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.

They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.