Me and Her

The Gifted

I could only stare as she traced the skyline and,
Pointed out her star and moved another close to it
Giving it my name; they moved about each other,
In circles, with the no other people about.

And she would cry, only because of this gift, as
She moved the stars closer together, others would
Disappear from her scope and she missed them,
The nameless and the forgotten,

But in me she found all that she had lost, the friend
And the lover, the rock and a shoulder to rest on, if
Ever she felt weak and wanted a minute to escape, I
Could create a shelter for us, and we could be lost

Inside a moment, where nothing but us mattered, where
We shed our mortal coils and left footprints in the sand,
That were untraceable and we are untouchable, to all
The three dimensional imaginations the lousy love

Perpetrators that chase us until we dress in foreign clothes,
And speak in foreign tongues. Suddenly I am Nikolai and
She is Anastasia and these screwdrivers separate the common
From the extraordinary, the eternity became so much clearer;

So we gave one last toast to the gifted on the stone porch, with
The plastic chairs, and the ice cream and the Chinese and the
Man with the chocolate that watched in the background as
She was gifted, I was gifted, and the nameless and the forgotten.

-Chester Stoney

This dream I had

A Midwinter Night’s Dream

You have invaded my dream’s state
Destroyed the lovers past, present,
Conquered the subconscious images,
And replaced every thought with your visage.

Destroyed the lovers past, present
With a single tender kiss and somber touch,
And replaced every thought with your visage,
As we lay in a sea of red silk and roses.

With a single tender kiss and a solemn touch,
You have once again taken control of my mind
As we lay in a sea of red silk and roses
And my pen can write nothing but your praises.

Love has once again taken control of my mind
With a southern scent this northern flower
And my pen can write nothing but your praises
Your beauty unbound outshines all in the field

You southern scent a northern raised flower
Estranged sweet dove that stays a winter’s distance
Your beauty unbound outshines all in the field
Wayward wanderer, journey to my arms

Estranged sweet dove who stays a winter’s distance
What are you looking for, where is your nest?
Wayward wanderer, journey back to my arms
That are mature enough to hold you now

What are you looking for, where is your nest?
Why do you refuse to embrace old poems
That are mature enough to hold you now
When “out of reach” is no longer literal

Why do you refuse to embrace old poems?
Those written in adolescent confusion
When “out of reach” is no longer literal and chronicle
Back when I would be your diary, of lovers



Those written in adolescent confusion
The only expression of external consolation
Back when I would be your diary of lovers
And when I prized my second place ribbon

The only expression of external consolation
I would stroke your hair, so lightly each strand
And when I prized my second place medal
Which I shined and wore proudly, to feel close

I would stroke your hair so lightly each strand
And in your slumber I hoped you smiled
And I shined and wore smiles proudly, to feel close
Walking slowly with crossed lumber on my back

And in solace slumber I hoped you smiled
For me maybe not, but truly for him
As I walked slowly with crossed lumber on your back
All led to streams on soft sunken banks

For me maybe not, but for him,
Heart beats grew faster, bodies grew fonder
But all led to streams on soft sunken banks
A bounty on heads without warnings

Heart beats grew faster, bodies grew fonder
And after left in solitary silence made
A bounty on heads without caution
Leaving your dowry fragile and empty

And after left in solitary silence made
Future endeavors hot and clammy
Leaving your dowry fragile and empty
And amongst all lovers you stand alone

Future endeavors hot and clammy
As you again cross freedom lines
And amongst all loves you stand alone
As foreign tides carry your favor to unknown lands

As you again cross freedom lines
Further than the longest arm could grasp
Foreign tides carry your favor to unknown islands
Where you shed old skins for newer coats




Islands further than the longest arm could grasp
Hidden between the common grass and dandelions
Where you shed old skins for newer coats
Where you wore fragility on your cuffs

Hide among the common grass and dandelions
And hope that no one can find you
Where you wore fragility around your neck
And continued to wander ignorant of purple mountain passion

And hope that no one can find you
To escape to the night light waiting on for you
Or continue to wander ignorant of purple mountain passion
Where I wait willing and wanting in silence

Escape to the night light waiting for you
As I stare at the moon beams and wonder
Where I wait willing and wanting in silence
Until the wind guides a lonesome note to my window

As I stare at the moon beams and wonder
How soft this southern comfort could be
Till the wind guides in a lonesome note
Slips into intoxication which amplifies it

How soft this southern comfort could be
The tenderness flows inside and hopes drift
Slips into intoxication which amplifies it
And create dreams in a bottle

The tenderness flows inside and hopes drift
Into a midnight’s slumber to comfort
And create dreams in a bottle
Which are untouchable, only imaginable

Into a midnight’s slumber to comfort
And delight those subconscious images
You are untouchable, only imaginable
You have graced my dream state.

If only I knew him

He walks through Boundaries
(-after Etheridge Knight)
By Chester Stoney

He walks through boundaries
of social designation, degradation.
He has the ability within
mind to escape confines of doubt
and reasoning. In house of broken
glass and broken dreams he sees
skies of milk and honey, over an empty stomach.

Bags under his eyes
form to carry tears too
heavy to stay inside.
It rains as he cries.

His dreams are not my dreams,
but I have seen him
in dreams dreamt, now and then

he reads to me- young and eager
from a book of history, of dreams
teaches me how to escape
to release from the chains
to lead my people
to wash my hands of hate
instilled in me
over years.

Now his children rest in toe
bright smiles, glare and warm
his heart, and dreams
load is lightened
with each story, and
each memory
laughter removing worn-
out troubles
he stares
he escapes
the world the chains
he has the ability of mind
he walks through boundaries.

Sex and Age

Sex with a white girl
(-after Hayes)

If you hide inside the broom closet,
You’d be able to walk tall again too:
The two week boot-camp with fatigue,

the drill sergeants rose tattoo. You
can be the only black boy along the
brick wall, outside, beyond the drill yard:

the cold open showers that fell short of
innocence, all our dicks were small, even
my own dark dagger was shallow,

the game of crash, the smell of blood in
barracks, between beds made neat every
morning, the trashcan alarm clocks.

How they would yell and bang, their spit
burned my irises that were forced to be
blue. The birds repeated the clap. Clap.

Clap. Boyish dreams subsided.
I was jerked back into the sick of all
The wrong reasons to be in love,

and she was the only one who understood,
the early teenage writings and angst, in the
blue and white composition book.

Genie, she would spend the spare afternoons
gently thumbing the pages, she kissed the
edges after each leaf, her powdery fingers

graced my neck, to my chest, to my waist,
stop…
what would your mother think? If you

made friend with a boy in shadow,
where the soft beats drew bodies so
close together that we would become one.

But we needed to be ready with all the
protections of Troy, it was decided that
tonight was to be our night to transcend,

while midnight watch was on leave,
the shadows moved quickly on the floor
to the door and we met with eyes. Briefly,

we must have gazed too long, and the
moment had passed and her moment was
preserved, I never had sex with a white girl.

-Chester Stoney

Outside Looking In

Lone Swordsman
Weary. Battle worn. Blood soaked.

He travels the path of solidarity,
With no friends. With no guide.
Under twin moons that gaze only upon him,
As he trudges in old wooden sandals,
The worn lumber splitting under toe,
With every step drawing him both near
And far from home.

He is Hái Xuán, the mysterious black child
Sun of the měi zhōu bào(panther), son of the gē(dove)

He pauses on his journey to write,
On stone, on bark, on river, on sky,
He takes the overtreaded mud and
Produces sculptures that last for a moment.

His hair does not part the wind, but
Coils cautiously around carefully woven
Bands of red and white braided, grown
Beyond the point of comfort, as cracks
Trace his face from eye to cheek, to
Chin and disappear.

(How many this has killed is not certain,
Does anyone count the meals of a lion,
Or for that matter is death really all that bad.)

He arrives at this plane of equlibrium
To find his face on others, on children
In cages with no locks, and he drops
To his knees, only to catch his breath,
Then he draws his sword.