A Toast

A parched throat makes for difficult speech… Instead of clearly communicating, you find yourself throat clearing, self jeering, eyes watering, mind wondering when this hacking will begin departing, all the while knowing that – it’s really not attractive.  You can see into souls through eye windows, the dimming glow as their response to your unintended show… It almost does not matter what you know, because like a dam, your words have lodged in your throat blocking your flow… Releasing spittle and foam at random intervals – overall damage is minimal, but the purpose in which you originally opened your mouth to complete has died all of its lives, and it’s game over – Nintendo.

But you know that it is not your fault… You needed just a bit of moisture, as some fine cuisine needs only a mere dash of salt… But without Mrs. Dash, appearance is divorced from success, like dollar signs taken off of cash… The end result being paper scraps… Tidbits, leftovers, unwanted – anything synonymous with trash… Because anything not done wholly simply will… not… last.  … And it is ironic because you can feel the tangibility of what it is you want to say deep inside your very being… Some wondrous thing – or perhaps simple – yet nevertheless unexpressed that only your eyes are seeing.  Ahhh if only you didn’t have a noose delivery!

A tendency to get choked up from the throat up when it’s something vital from your heart that needs expressing!  Vision is both a curse and a blessing… You wish that you could just pop a pill discreetly, or take a sip of some magical serum, to free you from this self induced delirium, after-all what good are above average thoughts if you must live in fear of them…?  … Looking… Searching… Waiting… Your soul knowing… That there is an answer… There is a way out of this moat… There is a cure – there is an antidote… There is a little known diner on the outskirts of town… A little further than just a ways away, but closer than too long would take… Open to any who care to pass through its doors into peace, and reverberating revelation… Who have an appetite that yields only unto satiation…

In this diner, the sparkling diamond glasses are for every occasion – for every moment in life is special.  Here – there is no such thing as wasted. No concept of the term “outdated,” no reference for existing without existence and purpose being mated… It’s not Heaven – but it surely is not earth… Just a small, easily missed diner… The menu?  Your heart’s desire.  The sign hanging over the counter only says “Higher.”  Order whatever you like, with whatever sides, anything you can think in your mind can be made manifest, for the deep recesses of thought – are who you are.

… There is but one drink served here however, and accompanies every meal… It unstops your throat, and has a rather curious feel… Smooth going down, but it can make your heart race, or your body shake… Tears may stream down your face – but tongues are always loosened, and obstacles are parted, that one may behold one’s goals… The ears become sensitive to the word “go,” ambition oblivious to the word no, and all too often the diner echoes with fearless declaration of “look out below!!!”  This – this special drink, birthed from the progression of time to meet human needs like dough… This elegant glass of shimmering power that can unblock your throat… THIS – is wine for the soul.

~The Wordsmith

Elders

We need the influence of the gray hairs
The ones who have tasted the choking air of our less taken road
The ones who survived the assault of foolishness and the curse of being scared
Who fell in love with wisdom when they felt like losing hope

What we need is not merely people older than
What we need is our elders
Wrinkles who understand youthful intelligence and
Know how to inspire us to make it better

We need the old folk
With strong heads on strong shoulders
The ones who command attention like Captains and Generals
The ones who can train young hopefuls into soldiers

The ones set in their stubborn ways
Because being stubborn is what kept them alive
The ones who know God and can call out the immatures and the fakes
And yet give loving guidance over grandma’s cookin at the same time

Grave, responsible, playful, hard nosed- we need our elders
That courageous, legendary, heroic breed of old
Too many young people running around with only idealism as their helper
Whatever happened to love healing the world and truth anchoring the soul?

We need to believe in our elders
And we need our elders to believe in us
Factions fracture, but oneness overcomes failures
And above all, we need to return to in God we trust

Dear Maya

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Dear Maya…

It pains me we never met. It was an ordinary Wednesday, til I caught wind of your death, now I’m distressed- fingers running through my hair and getting lost like broken barretts. I would never claim to be your greatest fan, but the breeze that blew through your cage as you sang, carried your scent of greatness through time and space over to me.  It was like a seed of your love DNA was reframed and painted an awkardly strange yet desirable portrait in me.  The only thing I wanted to be… was your grandson.

Not in the legal, social sense, but in that special way that sometimes happens between two people… You see, I had this fantasy- and in it… I would walk up to you. Hesitant. You would smile. I would smile back. Then you’d take my hand and I’d cover it with my other one. We would look deep into each other’s eyes and see the kindred light shining the Morse code of the poetic mind in flashes of brightness that out shined the sun and made it look like tire rubber. And then, before any words were spoken, we would just… know. I became your grandson; And you became my grandmother.

The next words will probably make people scoff at me, but the pain of your passing is the anesthetic protecting me… I never read any of your books, never memorized your classic pieces, but I was fascinated by you as a person and how you taught the believers about believin. Truth be told, in every interview and recording I never saw you as old, but as living poetry. Every word, every breath, every phrase, every inflection of imparted wisdom, was literary excellence dipped and baptized in the Heavenly Nile- I fell in love with love off of your FREESTYLE!!

But now… like a confused caterpillar trying to get out of its shell, my heart is cracked with grief. Trying to rake away the sentiment that everybody leaves right when I need the strength to stay free. I don’t know where they store the tools to shift heart gears, but when I read that you died I shed real tears… I’m not a snail in a shell, I’m a caterpillar in a broken cocoon… but I’m not sure what’s coming through. Can’t tell if it’s a butterfly or something underdeveloped… I was hoping that one day you would tell me.

Dear Maya… I love you. I never met you, but I love you… that’s what your legacy is all about isn’t it? Love. And purpose. To cradle in your arms a lost and aching generation and tell them it’s okay to walk in your footsteps, as long as we yield control of the road to God and how He paves it.  Your words… your heart… your spirit… were aMAZING… I’m praying to be like you- the hero I loved. Which is probably why this hurts so badly. I would gladly trade any of my successes for seconds to look you in the eye and tell you…

I love you Grandma Angelou.

If My Love

Have you ever been in love?  Like truly, oh-my-goodness-what-was-life-before-you in love? If so then you know the pain that comes with it. The sheer agony of trying to verbally capture an accurate snap shot of this master chapter of freedom that your heart is in.   Listening to love songs in different genres and making up lyrics that sound like you’re on one.

Like, baby if my love was a country single I’d hee haw til my mouth was raw and then kiss you with the pure essence of who I really was. I’d dance in the barn til you came out, set the hay on fire, then try to make love before it all came down.

If my love was a hip hop lyric, I would hope you hear it and feel what’s missing- namely- me. My hand in your hand, and my eyes firmly planted in yours, cuz I can only grow from the waters of your shores.

Or, better yet, if my love was a jazzy boom bep, I’d ratatatat,  til you skee doddled my step. Bada, bada, boom, bada, bada, boom. Join me for a spin around the room.

And just for kicks, if my love was a Gospel hit it might sound like this: I’m blessed in the city,  I’m blessed in your bosom, blessed when I come and go… blessed with your kisses, blessed with your lovin, and blessed to be the one you trust with your heart to hooooollllld…

This is the type of thing I could do all day. Spin silly phrases into same minded stanzas of loving proclamation- if you have a love you hold dear,  and your mouth forms words, don’t hesitate to let them out… your heart passion needs to be heard.

Cliff Fall

I get to the lip of the cliff, but I just won’t finish.

Invisible hands come and rip me off of it. My invisible hands are good for grasping dreams, but can’t seem to help me when I’m falling. When in reality, do as reality does, so in order not to get screwed I climb my mountains with rubber gloves. 

I’m perfectly insulated, and completely ill equipped.

I’m like a moving target on an underwater ship… my dark clone doesn’t bother shooting at me because I’ll drown as it is… my dark clone is me… Eminem’ s evil twin… I live to give him existence.

My fingers are bleeding again and I’m slippin…

Gruesome Isolation

This is the beginning of where the end hates its start. You keep your monsters under your bed? Mine pay rent right in my heart! It’s hard to believe my demons can live in my blood stream, but when threads defy seams it seems that’s why I can never swim upstream.

Exactly.

I’m a two winged bird madly in love with gravity. When I look up at the sky, the earth just slaps me. Every time I pull away, the ground roughly grabs me. The roughness is all bite with no bark, and all these naked trees fallin on me leave a mark. Tryna do right, but progress cuts the lights out with the scissors that I used in art class to illustrate my life’s route.

Everybody wants what I got, but don’t wanna pay me to get it… Love the way I live, but critiquing every imperfect feeling.

Well I’m feeling like an uncensored ceiling- so high and disconnected, profanity is the only vanity where I’m pro myself and still have fans that can see me. Like I’ll stay cursed if I don’t, but I’ve never been a sketched etch to waste a rhyme, so I won’t.

Just know that I’m alone in this boat.

Everybody’s lookin for escape, I’m just tryna be the goat.