By: Cedric McClester

What does it mean,
To be the greatest artist ever?
That you come up with rhyme schemes
Some people find clever?
Or, you design clothes,
That pull the cash lever?
Or, that you do other things,
Categorized as whatever?

What does it mean,
To have an ego so large,
That it becomes obvious,
That your id is in charge?
Or, you occasionally lash out
In an unseemly barrage?
Or, that you have fancy cars
Parked in your garage?

What does it mean to
Submit to Christ,
If you think what you do,
Is twice as nice?
Or, you’ve never taken
His Good Book’s advice?
And you can’t keep still
Like a bad case of lice?

What does it mean,
To be big bad and bold
Or, for that matter,
Have a million records sold?
Or, to be known
For having broken the mold
If your life is measured
By the people you’ve rolled?











Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

So long ago.    
I was always older than you.
You were stronger than I.
It was Summer, you rolled
joints in the kitchen.  I
waited in the other room.

Other rooms, other tales.
I remember the night
we walked to the tavern.
I wrote poems while you
played pool.  I wore red,
you touched my
hand.  I didn't know you,
stranded on the brink of
midnight, waiting for me
to end the song.  

You left me in the rain,
toeing the brush of your
dense backyard.  I called,
my voice thrown in the
rain, the wind's song
tortured with the sound
of tears.

This Thanksgiving.
I will drink alone,
long ago yesterdays,
linger to
tomorrow.

Caroline Shank

I grip the rails inside this prison cell
Where darkness cast the shadow of despair
And silence will never stop its screaming
Say a word and the walls start repeating