped in the quietude of long
Muffled Suffering.
He would have giggled and raced carefree with the other little
Children through the garden,
They would have Rode their tricycles up over the Moon,
Yeah. Frisk across the Black Sea bare feet without skis.
Oh, how the ladies adored him and kissed his sweet brown cheeks.
But when they came to this town, the people threw stones.
He really did love you. HE REALLY DID.
But he had always thought of himself as TRAGIC.
Life itself was a vast, barren, foreign land.
He was only here a short little while as a stranger.
The little Black Boy you killed was born down south,
In gorgeous, Segregated Richmond, 1954.

©Reginald S. Lewis
She was just as cute and refreshing as an exotic bouquet of flowers –
A gangly giggly girl at 8.
Not even a teen. Cooked cleaned cooked cleaned.
And never even knew to ask for anything.
Little Cora jumped rope.

Dreamed happy faces.

When the drug dealers murdered her parents –
Cora gathered stray dogs and made her own foster family.
Planted Chrysanthemums in the dirt of abandoned buildings.
Painted the bullet-riddled walls with
Bright blue teardrops disguised as acid rain.

Last Thursday, the neighbours finally heard the Mute girl speak –
A beautiful rush of words that gushed out
Like a sweet Ghetto Psalm,
Through the gaps of cold chattering teeth.


Did anyone try to reach out and touch it – The pain?
A witness said he felt the powerful force of the wind
As it snatched her daily hope from the ruins.
Another one claimed she saw something –

That was little Cora riding a beautiful white-winged steed
Across the ragged edges of the rooftops –
Flying away.

©Reginald S. Lewis
Dreams in Concrete
For Stacey Greenspan
Elegance gleams in sad dark places where it shouldn’t.
Honey coats his dreams in a voice tinged with sweetness.
She needs to know how a prisoner’s mind constructs dimly-lit bedrooms.
How it deftly weaves together red satin sheets
That encases her pink and dark chocolate.
Oh, how we plot and scheme seduction.

And Baby, you will learn this, too.
How we snatch the scent of your womanness from concrete gardens.
And when it rains they’ll imagine your gorgeous face
Wash up in bright puddles.
They’ll see your reflection ooze from mirrors taped to walls.

Some of us will gain your confidence with sizzling secrets.
Dazzle you with beautiful sonnets.
Tragic Shakespearean Ghetto tales.
Broken dreams. A wounded soldier’s lament.
And long angry letters that implode with a
Hot blood thirst of longing.

©Reginald S. Lewis

The Lyrical Life of a Dream
For Diane Marion-Lewis – Sunrise January 8th,1956 – Sunset March 6th, 2004

Their faces burst through the cameras now-
all those goofy looking dudes with greasy hairdos,
Trying to look cool. Yeah. And the drop top boys checking you out as they flowed
past in shiny cadillacs
Emitting the smell of plastic and incense and burning rubber.
They even dropped by to see you at the end, sis.

The grieving process is a bottomless pit – both new and lingering-
The tears keep gushing out like torrential rain –
I’m not as tough as you think I am.

For some reason I’m still mad at you.
When I called you on Christmas Day you were giggling.
You never did take things seriously.

You’re a pesty memory fleeting back –
A slapping jolting slice of early life – the early days of our youth –
And I can see your sweet little brown face,smiling, then frowning,
during our stupid arguments over nothing.

Little girl, I’ll always be your big brother/protector,
staring down bullies.
But this time, my vehement threats were useless.

Bedridden and tormented by so much pain from Cancer –
I couldn’t stick up for you this time.
I couldn’t go toe-to-toe with
the Angel of Death, who was much too strong.

Did you escape into dreams like we taught you?
Did you fly away on the wings of all those beautiful songs,
we sang on-key, as children?

©Reginald S. Lewis 2010
A Splendid Day on Death Row
The morning passed without one obscene word, argument, gossip, character
assassination, a rumble in the yard –
And nobody got a write up or went to the hole today.
The commissary came lifting spirits.
Beneath the quiet whispers lusty hot steam flowed form coffee cups
in the sinuous motion of belly dancers.
This afternoon, a van rolled all the way from the inner city carrying
The wives and girlfriends and the
mothers and children of death row inmates –
everybody got a visit today.
For dinner the kitchen served us real fried chicken, hot french fries, a greasy
cheeseburger and the fat slice of cheesecake was banging.
The neophyte poet who locks in 16 cell
screamed out that he’d finally finished his poem on the 268th cut –
almost as long as the white boy who’d been waiting
22 years for a DNA test.
When his lawyers told him that he was going home –
The DJ’s who run the prison channel kicked up the sound
to old cuts by Earth, Wind & Fire, Curtis Mayfield, Tower of Power and Chicago.
Horns blared as the Death Row nurse swung her sexy hips onto the cellblock –
carrying the scent of paradise on the wings
of angels on past the cells
of the old heads slow dragging with imaginary dolls as Tower of Power sang
… You’re still a young man, baaaaaby,…oooouuuuu…
And the day winded down to a cool.
The bigtime gangsters laid down some heavy bets on the Superbowl.
They lit up expensive cigars Fidel sent all the way from Cuba.
Threw down on jailhouse wine damn near 100 proof.
Hooted and screamed at that delicious sexy cutie Beyonce
who sang the National Anthem in five pitch octaves that rocked Death Row.
We went to bed with Janet Jackson’s beautiful brown breast
flashing in and out of our dreams.

Copyright 2009
Will I Ever See You Again?
For Rosie Feagins

And though I am middle age now
I find myself battling a winter-enlarged m idriff
I find myself constantly worrying about
Heart attacks and strokes.
My hairline has only slightly receded
Yet my hair is still thick and curly and
Shiny and fine.
My eyes are still brown and moist with love.
I am not as handsome as I used to be.
I am still my mother’s favourite son.
I still love Tina Marie songs.
My shambling gait is getting slower
But my mind much quicker.
I am only as superior as yesterday’s rain.
My tastes have mellowed to soft jazz
Music and saltless potato chips.
I still smoke those long nasty cigars
And my flash tantrums have alchemized
To harmless bursts of radiant laughter.
I think of you constantly these days.
The beauty of you still swims in and
out of my heart.
Your pictures still hang on my wall.
And we never made love on a bed of roses.
Never swam the rivers of the moon.
And for some inextricable reason I’m still
Madly in love with you.

©Reginald S. Lewis
She Loves My Poetry
And when she closes her eyes I know she’s flying –
Through the maze of exotic gardens abloom with stanzas
And candy sweet prose she takes into her beautiful mouth.
She sweeps her hair back and dreams.
She says she digs my style –
Wanna see me step out in a pretty pin-striped double breasted suit.
Black shiny Stacey Adams shoes, and a wide-brimmed white fedora,
Half mooned.
Diamonds twinkling, jazz and champagne while cigar smoke curls
Under a yellow moon lit sky.
She digs the way I kick it.
The ones that seeps through her pores and races up her spine.
And this one that blows like a soft breeze that cools her
Sweet breast on a hot summer day.
My political poems, prison poems, protest poems, my medicinal
poems, my healing poems,
Erotic poems, Street Gangster poems, spiritual poems, death row
Poems, romantic poems, free verse poems,
Love poems, tragic Shakespearean poems, neurolinguistically
Programmed ideas for poems
Strapped to sound and grace
And she taps her toes to these,
Squeals orgasmic applause.
She digs my flow.

She loves my Poetry.

©Reginald S. Lewis
Tragic Love Song
 For Karen

The day twists and shimmers
At the murmur of your name.
The willows sway gently against the wind.
Bursts of golden sunlight slicing across the petals
Of your luscious red rose lips.
And I would know those hips anywhere!
The sensuous movement gliding through my dream.
Ah, how you often appear before me, magically.
She stalks me through the universe.
Those love-hungry eyes chasing after me.
She knows no other poet will do.
You will never allow another woman to love me.
She keeps me locked up inside this bubble.
I’m trapped. DOOMED.
And so I wait. I wait…for time’s winged chariot
To take me away…away…
Let me drift through the exotic marshlands
Into the deep blue infinity.

©Reginald S. Lewis 2014.
Rivers of Forever
To a poet all things must be communicated, named , spoken,
Written, recited, whispered, sweetyly, in a Divine Decree.
In the garden of Paradise, beneath which rivers flow-
Could Adam ever ignore Eve?
He saw her in her splendid nakedness –
And thanked Almighty God for creating her.
Then you should know, that you were, indeed, sent to me , Darling.
That you were wonderfully, beautifully made.
So why do you pretend?
I can feel the warmth of your delicious curvaceous body
A thousand miles away. But it would crush you not to ever see me again.
In the background, the O’Jays sing, “How Time Flies”.
Quite soon, I dream, I’ll be running, running, running to you.
Baby, I’m swimmng upstream as fast as I can.
You just wait, wait… until I get there.

©Reginald S. Lewis 2013
Against the cold glare of my haters’ green eyes,
The false narratives of assassins,
Signals intercepted by satellites – Plots by snitches and spies – Why
don’t you defend me?

We are both heat stalkers. Every move we make is get
closer … closer… closer.
Beneath the sumptuous melons of your breast and the thick expanse of my
broad brown chest – The Angels record the thump thump thumping of our hearts.
So call me CRAZY.
But you are mine to keep.
Above me.
With me. Right here beside me.
Beneath me.
Every day. Every morning.
In my arms. Your KING. In our king-sized bed.
In our master bedroom.

©Reginald S. Lewis 2013

Reginald Lewis AY2902
SCI Graterford
P.O. Box 244
Graterford, PA 19426

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