A Walk in The Park

by

Ronald G. Auguste

(For Bridget Carroll)

The skies seem cold, extremely desolate,
Though savage sunlight rips the afternoon
With brassy talons, while pale voices croon
Of weather changes. Walking through the gate,
I feel an eerie longing for the moon.

And lovers lilt across the singing grass,
The girls demure, the fellows debonair,
Like movie players in a screen affair.
Nobody notices me as I pass
From vague elation, to a keen despair.

Some toddlers bawl in prams beneath the trees,
While ice-cream vendors hawk their frozen joys,
And chattering girls, and frisky little boys,
Swarm gleefully around the vans like bees!
How personal becomes their impersonal noise.

Black as my mood, beneath black Summer trees,
I pause awhile to soothe my sorry soul,
Where all the dignities live on the dole.
I'll keep my Negritude till fires freeze!
Without this blackness, I cannot be whole.

For it's my essence, setting me apart,
An equal man, yet different, heaven knows!
For have I not sustained a rage of blows --
A rage of pressures meant to break my heart?
And yet ... and yet ... heck! rancour hardly shows.

The Summer shimmers on the aspen leaves,
And gilds the children running in the park,
While I impatiently await the dark,
For darkness more becomes a heart that grieves.
Oh not for me the singing of the lark!

Yet would I hawk my life's blood for a song
To hurl like spears into the heedless sky!
That, piercing it, our God, hearing my cry,
Would take away those griefs suffered so long.
O sorrows, smother me, and let me die!

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from: Beverly Hills, CA, US

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