I said to poetry....

I said to Poetry: "I'm finished
with you."
Having to almost die
before some wierd light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
Im out for good times--
at the very least,
some painless convention."


Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything,
only restless.


Poetry said: "You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?"
I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m.
I'm not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you."


Poetry said: "But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one--and how suprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with


Think of that!"


"I'll join the church!" I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
"I'll learn how to pray again!"


"Let me ask you," said Poetry.
"When you pray, what do you think
you'll see?"


Poetry had me.


"There's no paper
in this room," I said.
"And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise."


"Bullshit," said Poetry.
"Bullshit," said I.

When....

When the Famous Black Poet speaks,
I understand
that his is the same unnervingly slow
rambling method of getting from A to B
that I hated in my father,
my father who always told me
don't shuffle.


The Famous Black Poet is
speaking of the dark river in the mind
that runs thick with the heroes of color,
Jackie R., Bessie, Billie, Mr. Paige, anyone
who knew how to sing or when to run.
I think of my grandmother, said
to have dropped dead from the evil eye,
of my lesbian aunt who saw cancer and
a generally difficult future headed her way
in the still water
of her brother's commode.
I think of voodoo in the bottoms of soup-cans,
and I want to tell the poet that the blues
is not my name, that Alabama
is something I cannot use
in my business.


He is so like my father,
I don't ask the Famous Black Poet,
afterwards,
to remove his shoes,
knowing the inexplicable black
and pink I will find there, a cut
gone wrong in five places.
I don't ask him to remove
his pants, since that too
is known, what has never known
a blade, all the spaces between,
where we differ . . .


I have spent years tugging
between my legs,
and proved nothing, really.
I wake to the sheets I kicked aside,
and examine where they've failed to mend
their own creases, resembling some silken
obstruction, something pulled
from my father's chest, a bad heart,
a lung,


the lung of the Famous Black Poet
saying nothing I want to understand

Who am I?

Who am I?
I am a collection of everyone that has had an influence on me in one way or another.

What makes me unique?
What makes me unique is my creative way of interaction with others.

What is the color of love?
Love is blind...colorless.

What inspires me?
Im inspired by overcoming and overcomers.

What are my aspirations?
I aspire to fulfill my objectives, and to realize my goals. I aspire to choice.

What do I stand for?
I stand for respect, love, and peace.

Who defines me?
I, alone. If I choose to define myself, I do.

What defines me?
What defines me are the choices that I make, and the results that I obtain. I am my best and worst critic!

What am I seeking?
I am seeking spiritual enlightenment, companionship, laughter, incredible cosmic intercourse with my life partner.
And u?

Still Learning...

After awhile you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.
And you begin to learn that love
doesn`t mean staying and company doesn`t mean security.
And you learn that kisses aren`t contracts and presents aren`t promises.
And you learn to accept your defeats with grace-not the grief of a child.
And you learn to build all your roads today because tomorrow`s
dreams have a way of falling down in midflight.
After awhile you learn that even sunshine burns if you ask too much. So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
After awhile you learn that you really can endure, that you really are strong, and you really do have worth;
And you learn - And you learn
With every Good-bye - you Learn.

In all the world there is no one else exactly like me. Everything that comes out of me is authentically mine because I alone chose it.

I own everything about me: my body, my feelings, my mouth, my voice, all of my actions, whether they be to others or to myself. I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I own all my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes. Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with myself, and by so doing I can love me, be friendly with me in all my parts.

I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me and other aspects that I do not yet know. But as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously and hopefully look for solutions to the puzzles and for ways to find out more about me. However, I look and sound, what ever I say and do, what ever I think and feel at any given moment in time, is authentically me.

If later some parts of how I looked, sounded, thought and or felt, turn out to be unfitting, I can discard that which is unfitting, and keep the rest,and invent something new for that which I discarded.

I can see, hear, feel, and survive, be close to others, be productive, and make sense and order out of the world, of people and of things outside of me. I am me and therefore I can engineer me.

I am me and I am OKAY.

Notorious...

A fire bun!

Yah hear mi
Hey Notisha over the beritta
Michelle over haskel
Pat over the uzie and glock

Life ova death
You know seh a turbulence the future..never solo
Hey let me tell yu dis again
I could have been one of the most notorious
I got saved by the king and his grace is so glorious
I could have been one of the most devestating
I got saved by the king and his love is everlasting

Woah
Burn away the wicked lifestyle and the wicked image
And the wicked man dem profile
Im so happy to be.... rastafari's child
And me ova come the wicked with just a smile
Den me start to live my life and do things worth while
In a love n harmony i try not to be vial nah bow to wealth
Selassie will provide
Hey my conscience is clear me na nuttin a hide
Rastafari

I could have been one of the most notorious
I got saved by the king and his grace is so glorious
I could have been one of the most devastating
I got saved
By the king and his love is everlasting


Wooah
Easy to squeeze leads in their foreheads
But we know the solution is not blood shed
Positive actions and a firm med (meditation)
Well let the school, let the school, let us persue
A better to be a part of the strong side
The right side
Couldn't be the wrong side
Amlock tell you seh from you can avoid avoid
Slip with the king den you know you shall slide


I could have been one of the most notorious
I got saved by the king and his works is so glorious

I could have been one of the most devastating

I got saaaavvveeeed by the king and his love is everlasting


Woooah... oooooooh...
Yo cut out all ruption
Corruption
Pollution
Positive movements ooooooooh.
Heeeyyy
By the strengh of Jah i live longer
By the lenght of my locks i get stronger
They say grevious words stir up anger
But I am bigger than that never go under

Iii could have been one of the most notorious
I got saved by the king and his love is so glorious
I could have been one of the most devestating
I got saved by the king
I got saved

I could have been one of the most notorious
I got saved by the king and his grace is so glorious
I could have been one of the most devestating
Whhhyy i iiii iii

Wow
Burn away the wicked profile and the wicked image and the wicked man dem lifestyle
Hey I rather to be rastafari's child me go ova come the wicked with just a smile
Den me start to live my life and do things worth while
In a love and harmony
Try not to be vial
Nah bow to wealth
Jah will provide
Yo My conscience is clear
Mi nah have nothing ah..

I could have been one of the most notorious
I got saved by the king and his love is so glorious
I got saved by the king.

Language itself is poetry....

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry; and to be a poet is to apprehend the true and the beautiful, in a word, the good which exists in the relation, subsisting, first between existence and perception, and secondly between perception and expression. Every original language near to its source is in itself the chaos of a cyclic poem: the copiousness of lexicography and the distinctions of grammar are the works of a later age, and are merely the catalogue and the form of the creations of poetry.

...when love arrives

When love arrives
illusions which abide
evaporate into obscurity,
A dreamer revives
as spectral wits provide
correction to acuity.

When love contrives
passions which collide
accelerate into acidity,
A warrior strives
as old heartaches divide
perception to validity.

When love survives
visions which suicide
resuscitate into maturity,
A believer archives
as musical lens broadside
direction to security.

Hurt...

Lay your lips upon my bruise,
Kiss the blemished skin,
This is the moment I would choose
To let your spirit in.
My thoughts are broken, my soul is weak,
The vagaries of life have torn me,
A world of wounds when I speak,
Eyes that cannot be free.
In the air I smell your scent,
The perfume of love's own giving,
In your eyes I would be content
To find a reason for living.

So place your hand beneath my shirt,
Against the place where I am hurt.

The Smallest Elf

The Smallest Elf
Lindore the smallest elf,
Upon one Christmas Eve,
Went out walking by herself
Her sorrow to relieve.


She kicked at snow and ice,
Threw rocks and sticks at stumps,
And thought, she did, it would suffice
To rid her of this lump


That lodged within her throat,
And made her voice sound dry.
But left she did before she'd choke,
Or let them see her cry.


She wandered down through dales,
She wandered over lawns.
She wondered if her busy friends
Had noticed when she'd gone.


Oft over-looked was she,
The shortest in her town.
Three times she'd vied for Santa's squad,
And every time turned down.


"Too small and weak to aid
The big man," they had said.
"Santa needs the strongest elves
To help him load his sled."


And so Lindore had left,
And run fast as she could,
And found herself sad and bereft
And lost inside the woods.


The wind sighed through the trees,
And everything was dark,
But when she turned, on trembling knees,
She saw a tiny spark.


She pushed though snow-banked drifts
To reach the burning light,
And when her weary eyes did lift,
Beheld a wondrous sight.


Eight reindeer, hitched in teams,
And one with blinking nose;
And Santa sitting on his sleigh
Dressed in his Christmas clothes.


"Ah, little elf," he boomed,
"I'm glad that you are here.
Come closer, let me see you now.
Yes, even closer, dear."


"What's your name, my darling?"
"Lindore," responded she.
"Lindore, I have a problem.
I need your help," said he.



"I wish that I could help,"
Said Lindore with regret,
"But I am not the strongest elf,
Or tallest you'll have met."


"This obstacle I face,
Is not for someone tall.
This problem's in a tiny space,
So I need someone small,


To crawl around inside
My bag and let me know
If something's happened to divide
My presents' normal flow."





"Maybe I can help you,"
Lindore said with a smile,
As she climbed atop the presents
And dove into the pile.


Santa waited for her;
She climbed out of the bag.
She sat upon his lap and said
"I think you've hit a snag.


Along one of your seams,
You had a tiny rip
And now that hole is big enough
For presents through to slip."


"I should have known," he groaned,
"That something was amiss,
"Whatever shall I do?" he moaned.
"I can't go on like this."


"I can fix it for you,
With needle and some thread.
Or better yet, if you have glue,
I'll paste it up instead."


So armed with new supplies,
And part of Santa's sash,
Lindore with glue and thread devised

A cover for the gash.


Once satisfied it'd hold,
Lindore climbed out again,
And Santa picked her up and held
Her just below his chin.


"I hope you realize now,
The folly of your friends.
They want to judge you on your looks,
Instead of what's within.


But others when they tease you,
Remember this, I pray.
It took the smallest, smartest elf
To save this Christmas day."

to be free...

To be free is to know the essence of me.


To be free is to feel and simply be. To be free is to share abundantly. To be free is to stay in the action of my destiny. To be free is to honor my God conceptually and spiritually. To be free is not to follow most of humanity. To be free is to flow to drink from the river of life, not to remain thirsty. To be free is basically a dream you see. To be free is absurd in the context of reality. To be free is to know the essence of the authentic, me!

Whispering poetry soul....

This Place
I dreamed you came to visit me.
To see me in this place.
You set my heart a-racing -
To look upon your face!

Eyes locked in heart felt passion.
No words were spoken now...
We knew in our own fashion -
We belonged right here, somehow...

Tears fell, warm and salty,
from joy - so overwhelmed!
To be loved so completely!
All our dreams beheld!

I placed my hands upon your face -
Tracing every line...
I knew at least while in this place,
that you were always mine...

I reached my arms around you.
And your arms pulled me close.
I whispered words you always knew.
You know why they were chose...

And as we turned to kiss
I saw a tear fall down.
For this was truly bliss
From heaven we had found.

Fade to Black....

Rising sun shining brightly;
memories re-visited, tumultuous time ticking-still.
Emotions begin to run high;
slowly comes the fade to black, the night within the day.

Fading to black,
spinning, dizzy, feeling fear,
so many, so many troubled and scared voices I hear;
as the black grows ever increasingly whirlingly near.
Fading to black.

Fading to black,
it is the past launching an attack,
lay down, sit back.....
struggling to breathe in a lifetime of air, for which I now lack.
Are they trying to share?
Do they want again to hurt me, do they, yet again, dare?
Unsafe universe thrusting me into a grievous galaxy, to a lost somewhere...
Fading to black.

Deep inside it is dark, and everything echoes.
Thrown in to the pit of despair, trapped in the enemies throes.
Day in and day out, often this is how my life goes
as I try to walk the world in a way that prevents others from seeing my woes.
Deep inside it is dark, and everything echoes.

Having faded to black, trying to sustain my light
so deep, so hidden, so out of sight.
Wanting to once again lead,
we are held prisoner of the darkness against our might.
In all of this darkness my soul does bleed.
Having faded to black, trying to sustain my light.

Writhing angst in the barrel of self, through to the core,
don't do it, stop it, I can't take it anymore!!
The dark not knowing what the light is for;
The light slowly winning this internal war,
Yet still any day, anytime, we can be made to fade still, more and more.
Writhing angst in the barrel of self, through to the core.

Fade to black, the bubble will burst,
Walking wounded, profusely sweating unbearable desert heat, so full of thirst,
Some inside were so, so cursed
Blazon black bulk brainlessly believing their worst.
Fire drill rehearsed and rehearsed...
Fade to black, the bubble does burst.

Haiku Suite

Morning sun whisper
Gently caressing mountains
With rays of desire

~~

The silence of dawn
Suddenly breaks the darkness
Sounds fill nature's child

~~

Dry desert air calm
Clouds over my head raging
Raindrops reach the sand

On display...

in whiffs of turpentine
the instinct of a soldier
awakens from a patina
of fossilized grain
and mahogany stock
that has seen battle
has seen death
seen victory

and a brass buckle
that slid on the bellies
of freedom's frontier
shines like an empty trench
in tarnished scars
etched in the history
of once brave souls

all this
hermetically sealed
in a glass case
that silently reflects
in the quiet of a democracy
with the cost only being admission
where oglers wait
at a fading front gate