Beyond Poetry

by Nathan Jarelle

  “I’m so proud of you,” Sandy told him. “Valedictorian and a scholarship to Steny College?”

  As Sandy pecked Junior’s face with more kisses, Senior rose from the sofa to greet Junior. His menacing scowl – which had terrified Junior once upon a time – was replaced with a charming grin before opening to the widest smile Junior had ever seen from his daddy. With his bag still looped onto his arm, Junior placed his hand in Senior’s wide hand.

  “I second that. You did damn good, son.” Senior patted him on the shoulder. “Come Saturday, you’ll be the first man in our family to graduate from high school. That’s a helluva lot to be thankful for. And I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, dad.” Junior cheesed.

  Across the living room, Brother Gay toasted Courtney Haughton with a glass of champagne before acknowledging Junior encircled by his family and Vanessa. Removing his glasses, he strolled over to Junior and placed a hand on his former pupil’s shoulder. Surprised by his appearance, Junior gave his ex-teacher a fist bump.

  “Yo, Brother Gay!” he chuckled. “When’d you get in?”

  “About an hour ago, Junior,” he said. “Came straight in from Cleveland. Had to check on Mom. Wouldn’t miss a chance to see you again, though. It’s been over three years.”

  For Junior, three years felt like a lifetime. Between departing from Brooke’s Rowe to Fort Foote, his life had changed drastically since the days of Mrs. Hawkins, Mr. Levy, and the perils of hardship he’d experience at Medgar. According to Brother Gay, Junior’s old school was under serious reconstruction after the superintendent fired his old principal. Medgar would experience wholesale changes with Brother Gay leading the pack. Junior’s ex-teacher from room 454 had promoted up the ranks.

  “I made Vice Principal.” Brother Gay lit up. “Gonna do the best I can to see that the right changes happen at Medgar. Who knows when the next ‘Junior’ might come along?”

  As the two laughed, Casey, walked out of the kitchen wearing an apron, playing hostess to their guests. Casey, now thirty-two, and with gray streaks throughout her orange hair, lit up like Christmas in New York when she laid eyes on Junior. Junior’s young heart became tunnel-visioned as his eyes met Casey’s. Excusing himself, he traveled across the room and held her as his supporters gestured appropriately.

  “I love you,” he said to her.

  “Not like I love you, Junior,” she said back.

  A tear left Junior’s eye as he then turned around to acknowledge a group of his cherished supporters. Moved by their encouragement, he struggled to find the words.

  “Y’all are just…” His voice fractured. “Y’all are just too much.” He shook his head. “I never thought I’d see the day where little old me could fill a room. Thanks for being here.”

  Melvin, known for his quintessential “fuck you’s”, found himself lost in the moment of Junior’s humility and graciousness.

  “No doubt, Junior,” he told him. “We got you, homie.”

  Brushing through the crowd, Vanessa showed up to kiss Junior as the room oohed with amazement before Sandy rushed in to cockblock their romance. “No babies!” she yelled with a joking-but-dead-serious tone to the amusement of the room. The room clapped in awe of Junior. Casey began dishing out slices of Junior’s favorite snack: Domino’s pizza with pepperoni, sausage, and extra cheese.

  Holding hands, the room gathered in prayer as Junior led the chorus of thanks for his eighteen years. With his eyes tightly sealed, he paused as he reflected on the day Lawrence was killed. Somewhere in his heart, he felt his brother’s winsome smile encouraging him to go on. As he exhaled, he cracked his eyes to steal a peep around the room at his supporters, fulfillment painted on their faces. Before saying “Amen”, Junior closed with a poem he’d written in Langston’s library less than an hour early.

  Whatever you do

  or wherever you go,

  you’re never too far

  from the place you’ll always know.

  Thank you, Crawford.

  Thank you, Brooke’s Rowe.

  For making me into the man,

  this great family has come to know.

  LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.

  Junior’s words tapped into the hearts of friends and family there. He had persevered beyond his poetry, one line at a time.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading Beyond Poetry. The creation of this delicate work would not be possible without an outpouring of support from family, friends, and of course, my many fans who saddled beside me throughout this literary journey. I would like to take this time to fully acknowledge my supporters and to thank them for their encouragement.

  First and foremost, I would like to take this moment to thank God for giving me the strength and discipline needed to write. The resiliency required to complete this novel took an indelible commitment. It was a labor of love. To God be the glory for this gift.

  To my wife, Tiffani. Sweetheart, thank you for putting up with me these past two years. Thank you for allowing me space and time needed to write Beyond Poetry. Some of those days, I spent more time in front of my computer than beside you which is where I should’ve been. You stuck it out with me anyway, seeing my vision by allowing me the opportunity to endeavor in my dreams uninterrupted. Thank you for believing in me.

  To my mother, Diane, for your sustained love and investment in my education early on. As a youth, my mother instilled the affectionate principles that with upstanding character, hard work, and dedication, you can go far in this world. Thank you for investing in my dream to write by harvesting this seed so that I may sprout.

  To the Blackwell and Williams family, thank you for your love, kindness, and for allowing me a place on your family tree.

  To my dear friend and brother, Pastor Eugene Pearson, and his congregation at Mount Pleasant Baptist Church. Thank you for lifting my wife and me during our darkest hour and for visiting us at the hospital with words of love and well-wishes.

  Speaking of hospitals, I would like to extend a special thanks to the staff at the Virginia Hospital Center’s Stroke Recovery Unit. Your professionalism and support of our family have left a genuine impression on us for the need of front-line workers fighting the good fight every day to keep families safe and warm.

  To Megan McDonough, a writer with the Washington Post, thank you for your lovely feature article about my wife and me.

  To my therapist, Mrs. Denyse Fritz-Joefield, thank you for the healing words during the 2020 pandemic and your support.

  To actor and director, Bill Duke, thank you for being an influencer in my life and your dedication to teaching young artists the fundamentals of striving for what you believe in with dignity and integrity.

  To my editor, Katie, and my friends at Darling Axe. I am forever grateful for the incomparable services provided to this delicate novel. Thank you for helping to paint this story into a reality, and thank you for your professional commitment to Beyond Poetry.

  To the great city of Cheverly, thank you for showing me what it is to live in a close-knit community, to develop lasting relationships, and to harbor the insatiable nostalgia I get each time I return to visit. Many of my great friends from yesteryear have since moved on, but their memories still live within me. Remember to live in the present. Enjoy the moment. Before you know it, this short life will all be over.

  To my family and friends whose names I’ve forgotten, forgive me. You all are in my heart.

  Beyond Poetry is dedicated to the memory of my father, Roosevelt, and brother, Jerrard.

  Rest in paradise.

  Beyond Poetry

  Glossary

  There were a host of meaningful poems used throughout Beyond Poetry. As a gift, I present to you, the reader, a collection of poems used in the book. I’ve also added a few extras. At the time of writing, I compiled about four journals, front and back, to use for my project. These assorted works are owned exclusively by the book’s author, Nathan Jarelle. Enjoy!

  Chapter O
ne

  Don’t get so lost looking up that you forget to look down.

  A stumble will make you humble.”

  As Streams run and rivers rush,

  lakes remain on hold like phone calls

  from oceans that don’t call back from the shoreline.

  Chapter Two

  I break my own heart. And sometimes you do it for me.

  Sadly,

  there’s a comfort in hurt called familiarity.

  Nobody wants new pain.

  An old, achy broken heart is better than a new one.

  Chapter Three

  Pain is in all things. Can you see it?

  There is misfortune to being fortunate.

  Sickness to being lovesick

  And misery to wealth.

  No road is perfect. Not even close.

  Reside in Heart

  And not on some secluded island

  inside the fortress of your mind.

  Live for others.

  Drink harmony. Smoke tranquility.

  Become a fertile soul capable of birthing peace, prosperity,

  and positivity.

  I am free but not dom.

  Fathers, let your world revolve around the son.

  Can I drink from your fountain?

  Your waters are nourishing and fulfilling.

  I can feel myself heal at a taste of your eloquence.

  “Why do I need permission to be black?”

  asked the boy whose black parents told him to behave when it

  came to racism.

  They enslaved us for 400 years.

  Gave us new names.

  Raped our mothers.

  Raped our fathers.

  Whipped us for running. Whipped us for dreaming.

  Whipped us for reading.

  Then sold us away.

  Whipped us for running. Whipped us for dreaming.

  Whipped us for reading.

  Stole our dreams. Stole our opportunities. Stole our future.

  And then called us ignorant niggers.

  I no a lot of people so that I won’t know a lot of people.

  Chapter Four

  Plant a seed, water it and birth a tree.

  But some young seeds

  don’t get the nutrients they need.

  Instead, they get forgotten by other forgotten seeds.

  Black is the skin I reside in.

  Love is the language I speak.

  Poetry is my air. God is my sun.

  Music is my Holy Water.

  I am who I am. That’s just how it be.

  Let the rest just hate on me.

  Foolishly, I fell in love with a silhouette and waited for its

  owner to show.

  You look nothing like what you’ve been through.

  Chapter Five

  I don’t know yet if it’s love I feel,

  But when I think of you,

  you’re the sun that lights my little dark world.

  It’s your own fault. You hurt you.

  People treat love like a winter coat.

  Put you on one season. Take you off for this or that reason.

  Pack you inside a box. Shove you in the back of a closet

  until they need you again.

  I’m not a coat or a jacket that you zip and unzip.

  My love is year-round.

  Now that you’re gone.

  they stop by to visit.

  They line up one-by-one, weeping while you’re asleep.

  Not a phone call or a Christmas card.

  Not a call last year or the year before that.

  But on the day of service,

  they show up carrying their lakes & their rivers.

  I will drown every day for the rest of my days, brother.

  Love you,

  Junior.

  Chapter Six

  Love is like a Ferris wheel.

  Go up high. Go down low.

  Hang somewhere in the middle for a while.

  Get off. Get on.

  See the top of the world.

  Then back on the ground again.

  Stop. Hop off.

  Start at the end of the line.

  Pay for a new ticket and do it all over again.

  The latitude of my gratitude

  is ocean-wide.

  Atlantic. Indian. Artic. You name it.

  But to be Pacific.

  I wish for my words

  to reach every corner of the world.

  Touch every heart of every walking soul.

  That is my goal.

  Chapter Seven

  Life is difficult to explain.

  How can something so remarkably beautiful

  be so cruel and unfair to us all?

  It feels good to have a friend in you.

  To go through it all, in you.

  To experience the world, in you.

  To talk, laugh, cry and share things in you,

  Thank you

  for the friend in you.

  Everyone is not your friend.

  Your enemies will dress in disguise

  right before your very eyes

  if you don’t soon realize.

  Everyone is not your friend.

  Don’t want your money or what isn’t mine.

  But if you don’t mind,

  I would like a little more of your time.

  Don’t care what’s on the outside

  because that’ll eventually fade away.

  And I pray,

  our souls become as inseparable

  as your sun is to my day.

  I breed forgiveness,

  though I remain savvy with my heart,

  unaware of the direction

  to which sinister winds might blow.

  Chapter Eight

  Don’t get misinformed by the uninformed.

  Miseducated fools swim together

  Like a school of dumb fish

  waiting to get eaten by the sharks of their oppressors.

  The world is not my oyster.

  Things do not happen for a reason.

  Practice does not make perfect.

  Nice guys will not finish last.

  Lies given to me by my ancestors shall be abolished,

  like rusted chains given to slaves.

  You must take what’s yours while you still can.

  I’ve decided to take what’s mine

  and whomever else is weak enough to let me take theirs.

  Some prefer the lake while others prefer the ocean.

  I prefer the motions of a body of water to cleanse my soul.

  Let the rain pour down soon

  with streams that run into my wildest dreams.

  Lakes & Oceans.

  What waters must I swim?

  Chapter Nine

  I’m a story with no ending.

  I am a poem with debatable clarity.

  I am asleep but conscious behind my own wheel.

  I am dead to everyone, including myself.

  I am a loss for words.

  I am speechless.

  I am beyond repair.

  I am a life taken for granted.

  You and I,

  we’re beyond poetry.

  Beyond words.

  Beyond blood.

  Beyond Brooke’s Rowe or any part of Philly.

  We’re two souls

  brought together in tragic harmony.

  Proudly free to be me.

  Free to think. Free to dream.

  Free in my heart. Free to cry.

  Free not to care what others think.

  Free to be me – the only way to be.

  Dear Junior,

  You’re the moon that balances my waters.

  The sun that lights up my sky.

  The blood that runs through me.

  You’re the sail in my winds.

  The strength to keep me going.

  You’re the brightest star I’d ever seen skip across the galaxy.

  You and me?

/>   We’re beyond poetry.

  Plant a seed, water it and birth a tree.

  But some young seeds don’t get the water they need.

  Instead, they get forgotten by other forgotten seeds.

  Chapter Ten

  True love hurts sometimes like new shoes out of a box.

  Some shoes fit just right. Some shoes don’t fit at all.

  Some shoes last a lifetime, and some shoes only a nighttime.

  Yearn a love that feels good to stand and walk in

  with warm cushy soles that escort you to your dreams.

  Remove every cloud from the sky.

  Give me the sun.

  Let it shine bright over me,

  shadowing my every move,

  illuminating my awakened soul

  from the horrendous cold night.

  From the shoreline, I sea waves that gladly wave back at me.

  I am ready to sail the world.

  Chapter Eleven

  Don’t drown in your miseries. Paddle your fears.

  Kick your legs. Tread the bayous of your subconscious.

  Survive the wave and float to shore sure.

  You can fix broken. But you can’t fix done.

  I was once blind, now my eyes can see,

  this wondrous world, and all that was waiting for me.

  My heart was jaded. I’d fallen asleep.

  For days I would weep.

  Now, I know where I must be.

  We are the night.

  Black.

  Inherently feared

  due to others’ paranoia of the dark.

  I have no words for your love.

  You love me unconditionally

  under one condition,

  that you love me with all your heart through all of me.

  And I am forever so grateful to have you.

  Chapter Twelve

  I know a place

  colder than a Mars night

  where hearts are broken

  and running minds never tire.

  There’s a place called Brooke’s Rowe.

  Where black can crack

  I bet you couldn’t picture that.

  I need a loyalty like the sun in the sky,

  shining over me

  Brightening my little dark world each day.

  Blossom my child.

  Don’t cover up too long.

  Don’t stay hidden for so long

  beneath the fabric of doubt.

  Open up! Release your vibrancy!