My poem “A Longing” with the story behind it.

This is Michael Brown, Jr. : Ferguson, 2014

 After the flash 

the shock 

the fury                        

 a vast and peaceful darkness 

a wing-ed silence 

that has fluttered now and then  

at the corner of my eye 

then flown away 

leaving me  

to bear the bitter jangle of my lot. 

feel my pain feel my pain

my own mother don’t give a damn

I got money on my mind

and I ain’t got the time

tryin’ a nickel and a dime

just to make a rhyme

I always was a sensitive boy 

Big Mike: stone trap rapper 

straight out of ferguson. 

writing lyrics on scraps of paper 

 the way they came into my head 

 and storing them in a jar 

 at my grandma’s house. 

Don’t move me, don’t move me 

let me lie here where I fell 

on the cold hard ground 

let the sun burn my flesh. 

let the birds drink my blood. 

 this is where I’m from. 

when the sun goes down

on my side of town

well you in trouble now

devil get up off my back

break it down bag it up

feel my pain

feel my pain

How peaceful to be 

 as big as the sky 

but who knew such peace 

 could only come to me this way? 

a walk down the street 

a pack of cigarillos 

I took to calm my nerves 

I heard that god don’t make mistakes 

and one day the whole world 

 is gonna’ know my name.   

feel my pain

feel my pain. 

feel my pain

feel my pain.

. 

**Michael Brown went by the name “Big Mike” in his short-lived aspiring rap career. The italicized words in this poem are taken from various verses on an audio of Brown “spitting freestyle” before his untimely death. The audio  can be found on memphisrap.com.

Bernardine (Dine) Watson © (Publication in Mid-Atlantic Review forthcoming 2026) 

We: For Breonna

See,
Me and Bre
We be the same
We be girls
with bold three syllable names
that take up space, like Me
and Bre
We be brown girls
mocha malt ball round girls
thick with thigh and love
of music
and smiles and dancing
and dancing
and dancing.
See,
Me and Bre
We be knowing each other
from way back
before now 
before all this 
We be reaching for the same light
and finding it, sometimes
battling the same war
and winning it, sometimes
We be carrying each other’s pain
and pain
and pain.
So please,
don’t tell me nothing
‘bout Bre and Me
‘cause We be each other’s people
from ‘round the way 
back when our blood
be fresh and flowing,
We be the same.

(Published on UnerasedBWS.com March 2021)

Annie

I. Lament for Annie

The pink door on Locust Street
sits slightly ajar.
Once grand,
now suffering at the hands of too many strangers
who have no idea where they are going.

The vine covered church across the way
still casts an afternoon shadow on the sidewalk
as if nothing has changed,
yet twenty years and you are gone.

Am I the only one who knows
that there has been a disappearance?
A vanishing?
Am I the only one who remembers
what was behind the pink door:

Two rooms on the third floor
filled with the secrets and dreams
of a fragile black girl.
A girl with a distant smile
that never seemed anchored
in anything I could truly understand.
A soul longing to exist in some other place.

There are days when I take Locust Street
just to stand in the church courtyard across the way,
searching for a time
that has fallen through the looking glass.
Watching as people walk through my memories of you
carrying away chips of pink paint
on the bottom of their shoes.

Oh Annie,
that door is always open
waiting
for
you.

II. Annie Speaks

Pink is no color for a door
that must withstand
the harshest elements,
the unseeing eye, the unfeeling hand
how well I know this frailty,
having always craved the rarest tenderness,
the unattainable heart.

Imagine the pale, pale rose
near translucent with innocence
too delicate for touch.

Have twenty years flown by so wingedly?
here within the shadow of this hallowed place
time is nothingness. I am everywhere
my secrets ride aside the wind
my dreams ascend the vines toward
heaven
come. walk with me across the courtyard
and know that I am home.

(Published in Bourgeon Anthology, Great World of Days 2021)

Ritual

Let’s take a walk along the lake
you’d say on summer days
blue eyes longing to look again upon your Harriet
lady of lakes, pride of Minneapolis.
And with these words we would begin again
down the narrow path behind your house
you leading the way because you knew it best.

We’d follow Minnehaha Creek,
named little river
by the Dakota people
who were first to watch it flow
into Mother Mississippi
farther north where the waterfall falls.

But we had ritual to keep
and would turn toward Harriet
when her shore was in our view
ambling toward her arm in arm
your arm browning quickly in the summer sun,
till it was almost dark as mine.

At shore we would remove our shoes
to feel the ancient sediment against our toes
the grey-green shale, the limestone
and the purest ivory quartz
and pay respect to what and who had come before.

And in this place we were connected to all things
the visible and invisible
the sacred, the profane.
Even nothingness.
And the Dakota whispered, wakan
as we stood within the web of all creation.

There our secrets were as water
flowing gently, sometimes wildly toward the lake
in trails of tears.
There we prayed as one for absolution
from the burdens of our gender 
your broken body
my battered heart.

Who knew then that fate and time
would ever find us far apart?
And that my broken heart would one day seek its healing
in the places I knew first and best
so distant from your lovely lake?
Or that you would choose to stay the path beside the little river
that always led you to Lake Harriet
and finally find your solace there?

But it is well, it is well
as it is meant to be.
The Dakota say that everything is one:
love pain loss nothingness.
Everything.
Even us.

(Published in Dark House Books Anthology: Sanctuary 2018).

Where I’m Coming From: For Montrose Street

A little street full of little houses
12 in a row on either side
close enough for love and thunder
head heart hip toe.

Marble steps scrubbed with pride and purpose
stoop sitting when there was time to pass
double-dutch and nonsense singing
bare feet slapping broken ground.

Talking loud and saying nothing 
cold beer in the barrel out back
huckster man calling wares from a wagon
number man pushing fifty cent dreams.

Common walls uncommon people 
family by blood and circumstance
Philadelphia negroes
up from slavery
city country country city.

They wore the mask, the glove the apron
they wore the smiles and paid the price
they coaxed roses through the concrete
hand hope fist tears.

This is where I’m coming from
a people, a place that time has taken
but I still daydream double-dutch 
and hear the thunder
in my sleep.

(Published in Indian River Review 2017-2018)

The Ballad of Alice Hortense

Some sweet morning  
I can’t say when
The sun’s gonna’ melt my days away
And I’ll flow beside the knowing river
Till the rushing waters take me down.

One of these evenings  
In the blue-black hour 
I’ll wane with the moon until I’m dust 
But please don’t let me be forgotten  
I’m just going back to where I’m from.

I was a good girl
That’s what they called me
Pretty in my way if I do tell
All I did was what momma told me
All I knew is what my momma said.

Tell the children the kind of girl I was
I could dance a step and sing my songs
I was brown and round and my hair was long
And I’ll still love ‘em even when I’m gone

I had a voice
A rare contralto
The deepest tones of the female range
Some thought it special, some thought it fine
But an ordinary colored girl
Didn’t have a chance.

I gave my love
To one man only 
A hard-working man, that was the prize
Side by side we made a family
No mean doing in the days I seen.

All my babies
Pretty as pansies
Black-eyed, washed, fed and loved
Singing and playing, learning and knowing
Praise god from whom the blessings flow.

So, tell the children the kind of girl I was
I could dance a step and sing my songs
And I’ll still love ‘em even when I’m gone
I was brown and round and my hair was long

My children call me
blessed mother
I loved their dreams more than my own
Bury my body next to their dear father
But let the rushing river take my soul.
Some may see me
Plain and common
Some may find me small and low
I’ve lived my life with quiet purpose
I’m satisfied whatever comes.

I can’t say 
When I’ll have to leave you
I’m telling my story before he calls
I tried to love despite the troubles 
I tried to live the best I know.

Just please don’t let me be forgotten
I could dance a step and sing my songs
I was brown and round and my hair was long
And I’ll still love you even when I’m gone
I’ll still love you when I’m gone.

(Published in Beltway Poetry Quarterly September 2017)

Where is the love? 

Music is the place 
where love goes 
in the bluest times 

Dancing a two-step 
love and music  
always together 

Life is a blues song  
laugh cry feel  
sing the harmony 

(Published in Capital Love, From Washington Writers’ Publishing House 2026) 

Baby Picture: For Little B  

Maybe  
that expression on your face 
mouth all agog   
infant eyes wild 
is not a smile at all 
but pure surprise 
that you have landed here  
with us 
in this dominion 
this peculiar geography. 
Tell me 
did we catch you traveling light 
shifting realms, searching dimensions 
on your way to some other plane? 
did we lure you with the spirit tones 
that flow from our tongues 
 like ancient water? 
Look closer Little B 
look again through the veil   
of your wide and starry eyes 
we too are strangers here 
wandering this wilderness 
carrying blood memory and song. 
Listen to our psalms, our lamentations! 
we have already named you 
under the endless sky 
stay awhile 
wander with us 
none of us know the way.  

Bernardine (Dine) Watson © (Published in Gargoyle Online, 2025)