Black History: Backflashes and Foreshadowing

Brave New Worlds collide and shatter
into colors and sounds unseen, unheard of.
Catastrophic histories cascade in crescendo
to tell a story that both begins and ends in heartbreak.

Exposition occurs sometime before whiplashes on our backs
turned to bullet holes in our backs,
but after chains around our wrists
turned to cuffs around our wrists.

The plot thickens in some small town,
minority-riddled,
where a line has been drawn in blood
beneath a cloud of gunpowder,
which seems to linger unwillingly in the humid southern air.

Separated, brown mothers--who promised
themselves they'd never be here--
and their children--who promised
themselves their mothers would never be here--
respond to tragedy in the only way anger manifests,
and officers begin to laden themselves in riot gear.

Somewhere,
between their meet and their disperse,
Molotov-cocktails and teargas canisters
confuse age of perceptions of Black and White
with the nuances of the Human Condition.

Suddenly,
it's not a small town,
minority-riddled.
It's more than that.

And suddenly,
you resent small towns,
minority-riddled,
for making you step outside of yourself,
and forcing you to dodge mirrors.
Avoiding the questions you know must be waiting there for you.


Jaylin Paschal

The Same Damn Heart - Poetry

A special thanks to my lovely and brilliant friend, Frida, for the title.

The Same Damn Heart
I am used to old, beer guzzling men
with gunmetal hair beneath veteran caps,
with leather jackets and leathery skin,
with scars and wrinkles somehow defiant.
Openly private, and more likely to share social security numbers than war stories.
These old men, intoxicated and intolerable,
have tattooed their regrets onto their sleeves
and wear their piercings to remind themselves
that no matter how much space they take up,
things can still go through them.
Unapologetic and amused by life,
they shout-
"If I knew then what I know now,
I'd do the same damn thing,
because even after all these years
the sweet is just as potent as the bitter."
Slow and steady is the beat of the old man heart,
but if you look closely, you can still see
the youthful soul pressing behind their eyes.

I am used to old, beer guzzling men
sweaty, and tired but not finished
and not afraid.

Jaylin Paschal

Other favorites from title suggestions were "Bitter(sweet)" and "Gunmetal".

I'm Officially a Published Poet!

My first poem ever published was in issue #10 of Mock Turtle. Being published has always been a goal of mine and this really meant a lot to me. Just thought I'd share.

xx

Poem: "Collected"

I wanted to share another poem. Thanks to my friend, the talented poet and musician, Tre'don, for titling it.

You always smelled
Like Doublemint gum
And stale cigarettes.
You said you wore all black
Because it made you feel powerful.
And you never combed your hair
Because you didn't have the time,
For there were memories to be made.
You always spoke too fast
And hugged me too tight,
But I didn't mind.
When we met you told me
That you collected stars.
I thought it was
So silly,
So ridiculous
To believe that you could
Own something
That belonged to the gods,
To the universe,
To the world.
But now that I think about it,
I did consider
You
To be mine.

Jaylin



Click to visit Tre'don's Youtube page.