MR's blog: "EXPRESSING THE GIFT"

Title: Barracks Playground Running thru the fields I see daisy weeds Lost beads and broken swings, abandoned dreams arguments between dope feigns, Dirty kids pickin' teams, playin' tag dancin' to sirens. I see broken glass of long nights passed, dead birds and cats, street dogs and trash, hustlers mingling to protect their stash, prostitutes strutting in my path. Rimless back boards and ball-less courts, graffiti on walls, empty packs of Newport's. I see monkey bars, hot sliding boards, kids jumping rope with old extension cords. Bathrooms locked shut, water fountain pressure low, faded hop-scotch lines which way to go? I see merry-go-rounds that don't spin around, see-saws that just go down. Baseball cages dying of rust, night lights on half them bust. Grass real high needs to be cut, running thru the fields I see daises and such. Police lockin' up the neighborhood drunk, young boys learning how to dunk. Girls keepin' rhythm jumping double-dutch, pig-tails boucin' from a mothers touch. Running in the field I hear radios blare, with forties on the curb that cool boys share. I see the window woman with a cold hard stare. I see two men walking that look like a pair. Hormonal teens playin' truth or dare, one year olds walking with feet thats bare Running thru the fields I see my whole life, so I keep on running right towards THE LIGHT. copyright ©2000-2008 by the author. All rights reserved by author.

One day I heard a voice in the far left ear It only happens when I'm here I arrive usually in the cold part of the year In my left ear I can't conceive whispering my name Told me I saw thangs Got me caught up in a strange range In between states of conscience reality Did I hear that voice or was it me? One day I heard that voice in the late of the night Touched me on my leg no whisperer in sight It just showed me things In the distant heights These things did pass The voice uttered, "IT'S ALRIGHT". One day I heard another voice sounding strongly confused Which left a dilemma Which one to use? The decision was hard I had to meditate. I'll listen to the touch. The whisperer was a fake. O.N.E.I. copyright ©2000-2006 by the author. All rights reserved by author. ==============================

Title: What It Means To Me Poems are like medicine for my mind, You'll understand if you're my kind. Poems are like a sedative deep into the night, When I am sleep and my mind takes flight. Poems are my salvation when I hang on the cross, Thoughts bring me to a road to which I'm lost. Poems are rosary beads touched with pen, For all the times I want to give in. Poems are my enemies of all ghosts past, Haunting and taunting me they even laugh. Poems are suicide letters written in despair, When I can't feel or see an nobody out there. Poems touch me and I touch them back, They reflect my love even when I lack. Poems are nothing, yes everything, All. Something like my final call covering in covenant As an ole woman's shawl. Poems are intricate small and deep, An intimate introspection into me. Poems are solitude for the multitude in a tube of tunnel vision, Sharp incision definition of division Between streets and prisons. Poems are reminders of past inflictions with no convictions. Never read causing repetition of mission turned purpose, Analyzing those who hurt us. Code name murderous. Poems are the truth told in tone initiated with vocal moans, Secret yet not unknown uniforms rare resided in catacombs. Mummified for those qualified. In silence they hide scriptures, provide elixers, With a mixture they're a strong fixture. Poems are a seance with spirits, Experience varies in degrees, Some reach in blazin', some naturally. Poems are tickets to freedom, A train of thought in motion, full of devotion With a small quotient Over standing the meaning of a poem. O.N.E.I. copyright ©2000-2006 by the author. All rights reserved by author.