Black veils draped over weeping faces
The slow singing of hymns
The recital of scriptures
Sorrowful eyes take one last view
The closing of the final chapter
Crying and wailing ensues
Flowers and a large photo tower over lifelessness
Carved and varnished wood is draped with soft cloth
Six men line up in stillness; three on each side
The white gloves of the pallbearers clutch metal against wood
The lifting of the departed
The rolling of wheels down a narrow aisle
A long pause before another heave
The fallen is carried
The cargo is loaded
A constant flowing of tears
The long ride –
Tag: Sadness
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Is it not enough that is has taken my joy from me?
Is it not enough that is has taken away my sleep?
Is it not enough that is has infiltrated my thoughts?
Is it not enough that is has robbed me of peace?
Is it not enough that is caused me to be misunderstood by many?
Is it not enough that is has turned those I love away from me?
Is it not enough that it wreaks havoc on my mind and body?
Is it not enough that it seeks to destroy me daily?
Is it not enough that for years it has captured me?
Is it not enough that it feeds on my tears and laughs at me?
Is it not enough that year after year it increases my sorrow?
Is it not enough that it has caused me great suffering since my childhood?
Is it not enough that it caused great pain to my mother as I saw her suffer?
Is it not enough that it is causes incessant and never ending fear?
Is it not enough that it raises my pulse rate and takes my breath away?
Is it not enough that it renders me listless and numb almost perpetually?
What else does it want from me? -
She walks in the night’s shadows, soliciting customers as they pass by. There is a sadness in her eyes; a profoundly deep and troubled look, that only the streets could fathom. The years have passed by, and her once radiant beauty has turned into a weathered face, and aging body. The streets are cold and unforgiving, as it takes of her essence and leaves her destitute with no assurance of life or future happiness. She is lost in a world of drugs and alcohol as she sells herself to feed her addiction. Her heart is heavy with sorrow and her story is one of pain and turmoil. She stands under a street light and lights a cigarette. She inhales deeply and allows the nicotine to enter her lungs and invade her bloodstream. Her eyes show no emotion as she stares into the dark night. Eyes that scour blocks and alleyways for signs of imminent danger, while at the same time keeping a keen sense for potential customers as she makes her rounds on a summer night in Hunts Point. She can feel a piece of her soul leave her every time the undignified exchange takes place. After the deed is done, crumpled and dirty bills are given, while more than flesh is taken. Still, the night goes on, as shadowy figures move about on the rough and gritty streets. She seeks out other peddlers of the night to make another exchange, but this time she will pay for the euphoria she seeks; it has become a part of her now. She relies on it to make it through the night. The days wane and the nights are long. It lies dormant during the day, but it is in the night, that the streets are awakened with activity. The sordid cycle is repeated again and again; Faces disappear and are never seen again. The years fade away like leaves in the wind. Some familiar characters can still be seen walking on dark blocks, as the sound of crushed glass can be heard under foot. A look into their eyes, and the soul can be seen. In a moment’s notice their story is told.
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Souls roam restlessly with no peace;
These are the souls of the broken hearted
And unloved now deceased
On earth’s realm they suffered in silent despair
Without a moment of love or an inkling of care
Abused and mistreated for most of their lives
These souls that roam, please hear their cries
In decades of sorrow and years of pain
They just wanted acknowledgement;
For you to know their name. -
The cries and tears of the children spill and flow into the rivers and streams; the ocean rises and her waves are lifted up in anger with the tears of my people. The blood and tears are mixed and infused into the lakes and bayous. The waters are perpetually restless and troubled by the souls and spirits of they that shed their blood and were oppressed. The eyes that glow in the night and the creatures of the water hear the loud cries of the souls and the pain in their voices. They cry out for vengeance, and they scream for justice. They weep for remembrance. The earth underneath is shaken and moves violently. Tears ripple through the waters with lightning speed and the soil is saturated with blood.
In the deep dark of night everything is suddenly again quiet. The creepy crawlers of the night and they that dwell in the deep midst of the lakes and bayous are afraid and tense with anticipation. For they have witnessed the injustices; they have witnessed the generations of they that have suffered and have bled, and have shed tears, and have been tortured, and have cried out to God, and have been beaten, and have been broken, and have been enslaved, and have been raped, and have been trodden, and have been unloved. On the banks of the rivers and lakes; the streams and the bayous; stand the ghosts of my people. Eyes fierce, wide and illuminated; They line up side by side in tattered rags. Their wounds show and bear witness to their past lives. Their blood is dried on them. They line up. The elders and the ones with gray hair. The men and the women. The young ones. Hand in hand they line up, and in silence they look on. The children hold the hands of their mothers; the mothers hold the hands of their men; the men hold the hands of the elders and they look on.
Blood sheds from old wounds and tears begin to flow from wide illuminated eyes, but they show no emotion. In silence and in the dark of night they look on. My heart is dismayed by the pain of my people; my eyes, red and sodden with heavy sorrows. As if in a dream, I stretch forth my arms. The moonlight reflects on the dark waters; Polaris shines bright in the night’s sky. They beckon me to come forward, and I oblige as I slowly approach. My people, with bare feet, tattered rags, thick scars on backs, deep wounds, tears flowing from eyes and faces emotionless, stretch forth their arms. The old and the young; the little children, stretch forth their arms to embrace me. In their embrace I am overcome. My God, I am overcome with emotion. Each one begin to whisper closely in my ear the story of their life and pain. The whispers grow louder and I am caught in a whirlwind of their voices; they take me to the places of their deepest suffering and to the places where they wept.
My whole being is shattered by the reality of their past existence. I stand silent. My spirit is filled with fury and sorrow. A potent mix that boils and stirs fire within me. What am I to do? The generation of tears have flown and permeated the earth. What once grew here no longer grows. Their pain and rage have impregnated her and she is vexed by the plight and the affliction of them. The earth will not be moved. She will not forgive. she will not give up her stores and she will not yield her crops; the tobacco; the sugarcane; the cotton will all wither and die. The trees where my people were hanged have shed their leaves. Their roots are rotten and their once sweet fruit have turned bitter. The bumbled bee and the honeybee will not pollinate. The flowers and the once green grass is brown, scorched and sparse. Innocent blood has been shed here. Tears have fallen here. Enough to crack the dams and flow out violently into the vast rivers and oceans.
My people, my precious people; I love them. They peacefully fade away back to their place of rest, where there is no sorrow. One by one they go back to tranquility. I am left alone to bear witness. I scream out with all the air in my lungs and with every fiber of my being: You will be avenged! You are redeemed! With ghostly eyes they turn back and look; in haunted voices, my people whisper: Remember us; remember us.
Intimate Compositions 