They drop bombs
Made in the USA

Blameless
Bunker-busting
Bombs

Made in the USA

Thirty thousand tons of
Blameless
Bunker-busting
Bombs

Made in the USA

Each
Two thousand pound bomb
A grim reaper
Of death and destruction

Made in the USA

Each crater
A mass grave
Made by descendants of
Holocaust victims,
survivors,
And their sycophants

In the USA
And
Around the world

Silenced sycophants
Singing Christmas carols
Exchanging gifts

In the USA
And
Around the world...


And those who dare
Speak up
Or march

In protest

For the innocent
Silenced victims of
Blameless
Bunker-busting
Bombs

Made in the USA

For the twenty thousand
Silenced Palestinian victims of
Blameless
Bunker-busting
Bombs

Made in the USA...

Are labeled
"Anti-Semites"

And silenced too.

~ P
(12/23/2023)


Image credit: Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor

Fell from a space spiritual
Into this physical place
Called Life.

I'm a Late-Boomer.

Memory takes me back
In time
To a blue brick house
(Or was it wood? )
With a door painted white.
A rental.
I was five.
My baby sister was four.

Mommy, a nurse,
Rode a bike to work.
Our Daddy fought fires;
Rode a bike to work.

My Godfather, David,
Rode a bike to work.

He fought fires too.

No one I knew had cars.
They all rode
Bikes to work.

Too young to ride,
I walked to school
Or took the round-de-town bus
For a jill or two.

That's how my life began in
this physical space;
A winner among winners
of the human race.

Lucky me.
Lucky us.

Then I grew up;
Too slowly.
I was too short
For too long.

One year -
'77 or '78,
I grew so tall,
Mommy didn't recognize me,
At all.

Her own son!

That happened again,
Sadly,
After a fall
In '07 or '08.

She's back in that
Spiritual space now.
Heaven,
I suppose.

She was a Believer.

Lucky her.

Ashe.

~ P

I wish you had found me
When I was six.

I wish you had entered my world then
And stirred by consciousness
Like you did
When we first met,
Two decades later.

I think of all the children
Like me;
Young, spirited
And vulnerable.

Who didn't know
They were poor.

Who had no phones or TVs;
Only radios
In their homes.

Who didn't know
There were literary giants in the world
Who looked like them.

Who were fed a steady white diet
Of history, literature and
Religion...

I would've had an albatross
On my deck.

I would've had big-dream winds
Beneath by sails.

I would've been
The black mariner of lore
Shielded through the raging storm...

Not shipwrecked;
Left like shark bait to navigate
The turbulence of prepubescent life
Rife with philistines and predators.

My ship and treasure
Would've landed sooner,
Safely onto destiny's shores.

And my poetry
Wouldn't be

So blue...

AYO

~P
#iwish
(3/27/2023)

Until we see the world
As a space shared by all living things,
Each having a right to exist;
As nature intended,
In the beginning.

Until we see the world
As an infinite wonder
Through which we wander finitely
With a duty to care and share
That all living things
Might be fruitful and multiply;
As nature intended,
In the beginning.

Until we see the world
As our most valued asset
To maintain and grow
That our children
Might thrive and prosper
Without fear of disasters,
man-made and cataclysmic;
As nature intended,
In the beginning.

Until we see the world
As the only world
There is
Or will ever be;

And reform our lives
From greed to green...

We shall ALL be victims
of the worst crime
In the history of the world:

Ecocide.

AYO
~P

Every voice of reason
Screamed Yes
Do it
Excise it
The malignant ones
Steeped in hubris and narcissism
To the bone
Breaking bad beyond repair
Like toxic air
From a saxophone
Blowin off-key
Down Bourbon Street

The coup de grace
Of Mardi Gras
And freedom

Onward
Christian Nationalists

Onward
Putin sympathizers
Who despised Hugo and Fidel

Sieg Heil
Hypocrisy and homophobia

Sieg Heil
Misogyny and xenophobia

The tumor grew
As cancers do
Ignored

The day
Democracy died

~ P

He pulled a gun
On me
Stuck it in my ribs
Like I was steak
Well-done
On the wrong plate
At a place and time
When flour was scarce;
That was my first brush
With fate and destiny

I was just a boy
Then
Of nineteen
When
It happened

Six years later
It happened again
A scare
My sophomore year
At Skegee
He waved the gun at me
This time
Screaming obscenities
From Clarendon

I did not run
Like my friends from Soweto
Where guns meant death

I had no fear
That day
Miles and miles away from home
I stood my ground
And won;
My second brush
With fate and destiny

My third
Occurred in a smoky bar
Not far away
From Carver's farm;
He was nuts
That night
Almost blew a hole
Through my guts
When all I wanted
Was a Bud Light
Ice-cold;
My third brush
With fate and destiny

Time has been kind to me
Unlike the lady
From Stone Mountain
In the backseat of my rideshare;
"I'm gonna **** you,"
She said;
The cop searched her bag
There was no gun
This time around;
My fourth brush
With fate and destiny

A mere man of 56
I was
No longer an immigrant boy
Was I
When his Luger's laser
Pierced my eye;
Yet here I am
Alive
Having survived
My fifth brush
With fate and destiny

Maybe I should buy a gun
Of my own

AYO

~ p

White-on-white crime is at an all-time high.
The color of power bleeds red.
I'm Ukranian and I am free is a lily white lie.
White-on-white crime is at an all-time high.
Eat these bombs babushka, don't you cry.
Vladimir doesn't care if you're alive or dead.
White-on-white crime is at an all-time high.
The color of power bleeds red.
~P

#makelovenotwar
#peaceplease

Dat Rock of his dreams,
Peakin through distant clouds
Of struggle and doubt;
Calloused feet shoutin
From soles worn-out
At the bottom;
Climbin crowded stairs
To deaf ears
At the top.

Stories screamin to be told
Like sirens on the crime-side.
Memories of old resurrected
In mindsight.
Fingers typin rhymes through dark nights.
Moon shinin bright
On doors closed,
Never seen.
Ground floors  reekin stardust,
Clever memes.
Here only giants dare,
Starin at the ground
Through mirrors too small
To capture them all.

Gonna need a visionary,
A see-faring guide
To blast a path
Up these charts.

Gonna need a missionary
A God-fearin ride-or-die
To take the leap of faith;
To chase a dream
Through distant clouds
Of struggle and doubt;
To find a spot on Dat Rock

Where destiny awaits...

Capture the ride.
Watch him glide,
Free-stylin
From Chi-Town
To Platinums.

Don't blink.

You've got to see this.

AYO
~ P

I spend my days
Quietly polishing the routine
Of retirement
Until it gleams
To digital perfection

A virtual virtuoso
With more cause
Than ability
Chasing virality
Over the Moon

I won't have a star
Tattooed on the sidewalk in LA
Like Prince and Eddie
Or an Emmy
Hanging on the wall
Next to my two prized degrees

But the pure joy
Of foraging the universe
Of words;
The euphoria of finding
the only noun that matters
Among an infinite many

Is the savage thrill
That keeps me typing
And clicking
And sharing
And chasing
The elusive star
Of my Wilde thespian dreams

AYO

~P

They -
The Wolves of Wall Street
Wanted me to shine
Their shoes;
Wingtips, loafers and pumps
Dumped in a clear plastic bag
During lunch-break

Me,
The temp from Ghana;
Me,
The HBCU fast-tracker
With a college visa
And a massive crush
On Vanessa;

Before the scandal

Me,
The coffee-hued
Marketing Mgmt major
Schlepping
In the mail-room
At Sachs;

Goldman Sachs

Where future CFO's,
Hedge-fund Gurus
And Climate-Change Deniers
Are spawned

Where Guardians of the status quo
And the chasm
Between coffee and cream
Gather, stir and scheme;

The Clansman's dream
Of a perfect latte

Just grow them beans,
Jimbo

Just be the black sheep
Of your destiny,
Jimbo

And shine these fother muckin shoes...

AYO

~P

.......
Jamesgpaulsr.com (bio/portfolio)
Facebook.com/poetrybyPablo (poetry/digital art)

I Need
Someone who will be there
Forever;
Who's  more than a million followers
Or 10 million views

I need
To be more than
Some Fat Jew
Stuck at 21
When I'm sixty-two

Or Brittany
Chasing Paris
And Kim
Up Hilton Avenue

I need

To be someone more
Than this animal
On top of the food chain
Cloning content and hashtags
In my virtual house of wax
Built on impulse and tweets

Someone more
Than a rich troll
Shooting selfies with strangers
On Meme Streets

I need

Someone
Who will be there
When I fall off this virtual high
And crash

Tik
Through time

Tok
Through fame

Down
That food chain

To the banal roots
Of my existence

To catch and hold me
Forever

When I'm
Sixty-two

AYO

~P

The Sun burns deep
In their wounds,
Then and now...

Miles past Emancipation
And Independence,
That contemptuous stench
Lingers on these mean streets
Where bare feet once brushed rocks
Burnt, crushed and red

And though our heels
Are covered
In leather and style

And we quote Hamlet
And Chaucer
And Wilde
Heads swollen with pride,
Brain-washed in dogma,
Tribal tongues tied
To the very stigma
That shackled our ancestors...

We become
what we once despised
When we hurl pejoratives
Like spears
With wanton refrain
Into the wounds of our
Brothers and sisters

Who share this space
And that history
We seem to have forgotten
On these mean streets
Where bare feet once brushed rocks
Burnt, crushed and red...

AYO

~ P

Let there be light.
A new ultra-virulent wave
Of clarity
To wash old myths
And memes
And compulsions away,

Like yesterday...

The meta-magician;
The cyberspace medicine-man
Coding seeds for all
that ails the world
Sat inside your head
Far too long;
Inverse-engineering your sense
Of right from wrong;
Want from need...

Greed is good!

Capitalist pawn you;
Click....Buy Now!

Capitalist pawn me;
Click ....Buy Now!

Greed is good!

Heed the Ad Man's call to action.
Fund the anchor's pension.
And the preacher's mansion.
And the politician's next campaign
Of empty promises.

Capitalist pawn you;
Spend! Spend! Spend!

Capitalist pawn me;
Spend! Spend! Spend!

ENOUGH!!!

Grab the rainbow.
Bend it towards clarity
And equity
And common sense...

Let there be light!

AYO

~P

...when her prized Zulu mask fell
Off the wall
Where it glared four decades
In stoic silence
From the house-warming
To the day before
Summer went home
For her long-anticipated reunion
With the man who stole her heart
Near Prospect Park
Back in '91....

It was an augury
The frigid winds of grief
Would cease
In the morrow.

And Summer's sorrow
Would cede
To Fall's eternal joy.

AYO

~P

Was a man named
Baby Juke
With roots in Rhymington
The village where chiren
Hollered at the moon
And wrote letters to messiah

Askin why
Dem rivers always ran dry
Thru Rhymington...

Askin why  
Tears be flowin
But still dem rivers be runnin dry
Thru Rhymington...

Baby Juke played a mean flute
Blowin cool water over
hearts achin
And spirits brakin
Thirsting for salvation...

When you're born
On Juke's side o' town

When the only life you know
Is brown, black
And blue

When daddy's dead
And broken
By thirty-two

And there's nothing Mammy can do
But cry
And try to carry on
In Rhymington

And there's nothing you can do
But cry
And play your flute
And try to blow your blues
Out of Rhymington

You become
Baby Juke

You become somebody
Every black boy and girl
Wanna be

You blaze a trail
Out of poverty

Out of Rhymington
To stardom
And notoriety

Only to find
Dem rivers run dry there too
For the likes of you

And brown, black
And blue
Is all you'll ever be

Even if you are a musical genius

Even if you are legendary

Like Baby Juke....

AYO

~ P

did you see
the lady from sierra leone
dancing on the sand...

ebony hands clapping
here;
ebony feet tapping
there;
bronzed and bare
daring your pious eyes
to stare...

crimson crown
blissfully wrapped
in grace and rapture
with matching lips,
a furtive kiss
away
from your skipping heart.

did you hear
the malipenga in her voice
spilling tribal promises
into your cup
of longing....

did you feel
her exotic muse,
timeless and pure,
daring you
to sin...

and curse those blessed hymns
that blinded you
from the secular...

and kept you holier than thou...

until now

ayo

~ P

This throwback dime
Was dropped on Hulu
by a dame with 80 or more
Revolutions around the Sun
Who happened to be black;
Many shades shy of spades,
Actually.

Race ambiguity
Was the theme of her storied life...

She played her rights card
White through Jim Crow
And segregation
Hiding in plain sight
On the lighter side of town
Where strange-fruit hung
On Sundays,
A stone's throw from
Her White Sulphur Baptist church.

But Laura Nelson's tongue
Called her out
Bleeding guilt and doubt
Through her Southern belle cover.

"You know I'm Black, right?"
She finally told the white vendor
Trying to peddle
A piece of Laura.

"Yeah and I'm Harriet Tubman."
Quipped Sally,
Cackling through missing teeth,
Beady eyes gleaming,
Eager to close the deal.

"I fixed it good with formalin.
Be worth a fortune
At the Clan Rally
In June..."

50 revolutions or so
Ago
A poorly-made woman
Found her soul.

And she's been loudly
Black
Ever since.

AYO

~ P

The dream.
The sky.
The Do or Die.
The zeal and muscle
And steel in your eyes.

Unyielding.

Resolute.

You've seen the future before
And, like air,
It feeds your fire...

Leaping from rem of slumber
Into odd chambers
Of the few
Who thrive in dark solitude;
Like thunder;
Like lightning bolts of disruption...

Convention shuddered.
Oaks of resistance
Snapped like toothpicks
After generations stuck
In teeth of the morbidly obtuse...

Yet they prevailed.

Where did your dream go?

What happened to 'do or die'?

What happened to that zeal and muscle
And steel in your eyes?

Your purse had no strings.

Your fingers had no rings.

Your palace in the sky had no King...


Only a dreamer.

AYO

~ P

The wooden stairs creaked
Then and now,
Crackling years later
In the scorched fury of flames
Fanned by fate.

Sometimes it's too late
To do more than we did
And tragic remorse
Fuels our resolve
To do better...

When next
Our aging and infirm beckon
from across the sea...

Heed the call
In haste
Lest the fires of fate
Fill that void of neglect...

Scorching the wooden stairs
That once creaked
As your happy hopeful feet
Hustled with furious refrain
To meet your aging and infirm...

Scorching the wooden home
Of cherished childhood treasures...

Scorching the happy hopeful face
That always smiled
Like sunshine...

To ashes.

~ P

I gots a bunch o' poems
On my iPhone;
This ode came to me
Last eve
As the moon raged
And I watched Quincy Jones
Wax nostalgic on Netflix...

Music, like poetry,
Is Art;
And the great musicians,
The great artists
Like Quincy,
I've learned
As I watched and listened
To Quincy, on Netflix,
Drop lyrical dimes
By the dozen
off the proverbial cuff
with measured cadence,
Rhythm,
Clarity,
And wisdom...

I heard  
Tupac
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Maya
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Ray
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Sinatra
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

I heard
Mandela
As I watched and listened to Quincy...

As I watched and listened to Quincy
On Netflix...

I heard
Cryptic insight in verse...

I heard
The voice of God...

I heard
Poetry.

AYO

~ P

Everybody's looking for something;
Chasing our rainbow
Through the rain.

Like birds
We fly from tree
To blooming tree.

A dove
An eagle
A bee

Hunting and preying
And wild
As Nature intended;
In The Beginning
And
Until The End.

We
The children,
The Chosen Ones
Who flew to The Moon
And f*ck'd  The Earth;

And The Bee

And The Blooming Tree...

They gave us clues
But we
Missed the signs...

We
The children,
The Chosen Ones
Who hunt and gather still...

As Nature intended
In The Beginning
And

Until The End.

AYO
~P

You wanna be what you see,
So be the light;
That light you first saw
At the Dawn of life
After months brewing
In the Dusk of Nature's womb.

You wanna be what you see,
So be the Love;
That Love You first saw
In Mother's eyes
When 'Cry and Scream'
Was the only line
In the only song you knew.

A line
Simple but loud (like truth).

A song
Sacred and sound (like youth).

Understood
Universally
Without exception
By every Mother
In this Big Bang
Called Life.

Perfected
Universally
Without exception
By every newborn
In this Big Bang
Called Life.

Then
You grew up up
And away
From The Light.

And that black and white
Of Baby-You
Became gray.

Even Black and Blue

On some dark days

As you grew up
And away
From The Light.

And blurred the line
Between truth and lie;

And blurred the line
Between wrong and right

And The Light
You first saw
At the Dawn of Life
Grew dimmer;

Lie by Lie.

Don't be a Liar
Baby...

Be what you see...

Don't die a Liar
Baby...

Be what you first saw
At the Dawn of Life,
After months brewing
In the Dusk of Nature's womb.

Be The Light.

Be The Light.

AYO

~ P

Spoken Word Version>>> https://soundcloud.com/pablo1960-1/be-the-light-ii-aspirational-beat-poetry-by-pablo?si=0cb9b17852c7­4b9ea136f9e3f14d35cf&utmsource=clipboard&utmmedium=text&utmcampaign=socialsharing

It matters not
If you're black as night,
White as light
Or any hue
Between those two...

If you can ball
You'll get the call;
You'll make the team
If the team is built  
To compete;
If the team is built
To win.

That's meritocracy
In motion.

A starving dog
Cares not
Who feeds him.
He won't bite those hands;
He understands and obeys
His instinct to survive
And stay alive
To bark another day.

That's survival
As nature intended.

The team
And dog
Should surely lose
Or die
If guided by hue
Like some in blue
Spilling black blood on cue
Like life's a game
For Whites Only.

But they are winning

And we are dying

Like dogs.

~ P

I may not
See you again,
Or you
Me
In this fleeting journey
Called life.

So when next
We meet
Beloved,
Don't be discreet
Or aloof
Like cacti in the sand.

Shake my hand
Brother
With gusto.

Hug me right
Sister.

Let your essence
Linger in my soul.

Let our light shine
In smiles and laughter.

As we savor the old
And mould new memories
For the gallery of us.

Lest that wall
We hoped to fill
With red berry blossoms
Stays gray and bare
Like branches on poplar trees
After the storm.

AYO!

~ P

what have we done
to trigger nuclear options,
tasers and guns
for misdemeanors
or worse -
errors rooted in prejudice,
privilege and power?

are we less worthy
of presumed innocence?

are we dispensable
like gloves and masks
and evidence?

do our service
and uniforms
and humanity
even matter?

our mothers cry too
when we die.

our children cry too
when we die.

yet your eyes
stay dry

when we die

why?

~ p

mine eyes now simmer with insight
hitherto unseen;

glow like embers
hitherto unfelt.

mine spirit erupts
like mount tambora,
dormant far too long
now woke;

ignited by the fuel
of a calling yearned
and finally found;
threatening to
confound
if not nurtured and toned;
exhaust
if not harnessed and honed
for a journey of lyrical renown.

mine volcano erupts
yet its lava does not burn;

it only fuels my fire...

ayo

~ p

O silent ones
With chronic sneers,
White robes and crooked pens;
The world sees your guile
As trees the Sun
And knees the mourning aisle.

I saw you
Marching by the bay
In  Charlotte
Where Heather lay
Breathless;
Your cross held high
Like white privilege.

I saw you
Storming the capitol
In DC
Where laws are made
Not broken;
Your flags held high
Like white privilege.

We saw you
Kneeling on his neck
In Minnesota
As George lay
Lifeless
On the street
In cuffs;
Your head held high
Like white privilege.

Stealthily rolls the hearse,
A lowly beast of burden
With more grace than you
And your chauvinist crew
Of pseudo-patriots.

There will come
A time,
By providence,
When the breath of life
Leaves you too
And I won't be unhappy
Or shed a tear...

For the world would've moved
One grave closer to justice.

~ p

tethered to
the beast
for life,
bird's wagon
blazed a trail
of pretty notes
like cherries in
a dry martini.

his poisoned beauty
led;
we followed.

from harlem to
tunisia and bop,
bird blew his top
past duke and louis  
in d-minor streams.

but  the beast
kept pulling him back
to the frantic snow
of his diatonic dreams.

and like fire
he burned.

and like fire
he burned.

~ p

When I stare
At nothing in the air
And smile

Or sneer
Behind closed lids
At villains
In my dreams;

Do not despair
Or wonder.

I am neither mad
Nor glad.

I am merely a writer
Doing work;
Sowing seeds
In the fertile fields
Of my imagination.

AYO

~ P

for solace
i turn to music
with lyrics
from the brighter side
of the moon
and wash my blues away

i wash my blues away
knowing I'm not alone
in this broken house of pain.

sing me a new window
aaliyah
and a new passion;
let us fly higher
together
to the greater beyond
and wash our blues away

and wash our blues away.

AYO

~ P

Take a walk with me
As I weave a tale of mystery
Riddled with latent clues
And sunken treasures,
Enough to tease
But not appease
The pensive mind
Programmed to unravel
Abstruse anomalies from covert lines
And decipher codes in
Every enigmatic sign;
Calibrated to extricate
Materiality from the matrix of mendacity,
Salience from the smorgasbord of subjectivity,
But frustrated by this vacuous tale
Of lyrical poesy,
Woven with wilful intent to obfuscate
And rarify,
Enshrouded with elfish eccentricity to excruciate
And mystify mused minds
As haughty heads and hands
Ring and wring
In bemused bewilderment…

Alas!

You'll find neither hidden clue
Nor sunken treasure
In this tedious tale,
For 'twas penned solely for pleasure
By a poet with too much time on his hands...

I trust you'll understand...

~ P

When the land
Is the land of your ancestors,
You feel it in your soul
And the wind welcomes you home,
Rushing in
From the ocean
Onto the sandy shores of shells,
Clay and igneous rocks
Where leather-backs roam
And natives reigned
Centuries before the big ships came
With cargo black
Then brown.

If you listened with your Waiwai's ear
You would hear the whispering wind
And the subtle warning it brings
Each time it blows.

You would know when to run
For shelter
Under the sacred trees
Connecting earth to heaven.

Or when to bask in the tropical Sun.

When the land
Is the land of your ancestors,
You have a duty divine
To keep the leaves lush and green,
The air fresh and clean,
The soil rich in organic glory
As nature intended,
In the beginning.

Ignore not the wind
My friend
For it bears infinite wisdom
And the keys to preserving
This planet we call home.

The future flutters like a toucan
With broken wings
Unable to soar through the sky
And paint stunning silhouettes
For watchful eyes
To see
And fledgling minds
To cherish
For eternity.

When the land
Is the land of your ancestors...
You must
Listen
To the wind.

AYO...
~ P

Louder beats silence
When the law fails
In a broken system
And the arc of history
Never bends
for some
As if justice
Wasn’t meant to be
Served equally
In a democracy
With more skeletons
Than a military cemetery
In Richmond

And though slavery ended in 1865
Racism is still alive
155 years later
And hate has a place in DC
Where white privileged chickens
Came home to roost in 2016

All lives matter’s the scripted chatter
To evade and obfuscate
The rage and graves
Of future George Floyds
Of every hue
Marching on avenues
Far and Near you
So you build fences of denial
Around your guilt
To preserve
your milk and money
Drained from the masses
Trapped In lower classes
Screaming
“We can’t breathe”

Get your knees
Off our  
***** effin necks
America

South Africa burned
Then learned

You got next.

AYO

~ P

Did George Floyd’s life matter?
Did Breonna Taylor’s life matter?
Did Ahmaud Arbery’s life matter?
Did Eric Garner’s life matter?
Did Trayvon Martin’s life matter?
Did Mike Brown’s life matter?
Did Tamir Rice’s life matter?
Did Keith Childress’ life matter?
Did Bettie Jones’ life matter?
Did Philando Castille’s life matter?
Did Michael Noel’s life matter?
Did Jamar Clark’s life matter?
Did Michael Lee Marshall’s life matter?
Did Dominic Hutchinson’s life matter?
Did Junior Prosper’s life matter?
Did Keith McLeod’s life matter?
Did India Kager’s life matter?
Did Felix Kumi’s life matter?
Did Samuel Dubose’s life matter?
Did Darrius Stewart’s life matter?
Did Sandra Bland’s life matter?
Did George Mann’s life matter?
Did Jonathan Sander’s life matter?
Did Victor Laros’s life matter?
Did Spencer McCain’s life matter?
Did Jermaine Benjamin’s life matter?
Did Kris Jackson life matter?
Did Kevin Higgenbotham’s life matter?
Did Amadou Diallo’s life matter?
Did Oscar Grant’s life matter?
Did Calvon Reid’s life matter?
Did William Chapman’s life matter?
Did Walter Scott’s life matter?

All black / All unarmed / All murdered by US Police

Did Dylan Roof’s life matter?
Did Peter Manfredonia’s life matter?
Did Anthony Trifiletti’s life matter?
Did Patrick Crusius’ life matter?
Did James Holmes’ life matter?

All white / All murderers / All arrested peacefully by US Police

Unarmed blacks
Killed by US Police
5x unarmed whites

Black men and boys
Killed by US Police
2.5x white men and boys

This is why we kneel
This is why we march
This is why we protest
This is why we are mad as hell
This is why we are fed-up as well

This is why we riot

Riot is the language of voices unheard

When you respond
“All Lives Matter”
To our “Black Lives Matter”
You’re not listening
You didn’t hear
You don’t care
GTFOH

~ P

he loved to run
as he did
that day in february
and many days before

you saw him run
you sure did
then and then

you are the mighty sun
your daylight eyes
see everything
everyone who loves to run
with the wind
between those green poplar trees
guarding the trail
he ran that fateful day
and many days before

they saw him too
they knew the history
of the deep south
they have deep scars
buried like evidence
beneath the hollow bark
of justice

they could’ve
intervened
thrown a few branches

you could’ve
brought your solar heat
to bear
and saved his life

he
was
just
jogging

but you were both busy
doing what you do

minding your fu*king business

unlike those two
negrophobic
gun-totin
neanderthals
from jim crow georgia

they stalked
and lynched
my 25-year old son
who loved to run

and now he’s gone
like that southern breeze  
in ella’s song

****** from my world
forever

~ P
#irunwithahmaud

these are my thoughts
from the future
shared today
in the flesh
as fresh fodder from
my writer’s mind
unblemished
by blurred lines
of reflection

uncensured
by time and fate

filter the tidal wave
my friend
with a patient hand

for it leaves
a trail of treasures
as it recedes
into the great beyond

ayo

~ P

between my truth and your discomfort
lies the veiled compromise
i make
every time we meet
even from a distance
in open spaces
on shared streets

sometimes i wonder
if you see
this mask i wear
over tension or fear
every time we meet

if you sense
centuries of rage
seething in my smile
and laughter
every time we meet

if you know
we live in two worlds
you in yours
me in yours and mine
divided by this mask i wear
every time we meet

if you care
if you ever did
if you ever will

ayo.

~ P

i had a prayin mother
of four
daily sometimes more
she kneeled
and knocked
on heaven’s door

on heaven’s door
she knocked
kneeling on the floor
before dawn
before her chiren
woke up

i had a prayin mother
who loved the lord
she read his book
she kept his word

kneeling on the floor
she called his name
over and over and over again
my prayin mother
called his name

from my room
i heard her call
before every meal
i heard her call
when bills were due
i heard her call
when bills were paid
i heard her call

i heard her call
to say thank you
kneeling on the floor
knocking on his door
daily sometime more

i had a prayin mother
of four
who loved the lord

she read his book

she kept his word

ayo

~ p

rituals of mind
excise tactile memory
of physical pain

ayo
~ P

friendships are like seeds planted
at the chestnut farm.
they need a little tenderness
to sprout roots and bear fruit.

when the soil is rich in honesty,
and the seeds showered daily
with unconditional love,
majestic trees of friendship evolve
with opulent branches
and succulent leaves.

the raging storms will come and go.
the fickle skies will rain and snow.
but through it all, it’s good to know
that seed you planted long ago
bloomed into a trusted friend.

ayo

~ P

and she wrote the gospel
broke it down
from the book of mothers
to a son

lost in translation

drowning in a hollow
universe of words

his tongue tied
to vowels hanging
from dissonant trees

over the main stream

don’t be a verb
my son

you were born
to be a noun

ayo

~ P

did you see
the ladies in white
dancing

their magic feet
black and bare
daring your pious eyes
to stare

their bronze heads
and tails
blissfully wrapped
in grace and rapture
like minstrels of badu

did you hear
them spin a mythic ballad
or two
of kipling
and angelou

did you feel
the muse
timeless and pure
daring you to sin

and curse those blessed hymns
that blinded you
from the secular

and kept you holier than thou

until now

ayo

~ P

as the sun stood
still at noon
in solar silence
seething through
a hot copper sky

as mozart played
requiem dies irae
in d-minor

as a raging hail of fire
descended

we all looked up
frozen

in fearful recognition  
of the
end

ayo

~ P

where once we felt and looked the same
sharing a house on memory lane.
there in the glass we stared with pride
at flawless skin and clueless eyes.

we conquered hills and soaring trees
with nimble limbs and stable knees.
we hopped and skipped and ran the streets;
no bills to pay, no ends to meet.

though father time pulled us apart,
you kept the light inside my heart.
to guide me through the twilight years
in this old house that we both share.

these nagging knees now often speak.
this weathered roof now often weeps.
but this old house will always be
a treasured home for you and me.

Ayo!

~ P

he knows not
yet speaks loudly,
proudly flaunting
his knowsnotness to the world
as if it were some regal virtue
worthy of praise and reverence,
not verbal manure
so malodorous
it smothers us all
in mind-shrinking flatulence.

~ P

these eyes are your window to the truth.
they empower you with vision
and help you filter details
like color, facts and lies
to better process
and navigate
the chaos
in your
world.

~ P

there will be faces along the way,
of strangers wearing smiles and caring eyes
standing in the rain
with rays of light and kindness.

they are your crossing guards;
the anointed beacons of your life
waiting on the corner
of preparation and opportunity.
they will know you did the work.
they will see beyond barriers
of race and class and gender.
they will hold your hand
and guide you through
the raging storms of bias and misogyny,
to the place you were destined to be...

before you were born.

AYO!

~ P

go back into the ashes
of gifted souls,
legends long gone
from the finer arts of life.
there you shall find
gems of inspiration
buried

alive
in virtual urns of eternity
like Vimeo and YouTube.
you will laugh and cry and share
and dare to be
a better version of you
less consumed by the secular
more in tune with self, spirit
and sacred calling;
and fill your virtual urn
with a blessing
or two.

AYO!

~P

eyes blackened by a darker tint of blue
a neoliberal haze of masses on the left
who fall in line
every time
since that civil bill
stained in the blood of messiahs
gave us hope
two centuries long

black lifeless limbs may
no longer swing in southern winds
like strange fruit

black conscious themes may
no longer scorch the status quo
like burning michellins in Soweto

black inspired voices may
no longer sing battle hymns
that stirred huddled masses
to march and fight and die
for equal rights
over the bridge

but these teeming shores still reek
with hate and inequality
by race

and the golden door remains closed
to wretched masses
black and brown

yet we vote
blue or red.

AYO!

~ P

Where once there was unbridled hope and fearless confidence of mind and body, the burdens of physical affliction and debt have rendered me a withering, arthritic shell of my true potential. Framed by diplomas, a stacked, 4-tiered wooden bookshelf and a collage of vintage family photographs, I soothe my malaise of profound underachievement by spinning words into cryptic verses and esoteric pontifications on an array of topics, old and new. One rush of inspiration yields a collection of free verse poetry for the virtual world. Another, an op-ed on the fallacy of US capitalism. And yet another, a series of jazz-album-cover-inspired digital art crafted in Photoshop with bold color schemes, a super long shot for the coveted “t-shirt design-of-the-year” award.

Not one to point fingers or play the victim card, I fancy myself a driven, principled creative dabbler with an internal locus of control; an it’s-up-to-me attitude and approach to life; an itinerant entrepreneur with a string of failed ventures and a diverse set of underutilized capabilities. But time and circumstance, more specifically a once-in-a-century pandemic, moves those most at-risk, to contemplate their mortality, perhaps even their epitaphs. You stare a bit longer at your reflection in the mirror or listen more intently to the lyrics of Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me” and blackbirds chirping in the trees or savor the aroma of your favorite dish simmering on the stove top, as if today could be the day before your last. Your senses heighten in anticipation of the grand finale and you take a prescient lap around the finite wonders of your world.

Stricken by cabin fever, I sought relief in the outdoors and took a long walk yesterday along the winding streets of my subdivision, to observe those aforementioned finite wonders of my world. Having recently watched a video clip sent to me on WhatsApp about the various modes of COVID-19 transmission, I covered the lower half of my face with a red, green and yellow Guyanese flag bandanna, just in case those lighter, bio-aerosol particles of death were floating around in the air, as described. For a sobering moment, I wondered whether the sight of a black man with a bandanna would terrify any of my mostly white neighbors in the Deep South – I live in the rural suburbs of Georgia about 60 miles south of Midtown Atlanta.

Sadly, no other demographic, particularly those of the Caucasian persuasion, would ever have such concerns. But this is 21st century America. This is Henry County, Georgia. Not much has changed vis-à-vis blacks, in the hearts of many white folks whose ancestors owned plantations and slaves; whose names can be seen on street signs across the county’s landscape – McGarity, Jackson and Buchanan. One of my neighbors even has a confederate flag flying high from his roof top. This is Trump country folks. A brother can’t be too careful or paranoid in these here parts.

My walk was uneventful. A few nice white people waved at me as we passed each other – maybe I was being too paranoid about them. Hmmm….

After an hour or so of fresh air, me and my creaky knees returned to the crib. Like many Americans (not all), I am listening to and observing the CDC’s guidelines and recommendations to stay at home, wash my hands, wear a mask or bandanna when outdoors and observe the physical distancing boundaries of 6 to 13 feet.

These are indeed trying times. Times to adjust and reflect and find ways to stay motivated and engaged and inspired. It’s even more challenging for people like me, a few months shy of 60, with an auto-immune condition and a weak ticker. Times to get tested if you can. To remove uncertainty from the isolation equation and eyes of loved ones. The scariest thing about this novel COVID19 virus is its asymptomatic mode of transmission. Untested, everyone is potentially an infected carrier. Rachel Maddow stated on her MSNBC show last night that less than a million tests have actually been done in this nation of over 300 million people. That’s scary too.

So will we ever go back to the way things were in 2019?

Are our days as huggers, dappers, kissers and hand-shakers over?

Are physical distancing, working remotely, and wearing masks and gloves our new norms for the near future?

Who knows. One thing’s for sure: if you are reading this lament, YOU ARE ALIVE!
Over 134, 000 lives worldwide were cut short by this deadly virus…and counting. That’s a whole lot of humans in a short span of time. This is indeed WAR my friends. There will be a time to worry about those all-consuming material things again. But until then, let’s all focus on STAYING ALIVE!

Especially those of us who’ve had a few skirmishes with the Grim Reaper.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By Pablo (James G. Paul Sr.)

Blog: https://jpcreates.wordpress.com/2020/04/16/a-quarantined-brothers-lament/
Portfolio: www.jamesgpaulsr.com