Monthly Archives: January 2010

For those that have forgotten how to dream

This is a reminder for those who have forgotten how to dream
spending waking moments anxious for rest.
For the world of dreams awaits your arrival with open palms,
transforming crossword puzzles into beautiful psalms
dancing upon stars awakening the moon to sing us lullabies to sleep.
For we were all born as dreamers.
But some of us have forgotten how to dream.

This is for dreamers afraid to venture into the lucidity of grey clouds
where breath-taking pictures expose the darkest moments of your self-doubt,
and for the dreamers scared to face their uncertain futures
for they might accidentally dream them out loud.

This is for those who have made homes out of misshapen wood
and forsaken ideals left alone in abandoned fields.
and For the broken man who receives blank stares
with each check of welfare but never enough money to heal.
This is for the dying child whose innocence
was stolen by the impatient grips of death.
And for parents who had to witness their only child’s last breath
They too have no innocence left.

This is for the single mothers worn down by the demands of an overbearing society
In dreams, there is always rest for the weary.
and for veterans left cold in the dust of an unjust war-machine,
these run-down streets are no place for you to be redeemed,
so kick back dust, and raise some hell, in dreams you have a story to tell.
This is for lonely hearts, wishing for someone to share their dreams with
to bottle them up and keep them warm during winter.
and For the victims of rape whose dreams were made silent by the worst form of sinner,
speak until till they hear you, find courage through your fears
for your spirit is not yet broken and your dreams might someday be healed.
This is For young women stripped naked of self-esteem
by the beast of self-degradation and the god-damned advertisements of Maybelline,
no need to make up your inherent beauty.
I know for a fact that you are born with it,
you need to see it in your own dreams.

This is a reminder, for those of us who have forgotten how to dream.
You see, Abstract realities can speak volumes if you just listen
if you got the ears to hear then take your dreams out of the kitchen
quit reading news papers reflections of the fucked up world that we live in
paint the world and draw the lines
without the need to be forgiven
Cause the world and how you see it is exactly what it is
Fuck the need to run and hide we are no longer lonely fugitives
So blaze your trails make new colors and stretch canvass as you need
Use imagination as your pallet follow your dreams where they may lead
And remember this, When they try to make your reality
in your dreams you can make believe.

This is for you,
former dreamers. Broken people.Weary hearts.
When you find yourself ready to dream again
All you have to do is close your eyes.


We bear the pain of our Fathers.

My father is a preacher.
Each morning he wakes up at 5:00am to pray.
Yesterday he told me that he prays for me to see the error of my ways.
As If I was Judas Iscariot holding a noose on the third day.
Some days, Some days he prays so fervently
His eyes begin to betray the fear that his prayers are no longer being answered.
His voice whispers doubt into his certainty
breaking under the weight of questions like
Why his mom died of cancer?
Or why his younger brother died when he was born.
And why his Dad passed away the day he turned 35.
for as long as my Father’s been alive by the vicious grips of death he’s been torn.
I’m afraid he’s never been able look back on better days.

The Days when he was considered my hero
I would follow where ever he’d go
Until he’d tell me bedtime stories to sleep
just so he could see the peace in my sleeping face.
When pictures of father and son would seal resemblances in place.
“Your son looks just like you!” they would say.
But He’s never been able to live in these days.

His story forever laced with the scars of unbearable loss
Where he keeps his pain hidden somewhere on empty cross,
And maybe I was collateral damage,
But it’s not his fault, he never knew the cost.

So he prays for me each morning.
I pray for him each night.

I am my father’s son,
bearing past pains left in his wake.
Where prohpecies of old could not have told him what was at stake
Until it was too late and now the pain of my father
becomes baggage I purposefully forget to claim
finding its way back through that tag that bears our last name,
or a face that shares his smile, and a cry that sounds the same.
For a while, I’ve broken under the weight of having to look back on better days.

Days when my father was never wrong,
And I would defend his honor for as long as this truth was plain.
“Oh Yeah? Well my dad is better than your dad.” I exclaimed!
And I miss those days. I’ll never have them back it’s too late.
I’ve seen the scars he bears that have become chapters in his book of pain
I can guarantee you,
these were portraits of my father that I was never meant to see.
And the pictures of him I’ve formed in my mind, already look a lot like me

You see, I am the child of a preacher.
And every night before I sleep I pray that his pain would recede
just long enough for him to see that he can be resurrected in new ways,
as if he were Jesus of Nazareth pushing that stone away on the third day.
And some nights, some nights I pray so fervently that my eyes would betray
how deeply I bear the pain of my father,
giving rise to the lies intertwined in bot our broken layers.
I’m not much of a religious man these days, but I am my father’s son.
And I hope that someday God would find a way to answer both of our prayers.

Finding wings in the City of Angels.

There’s a mural painted on the side of a wall
down the street from where I live that reads something like this;

“We are each of us angels with only one wing,
and only be embracing each other can we fly.”

So without fail, each time  on the metro line I pass it by
Instinctively I look into the brownish skyline
of this so called City of Angels
and it comes as no surprise
that I hardly ever see any angels flying.
And I doubt that its ever for the lack of trying.
So I Survey the faces of the single winged runners
Around the streets of Pico and Normandy where this mural resides.
I find shattered expressions of regret in once hopeful eyes.
or maybe Brief glimpses of weary lives
that have grown tired of believing their once promising lies
That flying was  a guaranteed part of this american dream, turned nightmare
Look at what they call the Nickel and you might find the dreaded blank stare.
On a row that is relegated to angels who’s wings have been stolen from mid-air.
Living scars on backs that tell stories of damned hopes replacing wings that were once there.
Despair. Not a self-inflicted wound. Dreams stolen from dreamers
straight from the womb and never returned.
Thieves taking wings and selling them ebay
this isn’t turning a nickel into fifteen cents.
It’s “if it don’t make dollaz, then it don’t make sense”
And single winged flyers embracing

breathe in the new year.

Breathe in the new year. It tells stories of the past and turns them into leaves left behind a trail
Waiting for the next person to encounter the hues of color they reflect.
Dancing along with the movement in a sing song rhythm made of spiced air and frosted sheathes of wind.
Our lungs expand for hope to be taken in, and our hearts for people’s smiles to contract.
And in our own secret layers we see the horizon leak into the cave and shadows retreat.
We have gone through a part of the journey, not to be unscathed but to be the rest
That is never promised to the weary. Breathe in the new year…….

Breathe in the new year with reminders of the trails behind us
As we reach into the past to find the future .We’ve always held in our hands
Everything we have needed to be.  Let the trails we blaze be reflections of all the
Past visions we have seen.   Breathe in the new year.