Low Times

The full moon hung low last night
Low like it was heavy
Weighed down with woes
As if it had been struck
Pulled from the sky
Lassoed with a rope

Frozen Waters

Time stood still under the spell of the cold
Months will pass before the water will run free
The warmth in June will make the bitter sweet--I'll wait

Standing against the cold
Time did not come to stay
Sun and moon have played
Mornings hide secrets untold

The northern light's gray
A wooden fence can't hide
The stars on the other side
Where the nights jewels play

Standing up to the wind
Time has just begun
When the bird has sung
Of mornings with no end

Sleepless Night

The loads of life fought against rest.
They refused to recline under the cover of night.

But today--a new day, a new battle, a new genesis!

The lines fell inert on my ear
Their taste indistinguishable
New words appeared tangible
I'll inhale these instead

Hidden Gate

The ivy covers the pathway. It's opening just as obscure. The vigorous fight dually noted. There doesn't appear to be a victor. This way hasn't had much company, at least it doesn't appear. All who stopped by didn't sign the visitors log complete with time and date.

At the end of the road we expect more than a bowl of pistachios. Something more to stand in place of our suffering and travailing. Anything just short of a parade where people line up and habitually wave as you pass by is an insult. After all you did leave your guts splattered in a ditch along the way--without complaint. Images regurgitated from the floors of our bowel duct display like old home movies played on reels revisit hoping to find relief. The bitterness is more than we can handle, but to release them would cause us to declare ourselves whole. This would of course require further action on our part. To let go of the written form letters we submit as excuses as to why we didn't and can't bring ourselves to turn the corner. The side streets are alluring but the broadway is well routed.

Willow II

Draped in winters dressings
You still call to me
Let me lie down beneath you
Your body’s warmth is what I need
The white snow is pure
It’ll hide our lack of innocence
Cover us on a dark winter’s night

We Stood in the Cold

We stood in the cold waiting for the one who has indoctrinated us into this ideology of hope above fear. A preacher, messenger maybe even a prophet, who believes so deeply in what he speaks we believe it too and allow our doubts to shatter. One ordained by God and not just voted in by man. So we stood in the cold waiting on a dream to be fulfilled and America's new tomorrow to begin.

I still haven't fully processed the events that I witnessed first hand yesterday when I attended the Inauguration Ceremony of the 44th President of the United States and the first African-American in our country's history. Although I have written some about President Obama and how I feel, a poem hasn't come to me yet. I'm sure it will or at least I am expecting one to as soon as I digest within my soul what has taken place. For now, I'm full, I wept, I rejoiced as my President, our President took his oath and spoke so honestly to the nation. ........to be continued.

Forward Vernacular

Life's a bitch! Like a vindictive female ready to mangle any other woman who enters the room threatening her position in line. The lioness can smell the aroma of another mixed with the sweat of fear, she prances in ready to invade this domain and piss on her prey. This ability to extract from life what she wants is innate. A quality camouflaged by etiquette, but don't turn your back on her. Her words are as smooth as butter but there's war in her heart. A war waged to satisfy her bloody appetite. They stare one another down dancing their dance of contempt. They strike one another while their prey lies in wait. Standing there witnessing this display arouses him. He smiles as he knows he'll be satisfied with whomever is left standing. He waits for the victor to come and partake of the fleshy spoil.

Whispering Wind

We stand in the wind as if its bite has no effect. Daring it to knock us level to the ground.
We mock the naked trees and envy the tumbleweed. Still the vacated cave can't stop its whispers.

Flirting at the edge of the outer perimeter, I'm daring myself to step outside the boundaries drawn so long ago. Unsure of the texture of the soil, safety has always prevailed. Until the known became unknown and the unknown became intriguing. There is a season permitted for exploration and when the time passes the aperture is sealed. To have a break to expand again is a gift. Fear is persuasive but fresh air is satisfying.

Rain

Bare, left alone but
light graced me then
my strength covered
the souls now mine has
been stripped from within
and only the rain will
dress me again.

I became a woman before I finished being a girl.

Le Ritmo

The wind is moving in half time
the bass trembles under foot weighing down
keeping everything from floating away
to another place where one's name
isn't known by everyone that passes by
and collective whispers that invite one to listen
afterwards pretend that they didn't hear the unspoken
clefs to be forgotten until the evening news
when the songs of the day gather to be chanted
and then the notes sound repetitious.

Living Fossils

Questions don’t always follow with answers.
Dateless fossils with stories to tell.
Enquiries that even the best Scientist
have yet to excavate their reasoning.
In the beginning when the sun was closed
and before time was to begin again.

Searching for what was lost as if finding
it would bring some form of resolution.
A resolve to live as we breathe
to feel the ground absorb the rain
that produced the tender plant
that heals from his wounded side.

Darkness overshadowing brightness
too occupied with death to accept immortality.
He scavenges through alleys for prey
to inhale the winds of life.
For this reason we keep the light on to frighten
away the apparition hiding underneath the bed.

The morning when the mirror is no longer
gentle enough to disguise time we begin repenting.
Lamenting for the evils performed by the hands whose
lines now tell their own tales and record indiscretions.
Chronicles in journals kept in the attic underneath the
preserved flower unearthed from the garden.

Shortened Days

lost as if unseen
the finger of God
will give immortality
but an empty abyss
can't hold the days
for a day is as a thousand
even a thousand as a day
but the unlost blood
stains the tree

The cold rain sounds warm. The outdoor's calling above the loud silence on the other side of the frosted window. Tonight when the eyes recess the mind will search for someone to listen to it's pleas.

She swung from his lines like tree vines in a jungle . Consumed in his literary world, anxiously anticipating where his words would take her next. Once she entered she knew that there would be no exodus and she didn't look for any. She wanted to be lost with him. Stranded in a place where the only meat necessary came from within, where the dampness of their language satisfied the thirst and their meaning draped her bareness.

A Funny Looking Moon

The silver moon was suspended

in the night sky and rested

so close to the earth that

it stood outside of my door

it's shine illuminating far

above man's duplication and

the glory of creation a wonder

but the cold December air tepid

because this moon stayed until morning

guarding my frost covered garden.

Before I Die

I want to live like I'm running from yesterday but not worried about tomorrow. Live as if a rainbow shows up everyday before the stars come out to play. I want to love like my next breath is dependent upon his smile. The smile in his eyes that says he loves the same. A kind love gentle enough to hold and sweet enough to taste. To taste even when the air is bitter and the moon is hidden. I want to roam the earth looking for the lost treasures. Lost because their beauty has been overlooked. Not the obvious sunrise in the morning but when it goes to bed and the moon takes his turn over the Mediterranean Sea shining on the black waters. To pick the fruit off the trees and drink the water from the stream. To ride and feel the wind as the road of worries disappears in the distance while I ride over the horizon to touch the sun.

The Red Bird

Sometimes you look out of the window from habit and you don't expect to see any changes. Yes, the seasons change and the grass stops and the sun doesn't feel as close to the earth. This is when you have to look inside the closet for your costume. From time to time you have to disguise yourself in carefully tailored layers and shoes that make you feel taller. To be able to stand above all that has mounted up an attack against you. The needles are stinging but the outer shell has been trained not to show the holes.

The soul is hidden underneath the disguise. Although the emotions reside in the pockets they escape through the stitches, but years of self-restraint will hide them under her red beret. Refusing to allow herself to stand exposed to the elements she bleeds quietly into her slippers. Then the purpose for windows appears and rest on the bush.

Maybe we're not maneuvering down here by ourselves and just maybe there are assigned creatures that keep us from causing life to slip from our fingers. Sometimes it's too hot to hold and other times the frostbite is unbearable and we left home without our gloves in our coat pockets.

The days are lost worrying about the un-promised tomorrows. Time is the determining factor. One must admit they are never in control--the dial has the power. Once admittance then acceptance will soon follow. Conceding is not so terrible but throwing in the towel is inconceivable. And there are those who lie in wait for you to slip up and allow your guard to momentarily recess--then in for the kill! I've always prided myself on self restraint. If I was hungry I wouldn't tell you! I reserve my nakedness for the one who won't expose my dirty laundry out on the line for all to see. No time for cliche's now the work whistles blowing. Don't worry it'll sound again to let us know when it's quitting time.

Obstacles were meant to be gone around. David ran through a troop and leaped over a wall.

Hope hid as if it was never known
But the sun over powered
The weight of doubt

The box was wrapped in purple silk
The aroma invited a look inside
Once opened white petals
Enclosed by red velvet
No longer a rose
But still as sweet

The directions for the labyrinth is written in a foreign language. The passage reminds to look upwards towards the hill for help. The suns shining blinding and requiring inner strength to overcome.

The surroundings are all unfamiliar with no clarity in sight. Sometimes you reach for a friend--a bending ear, then you realize that it's time to rely on what has always worked before.

This road so obscure is one travelled solo. Survival builds something within for the journeys ahead. The raven came and fed the prophet. An ugly bird but it'll do.

Red Shoes

The holes on the soles hold the story
Of the miles traveled
Searching for a place to rest
Soiled with the cares of the past
Stained from bloody tears
The landscape changes
Everything else is the same

The red leaves look like balls of fire on the tips of trees. Even in death they are radiant, shining as if they stole the sun. They have come to their end and have decided to exit in full glory. They will hold on until a strong wind comes and force them to take their final bow. The curtain will close in order to change the scene, but will the memories hold? Will the mind be able to rewind back to the time when the air was warm and sweet and this foliage provided comfort? Will the mind remember the red bird when these tips are covered with snow? Or will the fallen leaves be reminiscent of un-swept tears?

Weeping cleanses the soul but pride won't permit them to fall. The soul needs a release from bottled up anguish. The dissatisfaction of not celebrating the freedom it once knew. It's now confounded by laws. Precepts that dictate what is considered deviant and what is permissible.

Some infirmities of the soul are self inflicted wounds, but nevertheless they are just as hard to heal. The inner desires are even harder to ignore. Their intensity increases daily. The tangible presence of the denied is nauseating. Understanding self discipline is acceptable but flaunting the object of obsession is all together different.

When fatigue wins acceptance of the inevitable is not far behind. One could fight but the defeat would be too embarassing and the rejection would take years to recover from.

The air is wet reminiscent of the days she spent in England. She remembers the world being covered in fog and the black dirt looked as if it was from another planet. The days were long and lonely in a place so unfamiliar and so distant from anything she had experienced before. The bungalow was sweet but life was bitter. A way of escape was a daily prayer.

The seer didn't tell of this time and space. Although he alluded to it in a coy sort of way as to give her time to agree to the circumstances before hand. Predestination she has always thought to be hard to comprehend. Acceptance takes time and an inner yielding will.

The sky is no different than the one she viewed from the bungalow's window. There is also a sudden urge to drive on the wrong side of the road. Somehow today it seems right.

Weather

The wind has changed direction. The sun no longer rises in the east.
Ordinary days cease to exist. When lemonade was sweet and there was always cake.
The old ladies smelled like powder and old men wore fedoras.
And the Christmas air was scented with oranges and peppermint.

Do l'il girls still play hopscotch and jacks?
Today I looked in the mirror and wondered where time had gone.
I hurried and put on my jacket so I wouldn't be late.

It's amazing how the heart can make room to love another and at the same time wants to be the only occupant of another. The mind rationalizes but the heart can't comprehend the ideology of the common. A complex entity, it only deals with the exuberant and the elaborate--anything short of that goes flat. Like the souffle that failed after much thoughtful preparation and somehow something came along and knocked the bottom out of your evenings plans. Their eye has caught another form to admire and the familiar smile is just that--too familiar.

The shallow pool of affections shouldn't be vigorously pursued; nevertheless, the act of rejection brings out primal instincts that have been embedded in man since they guarded the precious garden. The need to no longer loose territory automatically activates at the very thought of being erased out of the place where you first came alive.

Center of the creation
Origin of all nations
Girth as the earth
Long as the river Nile
Standing firmly like Baal
Commanding to be worshipped

a word for mom

peace is coming after while

thanks brittney

The moon was only half exposed tonight as if it was afraid to be naked. Adam hid from his creator, ashamed of how his body responded when the blinds were lifted from his eyes. Since then man has only allowed others to see what they are willing to be questioned about.

Vulnerability is not without cost. It's not easy to stand waiting to be embraced or pushed away. Unless you take a chance and see if there's some truth in the myth that the moon follows you around.

Something that makes you want to find a medium on Main Street. One living in some sort of shanty playing with marked cards and old tea leaves. Maybe she can tell you if you've made a dent in his gourd and will you ever taste the sweetness of his loin.

Maybe the moon and the witch are myths, but it doesn't matter to you as long as one of them helps him find his way into your bed. And unklike Adam you won't be ashamed.

Blown Glass

The fanned open colorful skirt tail inviting one in to see the swirling rainbow at the bottom of its bowl. Revealing the beauty of earth, the glory of woman.

the paper tells
what the tongue keeps

the ink spills the secrets
the fibers drink the life

words asleep until awakened
oh, the tales that they tell

A Word in the Wind

Silence is a sound louder than Thunder. It has a pulsating rhythm blocking out the Wind.

Fears have chased me into this cave. Afraid to come out, afraid to seek your face. Once the fires came down from heaven and consumed my sacrifice saturated with tears. Now my lips won't part to call your name.

The red bird stopped coming by to feed my soul. Have you left me? Turned your back in shame. Now I can't find your shadow to hide in. I'll lie by the cave's door and wait to hear a word.

Prince Charming is Not in the Building

Twenty years is a long time to be asleep and I'm not referring to Sleeping Beauty. The ignorantly induced slumber in which you hallucinate of halos hoovering over the tops of people heads. And when you finally wake up they have turned out to be horns.

Older women say, "girl your eyes are coming open". My question to them is, "why didn't you pry them open a long time ago?" There should be a new coalition started. A mission to warn all young women of the evils of believing hopelessly in love. The problem is, is it's a part of the American Dream. The man comes with the two point five children, the house with the flower garden and the two car garage.

Is it fantasy? I don't know. All I know is I missed the boat on the undying love. I missed the call when they called for those looking for a friend, companion and a lover. Seems to me I was in the wrong line.

I'm envious of it when I see it. I imagine it to feel like the sun on a spring morning. There are days that I wonder will it ever come to me. And there are days when I don't believe that it will and I'm tired of wishing.

Praying all of my days since I was old enough to understand the unction to knell. Yes, I still believe in the power of prayer. But I think now I'll change the words that I say. I'll stop looking at what is in my view. I'll just close my eyes and wait for the answer to come to my ear.

the tears waited until your shoulder was there to lean on--my friend.

Sour Apple Martini

The spirits felt good going down. Sweet rebellion!

Preying Words

Conversations throughout the day, sometimes meaningless, sometimes with intent. Intentions to use language to unravel someone like a ball of yarn. To undo the effects of previous words that planted seeds of resilience.

Jealousy or just plain hatred must be the catalyst for such actions. The serial need to destroy and cankerously dissolve another. Preying on the lame, searching them out, sniffing their blood drippings.

Maybe recognizing the scars that still won't heal, and the effects that show up in ignorance--the unlearned. The hue of the skin, the accent placed on words and geographic location are flags assigned to faces. The faces viewed as the sum of the whole and not just a part.
Faces that grimace when they are introduced to hatred. Faces that cover the offended heart. Yet, still serially pursued hunted down by the scent of fear.

Pride is a shield from the intellectually snobbish. From the ones that hide behind their minds. The minds that allowed them to escape the same pitiful hole that the ones they snoot their nose at are still in. They must reside there in order not to be reminded from whence they came.

The door is visible, not open--but no longer locked. Previously un-awaringly existing with a chest full of tomorrows waiting to be spent with a new name attached to another soul filled with new laughter.

The kind that makes the hollow full and the naked clothed. The kind hoped for when tears are locked up refusing to be released for fear a resolution would have to be made.

Or has the resolve already invisibly taken place and now just waits for the manifestation of the final scene?

The orange hazy glow of the sun like a ball bounced into its place descending as the faint moon is called in. It's waiting ready for duty across the sky. The time nestled in between, nameless--as if the earth again stood still.

Reality can be just one dream away or it could seem as though the date on the calendar never changes. Whichever the case you still secretly check the horoscope hoping for a sign. Some prophetic word from a far away galaxy speaking to you. If only you had faith enough to believe in the God sent prophet. One who hadn't sold out to notoriety and fortune. But one who traveled around like a salesman setting up tents like a circus.

The lady on the front row playing the timbrel has an unction to speak, but laws permit her from being able to. The music is loud but the message is clear. Hold it tight like the four leafed clover hunted for in the grass and folded prayfully placed in the book of Psalms on the nightstand.

time for CHANGE

the light's dim time to change the bulb!

Weighed Down

Scales not always kind. Weighing, measuring a woman. Measuring her by her curves that are sometimes in the wrong place. Measuring her against a standard set by God's first creation. Since then man has been flawed. The original can not be duplicated. The secret was lost in the garden. Nevertheless, I am weighed down looking for it.

Rivers of living water bottled.
The glass must be broken.
The odor of your anointing.

Word Games

Words used to subtly slander and critique. Weapons used by snobbish people thinking one too niggardly to know the difference.

Sincerity rides out on words and a sharpen tongue slices thinner than any two edged sword.

Words sounded from the pulpits of men, clothed in theological concepts cloaked underneath their garments, were once taken by me as unquestionable truths. Words sent by God through messengers hired to speak on His behalf. Did they retreat to the mountain like Moses? Were these words inscribed on Holy tables?

I'll seek for myself, truth, truth that will make me free. For words, whispers in my ear upon the clefted rock where He'll pass by me in His Glory.

The moss laced path stained with remnants of melancholy. Trees dressed in ivy line the way leaning each in their own direction. The seasons of time have battered their trunks, but the veins that run up to their spine extend deep.

Carved symbols of love tatooed in the Willow tree act as a memorial. For lovers that abided in this secret place in the shadow of these wings. Shielded from the Eastern sun and the from the Northern wind protected by the Universe.

The hands of the Universe are not always visible they disappear like leaves reappearing over night. Not the old ones that have fallen to the ground , blown away, but a new birth needing to be swaddled. Clothed in the linen threaded with gold.

Underneath the moss a hidden treasure comparable only to that Who was hung on a tree. It takes faith to hunt it down. To secure it in the bottles of the soul.

Cloudy Day

The clouds cover the sky to deny the fullness of light.
The wind habitually stirs the leaves on the tree in the window.
Today time seems unimportant, the clock's moving at an unnoticeable pace.
Inside turmoil is boiling, the tea kettle is about to blow.
Like the bell at the end of a working day.
Letting you know you have had enough.

Happy Birthday!!!

The sun anxiously appeared from his hiding place pulling back the blackened screen sprinkled in glitter to reveal freshly prepared manna.

Daddy

The shadows from the tree can't hide the tole of the years
Still his cataract eyes catches the brightness of the sun
The youth of a boy and the strength of a man

No longer measured by his strong hands and arms
That lifted me from off the ground
But rather numbered by his dignity

In the face of death
Lurking daily to descend
Like a black cloud hovering

His off balanced stand against the darkness
He weeps and cries for mercy
I stand watching him breathe

I rub his sore neck and shoulders
He smiles, his skin's soft, almost fragile
His hair fine like an infant

His voice no longer strong
His roaring laughter faint, but sweet
His steps no longer sound

Selfishly I want him to stay
Forever, never growing old
But he's tired

Tired of the machine
In place of his kidneys
Tired of his tattered body

The mind still works
His body won't obey
The agony of the mutiny

The shade can block the sun
But it can't block disease
That has come to seize him

Daily I must let him go
To the earth from which he came
To the God that gave him breath

Until then I'll sit and watch my daddy
Breathe his last days with dignity
Underneath the shade tree

My New Friend

When they brought her home, I hated her. I held the most prominent position in the Reed house. For years we fought for the attention. Sometimes the battles were physical. Today she's my friend, we have prayed, cried and laughed--we have fought for this friendship.

Happy Birthday to me!!

On the 5th I'll turn 38, time keeps on slipping, but I think I'll stop right here!

A Trip Home

The streets are not as wide or as long as they were before. Manicured lawns, painted houses and porches once filled with the laughter of playing children, all gone. Disappeared as if aliens had invaded and all the inhabitants had to flee to find refuge. Inhabited now by those who have changed the facade left by those living there day to day by faith. Faith that could be heard on every corner from the stands holding the singing birds and the pulpits that echoed. These creatures only take, no mind to recycle the knowledge left behind by those who left their mark through garden statues only now to be desecrated with the dung of pigeons. The Main street once dressed for the parades resemble a ghost town. Howling down the street faint voices of prosperity. Resurrection needed for a place, of a time and of a people crucified by poverty laid to rest in a tomb of rubble, waiting for an ascension.

Coldly coiled, until petted, he bites like a viper. Then his venom slowly renders you submissively deceived.

measuring the wind

from north to south
from east to west

Blowing, Moving

intangible, but touches
invisible, but sees

Moving, Blowing

tasteless, but sweet
boundless, but fills

Blowing, Moving

weightless, but omni
immeasurable, but alpha

Moving, Blowing

from north to south
from east to west

Blowing, Moving

Clandestine Love

Life dividing like Pyramus and Thisbe
Ghosts randomly appearing
Their intangible perceptible presence
Their lingering aroma like incense
From sweet breath, their whispers in night air
But now no promises of an encounter
Just the shadow of you standing
Underneath the mulberry tree

A Word From Mom

Today you said I was beautiful
Words I've never heard before
Until now--when they came from you.

Sometimes getting it together requires spring cleaning. The cob webs had clouded so long until they became apart of the decor. Reality is hardest when realized. After the low blows of rejection, it is time to pick the heart up from off the floor and put it back into place. The hard part is wondering if it will beat the same way again after the wind has been knocked out of it. Hope is inflated, but when disappointed it burst like a balloon at a thirty-eighth birthday party. The maturation process is painful, but necessary if the days of sitting on the porch sipping lemonade are to come.

The Embrace

Past the skin you touched my soul
Awakened slumbered passions,
Unknown cravings
Even now my soul is still searching,
My flesh aches
Waitng for the return of your embrace

The pinnacle of the mountain is the fortieth step
The view is not as amusing as before
The ascension has given strength
Two more miles to the top

The imagination can run wild, untameable like the wind.
No lid strong or wide enough to confind it.
It has life, even more than you can imagine.

Tell me a truth
Even if it looks, sounds, feels, smells and taste like a lie
Tell me a lie, and make me believe it's a truth

the color gray

the printless tracks left in the sand might be a clue.
an indication of an overly exaggerated magic trick.
even the water evaporated from the glass,
it's molecular nature scattered

the volume that no longer works on the dial.
and the picture that has suddenly become distorted.
but not pretty like a water painting,
or even abstract.

like days forgotten with the evening sun.
and the nights that have been slept away,
while waiting for the color to change.

Ain't yo' maid, ain't yo' mammy!
Ain't yo' slave, ain't yo' cook!
Dem days is ovah!

Queens! Not whores or bitches.
Beauty beyond butts, breast and lips.
The soul of the nations.

Stop killing her! Adore her, esteem her.
Stop disgracing her with your words.
Disrespecting her with your images.

Polluted from the blood of her people.
Left in the fields to die.
Her and our un-swaddled future.

She seems lost now.
Who is she?
And who is she trying to be?
The images of her are not true.
The shades, shapes--she's more than the casing.
She once carried the future.
Now, the future painted for her is not so bright.
Her strength appears to be weakened.
Her lover has abandoned her and their young.
The wind once could not break her pace.
The rhythm of her own beat guided her direction.
She must reach back now to impart the spirit of her former self for her tomorrows.

Count Down
by: S. Cone

Tic..........Tic........
A blink faster than the speed of light
For sometimes it seems like
I can't even tie my shoe
No time to breathe
Or even to see if the sky is still blue.

So, I stop....
To think things through,
But I still don't have a clue
What am I to do?

Time has run out!

What is One to Do?

by: S. Cone (my son)

Crazy.........Wild.........Out of control

As it breathes endlessly, what is one to do?

Enlightening us....we....I......

Trying to find the way, black mist eludes us.

For we have no life, but yet we stand here.

How?

The time still ticks on .....

For what is one to do.....

Dusk is soon approaching. The evening sun not as hopeful as the morning dew. There is a calmness, stillness on the earth. The crimson sky stained with the events of the day. The sun looking as if it's turning it's back on the world. Digressing momentarily to another space and returning with a new perspective. Time's illusional and deceitful. Un-guardable, the night season emerges. The moon itself has a seductive quality. It's hard to see for the unknown, but the intensity is swollen. The summer's night air is tepid and moist, sweet to the lips, a reprieve from the bitterness of winter. The days won't cease moving in one direction, it forces action--to taste this moment. Submerging in today, covered with enough love to satisfy, enough strength to hold, enough joy to be full and enough courage to wait--until tomorrow.

Treasure

someone to love you

the way you desire to be loved

loving them the way

they desire to be loved

hidden, until you

reach to find it

Hammy Down Love

Hammy down shoes
Hammy down clothes
Hammy down dolls, a
Hammy down bike, even a
Hammy down bed

Not the oldest
Not the baby
Not even in the middle
Not the only boy
Not the only girl
Not the tallest
Not the fairest
Not the cutest
Not the brightest

Hammy down time
Hammy down space
Hammy down love

I'll buy my own,
New shoes
New clothes
New toys
New cars

I'll adorn,
My short legs
My small feet
My brown skin and
My mind

Born out of season
I'll make my own space in time
Search for my own love

Words, faithful
Cleft for me
Words, tapestry
Cover me
Words, symbolic
Shield me
Words, unchanging
Speak to me
Words
A refuge
Words
Strength

Miles of terrain stand between today and tomorrow.
The internal compass is broken.
Soulish pride won't permit an enquiry
Of the Urim and Thummim.

The soles of the feet ache from previous conquest.
The body's tattered, worn from the load of the sun.
Although the clouds appear supernatural
There is no shadow in sight.

There is a breeze stirring.
Enough to acknowledge the Spirit's presence.
But nothing to testify about.

Hush! Listen for
A going in the top of the mulberry trees.

uncovered exposed

hidden exploited protected

NAKED CLOTHED bare

cold WARM FRIGHTENED

BOLD lonely comforted

broken WHOLE afraid

FEARLESS HUNGRY satisfied

Negative thoughts flood invading the mind working consistently building a kingdom out of the fibers that bind the psyche. They work meticulously like wasp. Their lines fuse together not to divulge their origin. The damage is unnoticeable, hidden, until it visibly spews out on the breath. Dis-confirmation creeps in at dark through the back door and in the morning displays the prey caught in the intricate net of deceit. Ignoring the devourers trap is costly. The zombied look in the eyes and dribbling lips mark the level of deterioration. Then comes the hysteria followed by the hallucinations told on stammering lips.

Masquerade Ball

A carnival intended for the fortunate. All other attendees merely spectators or servants. The lady in the feathered hat makes a grand entrance. Pretending to desire to be left unnoticed, please!, that hat could stand on its own. The orchestra plays familiar tunes, as with all of these events it's about making the privileged comfortable. The choice of costume speaks a lot about a person. The inner self has a way of always slipping through the cracks. Tonight is her night to shine. To come behind the shadows and live like the little girl playing dress up in her mother's clothes, finding the old costume jewelry in the attic and the boa in the trunk. Until the clock strikes twelve and her carriage turns back into a pumpkin, but not before she meets her Prince Charming. And in the morning light after they have fallen in love with the evenings mask they discover that they are only truly exposed when covered.

New Sky

New Sky

Today the clouds are rolling quickly
As if they are in a hurry
Maybe they have a place in another sky
Appointed to cover another sun
If I could leap and grab hold of one
Maybe they would take me too

Time has a way of taking care of things, even desires. The body must exhaust itself and then the soul gives up, unwillingly, but nevertheless accepts defeat. She considers herself cured. She lectures herself like a Sunday school teacher. She makes herself busy during the day and at night she waits until she is utterly without strength hoping she will be too tired to dream. Trying to control a mind that has run a way like a highjacked train is almost impossible. She must beat it! The soul is a different story it's faculties run deep. It must be convinced it's behavior is foolish in order for pride to take control. And of course the flesh will become humbled from denial.

According to the experts dreams are the creation of our subconscious. Whenever this body of flesh rest, the mind continues to work. If this is true, then the mind, a faculty of the soul, stores and records all of life's events and the emotions that come along with them. It is in the sleep that they are revisited and put on display like the unlocked trunks from the attic spread out on the front lawn for a yard sale. The soul is trying to rid itself, but sometimes it's hard for the mind to let go of it's memorabilia.

Trumpet Vine

Life can travel in all directions intertwining the past with the present. Things happen in seasons. There's a time to bloom and a time to be pruned. No one likes the pruning stage. Standing there butchered like a chicken with a bad haircut for all to see and mock as if their time isn 't coming. Judgement is not without consequences. Afterwhile the vine overtakes the ground and the picket fence; yet without any evidence of flowering. Then the hummingbirds come to blow the sounds of nectar.

Child's Play

Run, skip, play
Leap, jump, fly
Live, love, laugh
Wish, hope, dream

Child's play

Clown Tears

I laughed until I cried

It wasn't as if somebody died

Just my heart broke into

Didn't know what else to do

I smiled and walked away

Couldn't have been love anyway

Secretly I would like to try

Maybe it's not for me, why?

Merry-go Round

Round and round

Days passing by

Quick, stop can I exit here?

Too fast--sometimes too slow

The merry-go round goes round and round

Two Opinions

The see saw goes up and down
Up, you look down at the world
Down, the world's looking up at you

Down, you can touch the clouds
Up, they are still just a view
The see saw goes up and down

Tired Eyes

My mind & body's tired

They have yielded to getting older

I can't say they didn't warn me
I just didn't consent

Photography by: L. Reynolds - Pfotogenic.blogspot.com

“When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained:”

Jehovah Shammah

Still waters underneath the streaked crimson sky
Stained as if the sun wept because it had to leave
The moon will soon take its place
A black quilt of stars will be the earth’s cover
The ripples a reminder of your voice trembling upon the waters
The water mirrors the splendor of the heavens
The wind whispers softly echoing the accounts
The leaves whistling your praise
The mountains stand watch over the valley lows
The earth’s floor groans underneath the stillness
Man and nature in your presence—waiting

Mara

A time is coming when men will weep openly in the streets. Houses will no longer be able to shelter from the storms. The earth’s floor is shaking—the ground is no longer stable--swallowed the house of Korah whole. Once the moon refused to shine on an earth absent of grace--brackish waters troubled all around, like those of Mara. Come make the bitter waters sweet!

Body, Soul & Spirit

Run Freely
Against the Wind
Rise

Leap Up
Ungravitated
Rise

Laugh Loudly
Smile Within
Rise

Weep Bitterly
On your Knees
Rise

Repent Openly
Plead for Mercy
Rise

Listen Quietly
Ever Learning
Rise

Live Fearlessly
No Regrets
Rise

Love Genuinely
A Pure Heart
Rise

Fly Away
In the Morning
Rise

Die Gently
Breathe Sweetly
Rise

Manna

The sun seems hotter
The days shorter
The night season longer
But joy comes on the morning dew--Manna

Slave Pens—The Houses that Hatred Built

I tried to brace myself as I entered into the wooden oversized coffin that held at any given time seventy-five devalued souls. But I couldn’t prevent the tears; I couldn’t deny the voices that still screamed from those walls. Whose feet had touched those cold floors, whose sweat and tears had stained those benches? I sat there and I wept--I wept for their souls long since gone. I wept for myself for sometimes I’m not mindful. I mourned those who had been stripped from their country to die daily in a strange land only to have no final resting place, no sacred burial ground.

Haunted, their ghosts still roam. I heard the cries of mothers for their children. I saw men crowded laying on the beams above and across from them the name of the demonic soul who had enslaved them there, Anderson. I wanted to hate him! And I wanted to hate my white brother whom I love. Somehow sitting in that house that was built from hatred love still reigned in mine. I believe it came from the strength of those souls who left their broken hearts on the floor of this slave pen.

Soul for Sale--Slave Auction

Lonely
Cold
Chained
Confused
Captured

Beaten
Devalued
Dehumanized
Exploited
Captured

Disgraced
Disrespected
Degraded
Used
Captured

Auctioned
Sold
Bought
Marked
Captured

Enslaved

African Beauty Queen

Beautiful, but there’s more to see—a hidden treasure
Apart of me I hope to be

You’re a mystery—not fully uncovered
Even though you stand naked for all to admire

Your breast so full—nurturer of the nations
Bold, proud and glorious

You know who you are—where you belong
Still I stumble—praying not to fall
Fall prey to what others say I should be

Reaching for who you are
Run, I hear you say in my ear

Run like the antelope,
Stand proud like the giraffe,

Run wild like the zebra
Prance like the lioness
Run until you own the horizon

Reflections & Shadows

Sometimes the image is distorted. But the looking glass doesn't lie. Although the story it tells--a half truth-- is missing the inner theme the books covering is all that it can reflect. You would have to read between the lines and explore beyond the type and cover in order to know what took place before and after.

The shadows come to protect--some say hide--but when you need one it can be kind. A protective shield from whoever is trying to figure out why page 42 has been highlighted. What transpired is only for those who shared that moment in time. It’s like asking someone about their most private thoughts, the ones they can't wait to go to sleep at night to re-visit alone. The chapters in which they can make fiction reality and reality fiction.

You would have to look in the mirror and search far behind the eyes to uncover the whole story--it’s in the reflection protected behind the shadows covering. Captured momentarily--once removed, it’s forgotten, but the tale has been recorded.

Dusk

The day ends as quietly as it began
The nights covering hiding the earth’s secrets
The sun takes his rest
As the moon prepares to take his place

Stillness silence the calamities of the day
There’s a settling of the mind
Peacefulness as the stars play in space

The clouds like small children called in from a day of play
Is this there end or will they have a time to shine tomorrow?
Maybe in another sky

**************************************************

A place dared to be explored
One seemingly bottomless, endless--the way out a mystery
Not a maze—an un-navigated wilderness

Curiosity and desire draws to this place without an exodus
The aroma of ecstasy and the allure of passion
And temptation sweet like the night air--arouse the senses
Surrendering would be a certain lively death

Lost on the path of emotions
So tangibly real—living in a dream
Escaping to hide within the cleft
A world unknown to the common
Where the stars dance

**************************************************
There’s warmth in the air in spite of what’s going on in the visible view. The reality lies in the invisible realm. Tent dwellers—only passing through—but living as if this is the final show. All working towards that grand finale. Sometimes we play the main character. Sometimes we play the supporting cast. If Shakespeare is right—if life is just a stage there must be more after the final curtain call. Until then, take a bow and wait for the applause.

****************************************************

This day is ending--time soon forgotten only the faces seen in passing play on the minds screen. The evening sun will soon be sinking –sinking into its hiding place for a moments rest. Anxiety rolls in as the clouds roll away. No more time for play--only eternity is infinite and sure. The mood’s changing you can feel it in the wind. Time to set another stage the atmosphere must follow the course. Trying to hold the day’s moments is like trying to keep lighting bugs alive in a mason jar on a summer’s night.

The memories keep re-arranging finding there hierarchy among the days and times of forgotten scenes. Lessons as subliminal as background music constantly attempting to lead in a certain direction. We inevitably miss the cue until the crescendo is so obtrusively loud and we no longer can ignore the cymbals banging in the background. As the sun dial acts as the gauge even Kali’s dance can not arouse and cause it to stand erect and still.