The Bridge Poem-Donna Kate Rushin

I’ve had enough
I’m sick of seeing and touching
Both sides of things
Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody

Can talk to anybody
Without me Right?

I explain my mother to my father my father to my little sister
My little sister to my brother my brother to the white feminists
The white feminists to the Black church folks the Black church folks
To the Ex-hippies the ex-hippies to the Black separatists the
Black separatists to the artists the artists to my friends’ parents…

I’ve got the explain myself
To everybody

I do more translating
Than the Gawdamn U.N.

Forget it
I’m sick of it

I’m sick of filling in your gaps

Sick of being your insurance against
The isolation of your self-imposed limitations
Sick of being the crazy at your holiday dinners
Sick of being the odd one at your Sunday Brunches
Sick of being the sole Black friend to 34 individual white people

Find another connection to the rest of the world
Find something else to make you legitimate
Find some other way to be political and hip

I will not be the bridge to your womanhood
Your manhood
Your human-ness

I’m sick of reminding you not to
Close off too tight for too long

I’m sick of mediating with your worst self
On behalf you your better selves

I am sick
Of having to remind you
To breathe
Before you suffocate
Your own fool self

Forget it
Stretch or drown
Evolve or die

The bridge I must be
Is the bridge to my own power
I must translate
My own fears
My own weaknesses

I must be the bridge to nowhere
But my true self
And then
I will be useful


Heath-30 Words

Yesterday the world lost the amazingly talented Jimmy Heath. The 93 year old jazz saxophonist had a lengthy and prolific career. He was the brother of bassist Percy Heath and drummer Albert Heath. They were also members of the group The Heath Brothers. He was a treasure and Philly greatness!

Jimmy(left) and Albert “Tootie” Heath(right)

Your sax
Made us happy
Gave us love and understanding
Allowed us to appreciate
Melody and harmony.
Your tunes tickled ears
Touched souls, swayed bodies
Poured out of
The gift.


Sonnet XLIV [For Thee the Sun Doth Daily Rise, and Set]-George Santayana

Although I’m not particularly good at creating them, I love a good sonnet. In fact, I love many of the classical poetic forms even though I often eschew them. This one is especially good with its layers of nature and emotion.

Enjoy this beauty and the weekend!

For thee the sun doth daily rise, and set

Behind the curtain of the hills of sleep,

And my soul, passing through the nether deep,

Broods on thy love, and never can forget.

For thee the garlands of the wood are wet,

For thee the daisies up the meadow’s sweep

Stir in the sidelong light, and for thee weep

The drooping ferns above the violet.

For thee the labour of my studious ease

I ply with hope, for thee all pleasures please,

Thy sweetness doth the bread of sorrow leaven;

And from thy noble lips and heart of gold

I drink the comfort of the faiths of old,

And thy perfection is my proof of heaven.