After the spilling of innocence,
There is the blood of vengeance;
Fire in the eyes signifies a thirst that never dies.
There must be a recompense paid.
There must be an accounting
For every tear shed in time of weeping.
There must be no rest for enemies—
No joyous feasting or sound sleeping.
They must perish,
They must perish with their blood upon them in stifling fear;
They must anticipate their fate
Knowing the hour is near.
And in that hour, revenge will be as a honeycomb sweet;
They are the sowers of violence,
So violence they will reap; savagery they will reap.
Under a red sky, rivers of blood will overflow,
Until the tall reeds and the grass is stained;
The essence of them will not remain;
The essence of them will not remain.
Even the dust of their bones the winds will carry away,
Then will come the darkness of the night
And take away the day;
Darkness will take away the day.
Their last laments will not be heard—
And their pleas for mercy will be ignored.
They shall fade away promptly from history.
It shall be written of them, that they died cowardly,
Without glory or notoriety.
Their ending will not be a great mystery;
With the blood of vengeance they shall be wiped out;
They shall be wiped out utterly.
Tag: Thoughts
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Farewell to what could have been;
Farewell to the voices within.
No black suits or black veils.
No trying to hold back tears after a deep inhale.
No wake or funeral rites
After a passing in the night;
No flowers or wreaths,
Or a gathering to weep.
No past stories or mention of prior glories.
No teardrops on varnished wood
With six metal handles.
No clutching of rosaries
And dishonest eulogies.
No viewings with quiet weeping,
as silk gloves gently brush over the body.
No solemn sermons
In-front of melancholic congregations.
No horse-drawn carriages
With black horses, wearing blinders
Waiting to carry glass caskets.
No pallbearers to carry the deceased.
No end of service crowds
That spill over into the streets;
No consumption of alcohol.
No sentiments of rest in peace.
No crying widows comforted by men
With ulterior motives under the guise
of helping her to live again;
No crocodile tears from estranged family
And disloyal friends.
Alive, they are mourned alive,
For it inside that the spirit dies.
Do you not see it in the eyes?
Do you not witness the desolation in their cries?
Hear their moaning in the early mornings,
The dim lamplight cast against the awning.
Who will pay their respects
And leave roses on weathered decks?
Who will mourn them?
Are they not deserved of tears?
Are they not deserved of flowers
In a beautiful array of colors
Weaved within neat and well made wreaths?
See them lying there in stillness,
Eyes closed and adorned in tattered garments.
Weep in solemn reflection
With inflections of misery within your lament.
A song is sung after the final bell is rung;
A song is sung after the final bell is rung. -
The Sea roars.
The edges of her violently hit the shore.
At even she is pulled by the moon;
She moans as she rises.
Her depth and darkness set under a red sky;
The place where men go to bury secrets.
She has become an involuntary accomplice;
Lifelessness slowly sinks to her cold floor
From the relative warmth of her surface;
She will not give up her dead.
In her currents they become somewhat lifelike,
Moving to and fro like some morbid puppet show,
With wide eyes open in the darkness.
The creatures of the sea
Observe their latest inhabitants;
Like shipwrecks they are scattered
Longing to be remembered;
The last of their tears coalesced
Into the salty waters.
On the surface, the living
Weep for their sons and daughters;
In their distress they go to her,
Jumping from bridges to find solace;
In her depths, they seek solace.
In her melancholy—
She is stirred with waves of sadness.
The heavens look down upon her
And see her vastness;
She is a keeper of secrets;
Yes, she is a keeper of secrets.
She holds them in her bowels for perpetuity
And cradles them in her rapture lovingly.
She is the Sea—
She is the Sea.
She will not be tamed,
And she will remain.
She gives of herself;
In her calmness and warmness they swim,
On her surface they sail,
And in her, are fish, dolphins, and whales.
She is the Sea—
She is the Sea.
She will not give up her dead;
Their tombs she will not reveal.
She embraces them and carries them with her
Wherever her currents may go.
Her cold and salty depths
Are their final rest.
In her depths,
They find their final rest. -
Venomous words linger even the morning after,
And when even is come, more tears run—
Angered silence constricts the tongue, and words are hardly spoken;
Though remnants of love remain, it could never be the same —
For the heart weeps, and the spirit is broken. -
Your movements were fluid.
Looking into your eyes I cried,
And you wiped away my tears and kissed me.
The touch of you moved my soul gracefully;
See me now in my weeping
As I kneel besides you sleeping,
Your memory infused in me
And a part of my being;
Rest my love, until the coming
Of that glorious dawning,
When we are again reunited in the heavens.
It was you — it was always you;
Side by side I would have died with you,
Holding hands and in my last breaths
Reaffirming my endless love,
Leaving behind the relics of us;
Kiss me one more time —
Even in death let me feel your lips against mine,
Before the warmth of your body leaves you
And I am rendered listless,
Left to stumble around in the wilderness
Of the harshest winters.
Lost without you, I am so lost without you.
For a time, life had yielded sweetness,
But now I taste of its bitterness,
And my aura slowly withers —
What can I render to you now that you are gone?
A thousand roses laid gently
Around your headstone?
I must consort with the angels
To make inquires of your soul
And to send you a message of love and of longing;
Oh but for the day of that glorious dawning!
Until then I will carry you in my heart
Through rivers and streams,
In deep valleys and dreams, you are with me.
Winter again approaches;
I will warm us by a fire
And sing songs of our love together;
I will commune with you
And take you under the twilight
In your white dress — your hair pulled back,
Your neck adorned with a beautiful gold necklace,
The winds blowing through your dark long curls
That flow in length like graceful waterfalls;
We will dance and after rededicate our vows.
You belong to me and I belong to you.
Do you take this woman to have
And to hold, for richer for poorer,
In sickness and in health,
To love and to cherish in life and in death?
I do. Eternally, through deep waters
And through fire,
Through the hottest summers,
And through the coldest winters,
You remain my only desire;
Now kiss me as I adorn you
With a new ring, you are more beautiful
Than a blue diamond sparkling.
Whisper to me when I am lonely —
Of you I will write beautiful poetry
And remember the first day I beheld you in glory;
It was in the sixth month that you came to me,
And by the the twelfth we were in love
Together forever inseparably. -
Two levels from hell at 3 A.M.
She drinks again and thinks of him
Forever scarred once gentle heart
Now cold as ice and triple darkThe darkness stalks
The darkness stalks
With red eyes shot
The darkness stalksHer spirit wails
Her spirit wails
With deep inhale
Her spirit wailsA love was lost
A love was lost
And now her soul is torn apartAnd in those tears she sheds her tears
From pretty eyes that age with years
Behind her eyes is where pain lies
And Hestia’s flame of many firesImmersed in pain
That terrible pain
She’s tasted hell
Again and againFrom birth to death in torturous depths
The soul it weeps in labored breaths
She walks across in measured steps
The treacherous bridge above the abyssTwo levels from hell
Two levels from hell
Within four walls is where she dwells -
When kindness is taken for weakness, the weakness is in not recognizing the healing light of kindness, because treachery of the heart and degeneracy has long caused blindness.
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Blood of the fallen runs on the alter of vengeance
Eyes of fire replay their last moments
The tears that fall are the final expulsion of agony
We cry no more but see the kindling of our glory
Embers light up the dark night
The wailing of grieving mothers is the essence of our plight
Intuition is our vision even if we lose our sight
Last agonizing breaths of our ancestors absolutely indicts
The generations of slave masters
The hell of our lives trivialized through lying tongues and murderous eyes
The wicked intent of their hearts pulling on the woven fabric
Of the very flag of which they hide behind
We are tired but resolved
Hear it in our sighs
For the children have seen strange fruit
With broken necks and bulging eyes as their father’s drove by
Instilling fear year after year each season
Beginning with the commencement of tears
If there is indeed an almighty God
The anxiety of our children will not go unpunished
We have survived many violent summers
And the fire of resilience has warmed us in the coldest winters
In their last moments the beloved stood under the shade of canopies
Hanged on the branches of towering trees
The same place they were whipped unmercifully
The trees left as witnesses with splatter from the blood of tortured bodies
In their deep roots they retained the tormented screams
And did not bear sweet fruit again
They slowly withered with the discoloration of their leaves
Mothers fell to their knees and cried out for their sons
While their daughters tried to comfort them
For everything under the heavens there is a beginning and an end
The ghosts of the oppressed and the afflicted
Roam freely in the vast fields of plantations
And among the aged towering trees where pain was inflicted
The soil where they toiled infused with sweat and blood
If you listen closely their songs can be heard
Hands with many scars and eyes blurred
In unbearable heat they yet toiled under the overseer’s gun
Seeing the blood run from the hands of even the little ones
Their mothers sneaking to tend to their wounds with love
The towering trees witness their sorrow from above -
Lifeless he is carried; his open eyes look towards the sky.
The remnants of his tears stream, just minutes before he screamed
I can’t breathe, still the evil one pressed harder with his knee;
In his last moments he called for his mother; in distress he was, but
Still, he could see her. Cold-blooded eyes stared with arrogance in the air;
Inside they smiled for they relish the instillation of fear.
We hang on in constant distress hoping that our salvation is near;
Strange fruit appeared on blood spattered trees for so many years;
Our brown hue our only sin— Constantly in our oppression we are set back
Then begin again; Our lives lived like a tormented novel
Written in the bowels of hell and narrated by the devil.
Over fifty years ago, We Shall Overcome was sung,
But still now we sit anxiously with weathered hands wrung—
We survive but we have yet to thrive. Systematically we are targeted
So our solemn plight is to stay alive. They see our sorrow,
But they ignore our cries; I swear under the heavens
and on the pain of my grandmother’s eyes, that one day . . .
That one glorious day, we shall arise.
Intimate Compositions 