The Beautiful Ones Not Yet Born (revision of “The Cipher of Life”) 

“If we were made in his image, then call us by our names
Most intellects do not believe in God, but they fear us just the same.”
— Erykah Badu, excerpt from “On & On”

With passion forged upon
Pain, time is the terrain
Of a stubbornly persistent

Technicolor cosmos that speaks
In the tumultuous tongue
Of a mutating Earth under fire

Of myriad blinks of an eye
Manifest in a maelstrom of motley
Mayhem; & love, the heirloom
Of our souls sown together, in spite
Of the media free for all

With its defamations of character
Scrawled on the wall, as we
Bear the wait of dreams to come

Embracing the face of faith
With grace to loosen the noose of angst
That has held us hostage

To a history scraped free of its old
Price, enthralled in the legacy
Of ancestoral sacrifice — by DNA
We are locked into the cipher
Exhumed from the speechless dead
For the beautiful ones not yet born.

Please

Excuse
My vulnerabilities
But sometimes
They escape me
I am forever
Trying to make
A success
Of my failures
& new beginnings
Of my ends.

From a Whisper to a Scream

“You cannot let race consume you. It will take over your poetry, and make it null and void.”
— as told to me by my college poetry professor, Laurence Lieberman

What
We lost
In the fire
Will find us
Through the ashes

Reawakened
By embers of memory
Spry
In the brilliant corners
Of our collective
Conscience.

Now, if only we could be post-racist
As a country. if only we could escape

The cage of condescending
Conformity with its pre-flawed
Laws of a politically polluted
Melting pot and its post-racial
Confearacy, feeling the light

That guides us through our darkest days
With faith in the fate of falling in love with the world
In spite of history; but, ’til the moment

When the rivers of hope and love converge
Flowing to the end of our spirits & the confluent
Ends of Earth, so all of the world can hear

Our waters, letting us know
That the mountain is no more
…none of us are free wholly.

To the Nines: The Songbook of the Muses — Erato’s Love Notes (…still in progress) 

5. Like springs of our own musings

…We wake the dead
With our shadows, marauding midnight of its silences…

Improvising night from day.

4. Her lips are the pigment of
Poetry, tasting like the love
She promised to only me
In words foretold
By my dreams.

3. Come what may, devoted
day by day (…’til no end)
To the dance of our wandering stars
With steps choreographed
by the glow of our souls, as
Andromeda falls
upon her Milky Way, invoking
The Muses to harmonize to the nines
Love into our eyes, so we can hear
The lush hums of the spheres.

2. Her body hides in words
I’d love to browse fore I drowse
Dreaming poetry.

1. I want to walk your
Fingertips, & follow what remains
Of this road for me.

Analog Soul

“Let’s not dwell
On the semantics of life’s
Syntax, or any
Of its distortion to static,”

Said the record to the phonograph;

“Life has surface noise,”
Said the needle buried
In the groove
Of the record, “end of story.”

Blues & the Absolute Truth

“…Must
Be
Me that’s
Rushing by, ”
Time just clings, singing
Lost chords of the absolute truth.
Meanings linger like mother’s milk does to a baby

(For
The
Sake of
Survival).

I
Am
The blues.
The world knows,
Because they can see
Their own reflection in me, from
The womb to the tomb, roots to the fruits, though strange to all

But
We,
Rooted

In word of mouth, sprouting aloud
As if these walls could talk
& these blues could walk
Us where the soul
Never dies
& lead
Us

Back
Down
To Earth
(for right now)
Journaled in journey
Because every step’s a vessel
Of freedom…& human feeling, beyond all else.

(Quote excerpted from Paul Weller’s “Above The Clouds”)

Ancestors

When the ancestors
Dance, I can hear Africa
In beats of my heart.

Legacy (this is us)

This sea of souls deep
With dreams despite the darkness
Will be the beacon…

for

We
Drink up
The beauty

With trust in the translation
To be the epitome of our inspiration;

We
Are
Mortal
But our verse
Is left to live on

A Riot is (Still) the Language of the Unheard

Though I’ve listened to
Silence, I understand that
Now is not the time.

Creativity

With courage not 2B

Discouraged & a wild sense
Of improvisational abandon

That borders
On insanity, I am
Uninhibited, unafraid
To let these voices sing

Free as a reverie
About the musings of my own
Outrospections
In these ever-changing times.