A Childhood of Sorts

Standard

I lay in bed and listen to my innocent self step into the night,

the low moan of the crickets and the cacophony of silence that follow oppressive.

I can taste the fear in my mouth as I glared at the darkness making monsters of my playthings,

the stunted tree I loved to fall from now a unfathomable evil.

My yammering heart beats the ngoma of my people and in that moment I am one with my ancestors.

They too stood fearful against the encroaching darkness and feared the falling skies.

I was a child then, still cradled in the bosom of my black mother, ignorant of her lush mysteries

Now I lay in bed having lost my tongue and my purpose, sick of the fear that fills my adopted mother

Sick of her oil spill fingers spilling hatred across my innocent black skin, staining it darker than coal

falling like snow on the eve of a hijacked holiday for those who never braved the fiery sun

But even now, innocence long forgotten like my childhood fantasies of building a house where we could be safe

even now the fear lingers like a sore taste in my mouth.

I am not afraid of the dark, like my ancestors I dance to the ngoma beat of my heart against the night

but there are some that cannot hear the music and that is what I fear.

I fear those who hate the darkness and the lush mysteries hidden within and I fear that I

innocent no longer am much to close to black for the ones who are afraid to forgive

So I lay in bed and dream of long forgotten moment stolen from the past when I was a boy

and the worst fear I could imagine was a shadowy tree cloaked in shadows turning into a monster.

 

How Do I Start?

Standard

I have been frustrated because I have big goals and aspirations and I am very afraid of starting so I keep pushing them off. I read this blog post and it made me look at it a bit differently: http://zenhabits.net/begin/

So here I am…starting.

I will start by simply listing what I want to accomplish.

I want to learn a new language. Either French, Spanish, Arabic or Japanese. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe all of them.

I want to get in shape. Not just functional but strong. Like One hand handstand push ups strong.

I want to learn how to code proficiently enough to build a website from scratch.

I want to get deep with my poetry. Write something that shakes the world awake.

I want to memorize the entire Bible. I want to do it quickly, but I also want to do it deeply. I am conflicted on this.

I want to learn sign language. It is an important gesture for me to complete what I promised.

This is it. This is me starting. Baby steps.

Does the Egg Fear Breaking?

Standard

Does an egg fear it’s breaking?

Shuddering at the thought of it’s shattering,

powerful walls unable to beat back the tide of becoming?

Does a seed dread it’s growth?

Helplessly shedding it’s skin to the sun’s touch

unable to control the torrent of growth rising from within?

Does the egg know that it’s walls only chain it?

Does the egg know that breaking with free it

to soar across the sky, king of aerial domain?

Or does it only think of the pain of the shattering?

Does the seed delight in the cold embrace of earth,

not knowing that the sun’s caress is warmer than life;

not knowing to grow is to marry the earth to the sky?

Does a spirit fear it’s awakening?

Clinging to walls and habits strenuously built,

Chained to a body too lax and lazy to reach for the stars?

Does the spirit know it is royalty?

Powerful beyond measure or understanding

Does the spirit know?

Or is it afraid?

Strange Things

Standard

Hearts are strange things.

Sometimes they are just so heavy that you have to let go,

but when you do they fly light like a butterfly.

Sometimes they burn so hot that you can’t breathe

for fear that if you open your mouth, you will consume the world.

And sometimes hearts are cold,

like ice–if ice could eat warmth like a ravenous piranha.

The only thing you can do then is wait, in silence, praying for tomorrow.

Heart are strange things.

Sometimes you just have to rip them out to watch them bleed,

just to remember that you are still alive.

That you still matter.

But sometimes you meet someone you can trust.

You give them your heart and they give you theirs and you can breathe again.

Life seems to beat just a little faster,

hearts are strange things.

Sometimes, you have to give them away to really understand.

Forgotten Path, Familiar Road

Standard

We have been here before, you and I.

I have promised to do better and be better but

here I am again, apologizing for leaving.

Apologizing for not being good enough or brave enough

or just too lazy to summon the strength to win.

You are my drunken nightcap and my blissful blackout,

I want to drown myself in you until I am not overeating anymore.

Until I am not see seesawing on the pendulum of I love myself

I hate myself. I love myself to much. I hate myself. I hate myself.

I hate myself for loving myself too much, too abusively.

But maybe I can remember how to forget again.

Maybe I can remember how to forgive again.

Maybe I can just breathe again.

Maybe. Just maybe.

Standard

My heart is heavy, like stone or lead for the blood shed
The black sheep sacrificed upon an altar of hatred, led to eternal silence
I weep not for the dust still mimicking humanity for the soul has long flown,
My tears fall for the present,  the ones presented with perfect sorrow in the form on tomorrow’s not shared.
My tears shatter paths across  my hard face and quake my heart awake
Awake my blood awake and pump salvation through your system
Banish the poison plaguing our blood purchased dream and rise.
We are not beaten. We are not defeated.   A sleeping lion may be wounded but ware  our rising roar.
Painted evil,  and demon by the paltry poultry masses we will wear night  like a cloak
The shine of ours stars will blind even the heavens and we will awake the night. 
God made light but darkness was his first companion. 
So we who shunned by the darkness of our skin sat closest to the creator
Reveling in the silence of space but silent we refuse to remain
This is our proclamation of freedom.
We are no longer bound by hate and spite
We are free

Some Nights

Standard

Nights when words aren’t enough and a melancholy wind blows in your soul,

when the taste of some forgotten fantasy lies pungent in the air, musky and sweet

when memories rise unbidden from locked chest like unruly ghosts

Nights when the walls are thin between a wish and reality and you can almost touch

when the illusive song that plays relentless can almost be seen in the corner of the eye

each sibilant syllable the fading savor of delightful mysteries and dastardly treatises

Some nights magic seems so real that it hurts with an ache deeper than existence

nights when word can no more capture it than fingers grasping at smoke