Wednesday, February 26, 2014

i want to walk with Jesus

i want to walk with Jesus

i want to walk with Jesus
and when i stumble or i fall
when i've had enough
when i've had too much
when i start the hasty process
of closing and locking the door
i want to turn from the silence of cruel indifference
and hear instead a quiet word
a word turning the storm around
calming the waters of despair
and slowing the world
with the quiescence of faith
i want a divine intercession
a gentle hand to reach across the space between us
a hand with a simple touch
that takes the lead
breaks a trail through the chaotic wilderness
carves a path through the crippling snow
and coaxes me to follow every footstep
coaxes me to believe
that life has a reason
that love has a purpose
that vagueness leads to dreams
that dreams can come true even after all the disappointments
that holding on is not just holding on
that everything i remember i remember happily
that everything i've forgotten i've forgotten honestly
that time is neither fleeting nor depleting
that yesterday and tomorrow have meaning
that today will continue even as the sun sinks low
that the sometime tears of sorrow nourish the driest soul
that uncertainty unwraps the gift of enduring certainty
that heartlessness kindles compassion
that ugly words and phrases encourage an understanding of beauty
that separation is a beginning
that pain resigns before the last pawn tumbles over
that confusion is just a necessary step to enlightenment
that helplessness is just a necessary prelude to hopefulness
and that death confirms just one thing
just one thing
just one

© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.



Sunday, February 23, 2014



Canada wins the gold medal in men's hockey, after beating Sweden by the score of 3 - 0.

Congratulations to our golden boys ... and for the rest of the world ... get used to it!


Wednesday, February 19, 2014

A Nation Is Waiting ...

In case some of you may have forgotten ...

Video Currently Unavailable


Friday, February 14, 2014

Happy Valentine's Day

Roses are red,
But my violets are sick,
I'm just like those violets,
So kiss me quick ...

Wait a second ... that's not so good ... I'll try again ...

Roses are red,
But my violets are dying,
Don't put bacon in the pan,
If it's not worth frying ...

Hmmm ... still not so good ... again ...

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My life is in shreds,
But you are my glue ...

Arrrghhh ... again ...

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I like the curve of your breasts,
And the way you curl around me,
How you pull me close,
And rock me gently back and forth,
Until I can't remember,
Who I am,
Or why I'm here,
Because love has a way,
Of discovering that the best of me,
Is the best of you ...

Happy Valentine's Day

© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.



Sunday, February 09, 2014

Black Like Me

Black Like Me

Well, it's February and all, and here in North America, February is "Black History Month."

Now, I'm not sure what all that entails, but I think it is designed to help people develop a deeper appreciation for the evolution of black culture on this side of the globe.

So, here's my nod to the story of a culture's rise from slavery and all that. I won't mention that the early European colonialists picked up the idea of slavery from the slave traders in Africa, where slavery was and still is a bit of a going concern. The rule is that you're supposed to believe that white folks came up with the idea on their own and were pretty merciless about hunting down African men and women to bring to America. Some of that notion might even be true, but from what I've read, the African slave lords were more than eager and willing to sell their brothers and sisters for the right price.

Regardless of its origins, slavery was a bad choice and has left a dark spot on the heart of America. Eventually, when slavery was abolished, black people got their "freedom," and that is genuinely a good thing. I'm definitely into freedom, but I also realise that this freedom meant some rather hard times for black people way back when.

After all, way back when, there was no NFL, no NBA, no NAACP, no fat hip-hop or rap recording contracts, no Maury Povich or Jerry Springer shows to show up on, no Oprah, no college scholarships that rewarded you for your athletic ability, no Black Panthers, no Al Sharpton, no Don King or even a Martin Luther King, no "Black Is Beautiful" bumper stickers, no Afros, and certainly no wannabe-black superstars like Justin Bieber.

There was no interracial dating, no blonde girls with a yen for mixing it up with black men, no black babies adopted by rich white celebrities like Madonna or Sandra Bullock, no OJ Simpson, no black President, no million man march on Washington, no forced integration, no busing, no street creds or gangs to join, no Roots, Different Strokes or In Living Color on television, no To Kill A Mockingbird, The Color Purple or The Help on the big screen ... hell, there wasn't much of anything good except the ghetto, living out of a tin cup, and running from the gallows tree if you so much as gave a white man the stink eye or a white woman the slink eye.

So, yes, we've come a long way, baby. These days, blacks enjoy all the benefits of luxury and power based on their uncanny ability to climb out of the ghetto and into their bass-booming Cadillac Escalades. In some ways, they have transcended "equality" and become a special race of people, adulated by a generation of young white kids as "cool" and "hip" beyond every imaginable expectation. More kids today dress black, dance black, think black, and rap black than ever before. It's truly a testament to what a little guilt and a lot of guile can accomplish.

Let's be honest, for over a century now, white Americans have been constantly reminded of the sins of their fathers, those plantation owners who enslaved black culture. Despite fighting the bloodiest of civil wars in the name of abolition, the words, "bigot" and "racist," were tattooed on the American psyche, and the general American populace was plunged into a hot oil vat of guilt and shame.

As a result, since the beginning of the 20th century, white Americans have bent over backwards and done almost everything imaginable to make amends for the "sins of their fathers." To that end, some unscrupulous black leaders have seized that opportunity to catapult the stature of the black race over the confused heads of the more silent minorities — the Jewish, Puerto Rican, Italian, Irish, Ukrainian, Polish, Indian, Pakistani, Korean, Asian, and every other immigrant group in America. I can't help but wonder if at least some of these groups don't look on in envious awe. Well, I guess somebody has to live in the ghettos. Maybe they should have learned to play a better game of basketball.

Growing up black in America is no longer a liability. Any black girl or boy with two licks of sense can accomplish anything. Do they have a step-up on other races? Maybe. If they do, it is because America has empowered them with opportunities no other race has ever historically enjoyed.

Despite the success of many black Americans, the black identity has long been a confused and confusing enigma. Black Americans have lived through being "coloured," "Negroes," "people of colour," "Afro-Americans," and a whole list of racially derogatory terms. Today, this identity conundrum continues, and many people would now like to do away with the "black" in black American.

As a student of language, I couldn't agree more. Most of the black people, with whom I've come into contact, aren't "black" at all. They're more a deep brown in colour, sort of the colour of chocolate. Of course, no one goes around talking about a "chocolate" race without risking going to jail for some kind of hate crime. No, these days, black Americans seem to prefer to be called "African-Americans," and I suppose that term is now the politically correct nomenclature.

I don't profess to be an expert in the study of geography, but I'm pretty sure that there is no country called Africa-America. I suspect that the term is a way for black people to separate themselves from an otherwise 2% homogenized country. Who knows? Maybe someday, the United States of America will be simply renamed Westside Afrimerica. Better still, maybe someday Americans will just be Americans, regardless of colour or race.

Here in Canada, we don't have a legacy of slavery. If anything, Canadians feel a certain pride for bringing runaway slaves north of the border. Remember, we were the architects of the "Underground Railway." Oh sure, some of the slaves we brought north found it shits-for-cold up here in Canada, and wanted a speedy ticket back to Mississippi, but those were few and far between. After all, in those days, freedom had a price. Not so much anymore.

No, in Canada, you won't hear too much about the rise of African-Canadians. We do have "New Canadians," sort of a catch-all for anyone who migrates into Canada. You could be black, yellow, green, or blue, or any colour of the gay rainbow, and you'd still be a New Canadian. I'm not completely sure when you stop being a New Canadian, but eventually I suppose you get full Canadian status. Maybe after you convince someone that you love bacon, beavers, and beer ... not sure.

Canada does celebrate Black History Month, but really, most black kids quickly realise that there is no real advantage to growing up black in this country. Black kids in Canada are far better off taking their talents south of the border, much like Andrew Wiggins, a Toronto boy, did when he accepted a full scholarship to play basketball at the University of Kansas. Andrew will undoubtedly be the first overall draft pick in the 2014 NBA draft, and he'll go on to make millions of dollars in the United States. In so doing, I guess he'll make black Canadian history.

Imagine that ...

© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.



Friday, February 07, 2014



i'm broken
like sea shells
along a stony beach
caught between
the seaweed and random
pieces of fossilized slate
twisted in the sinews of
driftwood greyed
smashed into chips
and fragments
and tossed like confetti
in the dead air
that howls in despair
knowing it has arrived
just a little too late

i'm broken
like a scattering
of ancient bones
bleached translucent
by the southern sun
the flesh of every
stripped bare from
the testament of a life
that had only just begun
sometime in the before
but now long gone
in the after
every hope and dream
shattered one by one

i'm broken
a swollen carcass of emotion
drifting piece by piece
over a swell of regret
then in and out of waves
crashing and churning
through the yellow froth
of white
too blue from worry
too black from care
too blind
to hope
even in the dawn's
unrelenting light

i'm broken
like a cloud of sand
stirred up by the west wind
trapped in the fury
of stagnant air
and carried off
down along the shore
past the shipwreck
of love
where the lighthouse
of instruction failed
recklessly thrown down
before the line in the sand
that i may have crossed once before
but which i cannot cross anymore

© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.




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