Born in the South, under that Carolina sky,
Josephine Robinson , a strong black woman with pride.
Eighth grade education, couldn’t hold her back,
Racism of the south tried to stop her, but she stayed on track.
To Philly she migrated, dreams in her eyes,
Two kids by her side, she was destined to rise.
Two Turner Street homes, bought with blood, sweat, and tears,
Through the struggles and the pain, she conquered her fears.

Two houses on Turner Street bought from her grind,
With her hard-earned dollars, she redefined.
A matriarch standing, through thick and thin,
When my dad fell short, she did her best to step in.
Showered us with care, love beyond measure,
Grandma Josephine, a timeless treasure.
Her fried chicken thighs, crisp and divine,
Sweet potato pies, yeah they taste so fine.

She showed me strength, resilience, and grace,
In her warm embrace, I found my place.
Through every hardship, she stood tall,
Josephine Robinson, my hero through it all.

Black woman from the South, legacy so deep,
Her memory in my heart, forever I’ll keep.
Fried chicken thighs, golden and crisp,
Sweet potato pies, with a loving twist.
Grandkids gathered around, stories to tell,
In her presence, all was well.
Her Southern cooking, a symbol of care,
Grandma Josephine, always there.

Fried chicken thighs, sweet potato pies,
Grandma’s love, never disguised.
Southern cooking, taste of home,
In her kitchen, love was shown.

From the South to Philly, she paved the way,
With love and strength, she did her best to save the day.
Josephine Robinson your legacy lives on,
In every fried chicken thigh, and every sweet potato pie I ate til it was gone.

This poem is dedicated to my Grandma Josephine Robinson 10-03-1922 to 1-08-2014

Written with love by your Grandson Brandon Basheer Umar Pemberton

I yearn for the days we reincarnate as trees
A family of redwoods, sturdy and tall as can be
Storms wouldn’t dare shake us
And our roots grounded in more than just emotion
We’d be patient, we’d listen
We’d see humans making our mistakes
And glisten at the lessons

The party was lovely. Beautiful weather, waves gently rolling over the sand, sun shining. As always, we all gathered there for you, duded out in our best, even though we spent our time together; away from you. Suddenly the weather turned, the sky darkened and the ocean roared. I saw the ship, faintly, behind the curtains of fog and mist and I knew it was for you. Frantic, I told everyone you were leaving, but no one believed me. The horns thundered and it was deafening, I was sure everyone could hear them. I screamed my warning above the sounds, but no one believed me. The lighthouse, always in full vision yet forgotten after so many years, shone its dull light and I jumped up and down and pointed and shouted, but no one believed me. From nowhere, you came to shore. We all gathered round you. I saw the bags at your feet. It was clear you were leaving. I looked into countless eyes, awaiting the understanding nod that yes, they finally saw it too, but still no one believed me. I kissed you goodbye and gave my blessing for a safe journey up North, not realizing that I didn’t believe me too. The baby ran towards the water, my attention caught for a split second, but when I turned back, you were gone. Everyone told me you had left, but I didn’t believe them.
We all dressed in black. We had parties centered around a pretense of love for one another, convincing ourselves that if we held on to each other, maybe we’d find you amongst us. A little in Will, a spot in Anna, a smile in Margret, a talent in Jeremy. But you were no where to be found. I said I loved them as I loved you, but I didn’t believe me. Over time, the party lights became as dull as the lighthouse. They took on a sour scent. Then bitter. It was your light that provided the warmth and clarity, your perfume that kept the stench at bay. The parties became few and far between. Some stopped coming, some disappeared, but the worst of all had more parties, stinking of gangrene decay.
I wish I could’ve bottled that perfume, but silly me, I should’ve known it could never be caught. It was the wild aroma of yellow roses, sunshine, and a humid breeze. No chemical, no matter how strong, could recreate the natural sweetness. I’ve kept what few possessions you and the vultures left behind. They’re shut up tight in decorative boxes and drawers and when I open them, your perfume escapes and while I relish in the embrace, enraptured, I desperately slam closed the boxes and drawers as quickly as possible, so as to never lose your perfume, like I’ve lost you.
That was many years ago, now. No more ships have come in, the lighthouse still stands, the baby is now a boy, and the fog and mist have hung around since you departed. It’s difficult to see and I don’t know which way I’m going, but the boy guides me without intention. In him, I see your smile, your talent, your light, and a perfume much like your own. You told me he would, but I didn’t believe you.

This guitar you handed down,
Shapes music like a lighthouse.
Acoustic memory,
You’re tuning through the keys.
From where you are you amplify,
the song that’s calling me.
These same strings your fingers played,
Connect me to the words you say,
Because life’s foot is on my neck,
Your voice says “sing, until it’s dead.”
“The life you had was a cage”, you said.
“Sing Sweetie. Heart and mind are syncing,
This tower that you built is strong,
And this is gonna hurt,
So sing.
Sing through pain.
Because waves can’t take your breathe away.
Let the sound crash through,
Now that nothing takes from you.
Where your going you don’t need walls,
They never supported you at all.”
Still I’m sitting inland,
And I belong at sea.
“Sing Sweetie.
You shine when you have trimmed the wick,
That’s how you find your reasonance.
Your life is hidden in music.
Face it.
That’s your self healing circuit.”