I foraged
The universe of words
Seeking a few
To remotely
Define you;

But I found
None...

Love...

~ P
(#FromTheHeart)
3/5/2014

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

my critique of
them
when I am of
them...

with no keys for
them
to drive from
them
to
us

thickens the line between
them
and
me

and these  divided social seas
on which we sail
shall ever
be...

~ P (#Pablo#TKC)
(8/12/2013)

The noose of temptation
Hangs loosely
From the strings of life;

A dangling bone
Daring the dog in you
To bite...

And when you do,
It strangles the best in you,
Leaving the rest of you
To ponder,
Like a convict in jail:

What might have been
Had you simply
Wagged your tail?

~ P
(#TheDoginYou)
3/11/14

we suspected a roving rodent
or perhaps a curious canine
had been silenced
and sauteed with ample portions
of garlic, olives and onions
then served on sparkling silver trays
as the special-of-the-day

the neighbor's pet chihuahua
had been missing for weeks,
and the chunk of cheddar cheese
in the wire trap
had turned blue

any master chef, we knew,
could easily slice and dice
a medley of meddlesome meats
into a savory stew
and patrons unsuspecting
at cafe de la rue
would lick their chops
and fingers too,
as if it were korean barbecue

the maitre d' flashed a toothy smile
and with a twinkle in his eye,
asked if the meats had met
our wildest expectations

"woof!"  we barked in unison
licking our paws
like stuffed cannibals of the caribbean

"I see you speak our language well." he quipped

"would you like some blue cheese for dessert?"

~ P

what are the final thoughts
after the final words
before the guillotine drops
or 2000 volts shock
or the farewell cocktail pops
the veins of a serial killer...

does he wish his sentence
had been executed much sooner,
in the first trimester...

does she wonder why
her right to live weighs less
than that of her fetus...

does he regret poor choices made
or  poor voices erased...

does she pray for redemption
or divine intervention

does he fear God's wrath
or
the devil's trident...

or
is the mind of the walking dead
crystal clear like morality...

and the conscience of the living
stained like that ole rugged cross at calvary?

~ P
(#DeadManThinking)
(7/9/2013)

he held her hand
and wouldn’t let go;
lidless eyes open wild
like a raging Victorian  bushfire

not knowing what to do,
she apologized
for the human race

then quenched
his thirst
with a long plastic bottle
of Voss  

~ P

don’t waste it;
that window to the world

your window
with  a glow
transient but compelling

to see through you
brings joy
to wizened eyes;
they can’t stop staring

and touching…

that image in the glass
dancing like guilt
on a feather
untethered to time or vow

a partner here,
a coveted client now

oh, the sheen,
the glow;
the groping fingerprints
in the know

champagne spills
onto your pane;
where did the time go?

stains linger
like wrinkles;
a fright for four eyes

pity stares through you
now;
your then is gone

if only you had seized
that ray of sunshine
and made it your own

way back when

~ P
(3/28/2016)

between
the bang......and.....crunch
everything matters
including
nothing
...............
for no-thing
is some-thing
and every-thing
is no-thing
without
some-thing

~ P
(#theoryofappliednothingness)
1/16/2015

What to do
When the floor you call home
And the walls that shield you
From zones of discomfort
Crumble like the Dow
On Black Friday,
Casting you downtown
in every state,
Under the bridge
Near city hall
With 2 swollen duffel bags
And a story to tell?

It was supposed to be a best-seller
Well-researched and crafted;
Tailor-made for PC
With royalties to match.

But there was a catch,
A devilish twist
Dished by the ghost-writer
With a blond toupee.

His profile was subpar
But he had 4 stars,
A million followers,
And 10 buckets of  crow.

So like a scripted clone
You swallowed the pill,
A placebo.

Now he's got the power
To write you off
Like taxes
Or health insurance premiums.

You'd better stay well
Bubba,
Cause that pre-existing *** ticker
Means you'll be fully covered
By remorse,

Not Cigna.

~ P
#AGhostwriterNamedJohn
(1/16/2016)

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

I,
poet of quill repute,
do pledge,
with provident passion,
to fill every verse of poesy
with poignant colors of life...

To forage the universe of words
for gems and pearls
to enrich the reader's experience...

To leave no page unturned
in pursuit of knowledge
to enhance my creativity...

To chase my dream
through fire and raging storm
with resolve and persistence,
knowing that the gift to write is divine,
a blessing no mortal could ever wrestle from me.

~ P

was a time when black chattel
was inheritance
like cattle,
like silver and gold

herded and sold
on auction blocks
to the highest bidder

going once,
going twice,
sold...

to the cotton king
and his kin
from florida’s keys  
to the lochs of kentucky

wealth flowed like the Mississippi
filling white wells with prosperity
four centuries
and more

as seminal droughts rained
cyclones of poverty
on the black side of town

no gold
would be handed down
to the kin
of booker t and harriet...

only slivers of hope.

~ P

soon or perhaps sooner
the ultimate upgrade
will be the game-changer
Quixote’s been chasing
since...
forever;

from **** to robo-sapien
by slight of man’s
intelligent design
coded to perfection
like heaven;

an ailing heart replaced;
a failing lung recharged;
the vigor of youth reclaimed;
the rigors of age erased;

with a singular click
or flick of a switch
on the wall to eternity
and beyond
where nanotechnology reigns
and the human brain
is a dial-up modem.

~ P

(5/10/18)

Clinging to
A past no longer there
From a present
Consumed by fear
Of tomorrow's unknown...
~ P
(#Anxiophrenic)
1/2/2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was stuck in free verse
On the circuit
With slammers renowned
Ripping rhymes sublime
Heard and seen
By the deaf and blind,
Respectively...

But the spin soon spun
From slick to schtick
Layered so thick with more
Of the same ole tricks
That even Mike and Spike
Couldn't just do it
Like before...

So I upgraded my lyrical Nike
Of the open court
To a pair of couplets
And formally entered the draft
With the pros...

"With the #1 pick...."

My dedication to the craft
And hours logged after dark,
Flipping through Plath, Wilde
And Walker
Yielded the manuscript of my dreams,
And a YES
From the publisher

I had arrived...

Or so it seemed...

The path well-travelled
Of the published pros,
Once paved in exclusivity,
Now glittered  with chaos and opportunity

And the carcasses of couplets in print...

The sprint to models new
Laced in virtual strings
On tablets, kindles and bing
Had  begun....

~ P
#lyricalevolution

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

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)

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

tree stumps burnt black
no koalas in sight
only tracks
and charred embers
of nature’s wrath

indigenous insight ignored
to dingo’s demise

what does a bushman know
that lord sydney doesn’t?

surely, the conquering clan
and its bellicose band of einsteins
hear the kangaroos’ scream
from the smoldering
ledge
of extinction

a choking ode
to imperial exuberance

~ 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

color me bad.
profile me as a ****
you’d rather frisk than hug.
paint me in red, white and rude
like the chalk around
black bodies bleeding
on prime time news.

my mama walked me to
the school bus too
y’know,
everyday.
she watched me play ball
in the park,
eyes glued to my every move
like i was the bald eagle;
like she knew
my days were numbered,
colored as i was.

she had big dreams for me too
y’know,
beyond these chalked lines.

she gave me crayons to write
and draw;
and big books of every hue
to read
and learn to fly
away from bigotry,
beyond the color line.

but you broke my wings
and my mama’s heart.

you colored me bad.
you profiled me as a ****
you’d rather shoot than hug.
you put a bullet through my head.
you painted me
red, white and dead.

ayo!

~P

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 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

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

don’t forget how to dream.
how you felt when you were seven
ice-skating at the rink;
rollerblading through the ocean breeze
on the boardwalk;
screaming in a roller-coaster
skying high over disneyworld;
chasing joy and laughter round every corner
like heaven was right here on earth.

lock that feeling in your memory bank
like savings in a vault
at ally.
let it brew like fine wine
for the times life drags you
down
to your knees
and you need a drink.

think of that feeling
when you were seven
ice-skating at the rink
way back when...

and dream again.

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

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 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

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)

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

with awestruck eyes
and jaws loose enough
to catch a housefly
or two,
me and the dog pound
from the old county
used to stare at big ships
with flags touching the sky,
sailing by.

giant sea monsters
that made mile-wide rivers
feel like itsy-bitsy streams.

like smitten boy soldiers,
we stood and stared and dreamed
of the many mysteries and opportunities
aboard those hulking vessels of lore.

that one day we might
snag a lucky gig
or hitch a ride on the big metal rig
to make those dreams come true;

and sail into the great beyond
like blackbeard and calico jack
and bring back stacks of treasures
and scores of embellished tales
to share with the dog pound
over infinite cases
of ice-cold beer
at the corner shop.

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

night covers all;
as critters crawl crosstown
casting graffiti shadows over
walls and huddled mounds
of despair

I encountered one
wrong-turned
down a cul-de-sac
off northside

a weathered boot
caught my eye

I swerved and sweared
sparing bones
and medicaid

but for the moon
and rearview magic,
my conscience would've been stained
in homeless blood

~ 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

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

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

rituals of mind
excise tactile memory
of physical pain

ayo
~ P

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 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

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

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

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