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Whispers of stories of popular trees hanging
like tales of spirits living in the trees
in the clouds and within the sunny afternoon’s skies
in the soil beneath our feet…stories sung of colored people
talking about what happened to body and soul
strapped to an old echo
with hearts running watermelon red
caught up in two worlds being seen as no one
but there for everyone
shoulders speaking royalty and hips speaking love
and feet moving in intentional grace.
I live my days being an echo reflection of my grandfather
as my grandfather’s son living within the folds of Willie’s skin
as I danced with the shadows and rainbows rising…knowing him
like I have grown to know myself.
His soul sings back to the echoes in my footsteps
in the tender stories given to me while we sat fishing.
His story paves this road before me as I sing the loving notes
of his birthing song, his ways of walking around the arms of Jim Crow and his ways of walking in the footsteps his ancestors…
His nimble tracing the musical notes. He taught me to see visions living like history painted on my closed eyelids..
In the vibrato of my voice.
I can hear the echo of your spirit wisdom ringing, resounding
opening up my soul to carve the tones of my place of belonging.
The sound awakes me each morning to greet me as I hear the calling of your voice to beckon me to come join the magic, the music of the moment when time knows to stand still.
I know this truth and this act of creation, the worth of being raised with your wisdom, your soul music, your church music…the act of breathing in this time of grace.
So in this time of grace I sing of my grandfather, a classic Negro, well-spoken and slow to speak,..every day in a three-piece suit, Stacey shoes, five feet eight of charming mystical a cappella singing old school, gospel singing Negro,,,skin the color of red bark, lips full with five languages coming from his mouth, his long forehead of Africa framing his coffee brown deep set eyes, the gaze, the skirt-chasing, sometimes hard-drinking man. I miss the tone of your voice and the truth of its force… missing you pulling me back to center, back to seed.
I am his namesake, the grandson of Crazy Willy, the man who traveled across this country doing tent revivals in the 1930’s, leaving his family home to do God’s work. That dedication earned him the name of Crazy Willie. He was a healing man, a godly human singing Near the Cross under his breath while carving his wood, visioning his dream with his fingers and his mind. There were the times I would catch him lost in himself and his spirit time dancing in a prayer circle od shouts of amen. Then there was the ritual of saying to his wife of over 50 years, the closing of the day…Good night, dear.
It was said in a tone that would melt butter. Whether he was happy or sad with his wife during the day, every argument would be settled before they would close their eyelids.
And he existed in a prayer circle from night to day to be more like his unconditional loving God, to be more rooted in dream time, more rooted in ancient of rising dust and ash where living life as a living prayer.
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