miles before we became
men full-blown,
we crunched nails for lunch,
lead for dinner,
heartburn for life....

after the dance
came shock therapy
and dreams interrupted,
incomplete
like pages ripped
from the manUScript of me
slicing apple pies
under the white picket fence
while babies chase bubbles over the lawn,
green like malvoes in cantho...

pages torn...
discarded...
unpublished...

and the author is dead!

~ P
(#19in71)

I am deeply in love
with the world;
with the improbable variables
of the universe

they collided on a tacit
turn in time;
split the beatles,
sent a man to the moon
and gave us twizzlers

and me

I was too young to see
the light,
groovy and bright;

to join the fight
down yonder;

to blow a joint in saigon;

to march with john and luther
over the bridge;

to stop life-shattering
bullets of war
and hate;

yet those stars
of fate
align

and we are here
in the flesh
with beating hearts
to start
a new
decade.

~P

Four frantic  fingers flicker
Over parallel strings
And a classical lullaby
Thrills the ears of passersby;

Chopin du jour
For the masses
Served gratis by a diminutive maestro;

A fleeting fixture for traveling eyes....

And the random audience of curious strangers
Heaves  a collective sigh,
Touched by the uncommon brush of a diminutive maestro...

Plucking parallel strings
From a busy sidewalk in Soho....

~ Pablo (#ABSIS)
1/15/14

Though we bleed the same,
We are torn by miles of indifference,
More of pain.

In a brief respite from terror,
My mind escapes this squalor,
This harsh reality;

And I become you.

Clean. Clothed. Cool.

Glossed lips pursed
In idle chatter
Between blissful sips of Chai.

Pristine cheeks caressed
By pillows, silky smooth.

Alexa idles on the dresser.

Samsungs recharge on the floor.

Come dawn,
Which suit to wear
Is my biggest worry.

Being late for work,
My worst fear.

O! To be free
Of war and tyranny.

To be you!

Perhaps someday
You’ll think of me.

Or send me a note
To spark a ray of hope
Into my God-forsaken space,
Where bombs reign daily
By the ton,
And blood spills a river
From Aleppo
To Armageddon.

As the world turns
To the next virtual meme;
And waves of refugees
Fill a desperate tide
Over the Western Sea.

Though we bleed the same,
We are torn by miles of indifference,
More of pain.

~ P
#ADreamFrom_Aleppo
01/26/2017

Though we look the same,
we are torn
by miles of ocean,
more of pain.

In a rare respite from terror,
my dreams escape
this squalor,
this harsh reality,
and I ...

become you,
clean, clothed, cool;
shampooed head asleep
on plush cotton pillows;

charcoal skin caressed
by pajamas silky smooth.

Come dawn…

‘Which suit to wear?'
becomes my worst worry;

‘Being late for work,'
my worst fear.

O, to be free!

Perhaps someday
you'll think of me,
or send me a note
to spark a smile of hope
on my pubescent face,
two decades aged by hunger and disease.

Though we look the same,
we are torn
by miles of ocean,
more of pain.

~ P

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)

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

Come into my commune,
My farm
In the sky;
You won't be lonely
Baby,
Not by a hiker's mile

Let's climb
Into the morrow,
Throwing fear
To the wind

The curators
Of sorrow
Are seething within

They prey
On your pleasure
And worship your sin

Like vultures
They hover,
Like maggots
They win

Come into my commune,
My farm
In the sky;
And feast
On your freedom

Then bury your lies;

You won't be lonely
Baby,
Not by a hiker's mile

~ P
#AHikersMile
(12/20/2014)

I pour bailey’s
in my tea
with a thin slice of lemon;
I stir
with a knife;
the spoons are all *****;
I’m just a boy,
a lazy crazy boy.
I do lazy crazy things
like *** on the toilet seat
and spit in the sink.
I’m all impulse;
I think
not
before I do.

love me as I am
or leave me
be

~ P

she lived alone
by the little glass window
on the 12th floor
always open
seeing every color and stain
of urban life flashing below
across the courtyard

black, white, yellow, brown
and a redhead going down
the block for a ghetto special
4 chicken wings and fries

and fly uncle johnny
in his trench-coat and superslims
running paper slips to the bodega
on the corner of broadway and 5th

and little blues babies in ponytails
doing the double-dutch hustle
a skip and **** away
from motherhood

and radio raheems
peddling mix tapes, joints and conspiracies
to mis-educated teens
flashing silver grills, c's and black stones
under high-top fades and fro's

closing only for hurricanes
and ricochet bullets

permanently when one
caught miss helen in the eye

she lived alone..  

~ P
(7/8/2013)

My dreams of late
Take me to heavenly destinations
Far removed from news du jour.
There are no Don Lemons there.
No Sanjay Guptas on the trail
Of novel viral contagions
Bent on global jihad.

I see huge crowds
Of healthy, happy people
Unmasked,
Chasing joy in a whole New World.
There are no walls there.
No social isolation.
No yawning divides of rich and poor.
No royal Haves or starving Nots.

I see purple flamingoes in the sky
And rolling hills of windmills down below.
Every home has gone solar.
Every car electric.
The switch to clean energy is clear.

And the Gods smiled.

There would be no pandemic
in my dreams.

~ P

Monday morning commuters
Wrapped in layers
Of wool and polyester
From China,
Spill off the train
At Grand Central
Like grains of rice
From a busted bag,
Rushing everywhere
And nowhere...

Can you scan me through
Sir?
She queried, a flicker
Of hope in her weary eyes
I'm trying to get to
The homeless shelter.

Was it a lie
Or a ruse?

Was this brown-skinned woman
With a mole on her cheek
And a flicker of hope
In her weary eyes,
An artist?

Wary eyes trained to detect
The giver within
And among a bustling throng
Work-bound,
Bearing finite degrees of discretion
In their wallets and purses...

Her pleading brush chose me today
As I ran up the stairs
Strides fueled by Maze...

Spirit stirred by Saint Nick...

I succumb,
Granting her wish
At the turnstile...

As a few men in blue
Huddled nearby
Cradling morning brews
From Dunkin...

~ P (#asfrh)
(11/25/2013)

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

I found a penny in the sand
As rusted as can be,
But when I held it in my hand,
A thought occurred to me...

Why mint a coin of idle worth,
That beggars would eschew,
Then leave her buried in the dirt
Beside the ocean blue?

There mighty winds would roar and wail
And blast riptides ashore,
To brush his head and wash his tail;
What boy could ask for more?

The months and years went by and by
Without a saving grace,
And Johns would gather on the fly,
A piscine meal to chase.

And when it seemed that all was lost
And Penny's fate was sealed,
A Nickel by her side was tossed,
Her destiny revealed....

~ P (#Pablo#apits)

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

A lazy stack of gray clouds from london
Hung somberly over white plains yesterday
After the rain,
And work...

As I walked on the damp sidewalk
Under a tree;

And I gathered my thoughts,
Grim and overdrawn,
Like my checking account on payday....

As I walked on the damp sidewalk
Under a tree;

A bird dumped on me...

And I cried,

Like a MAN...

~ P (#asiwalked)
(11/19/2013)

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

Ice cakes stick like
Bricks on Brownstones
And Brooklyn sidewalks,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips;
Suspending alternate  parking
Indefinitely...

Street sweepers sleep by the Bay
Dreaming of spring
And summer's stifling heat;

Garbage piles rise to the sky
From graves of snow

A stray cat named Rufus
wrapped in extra layers
Of fat
And black fur,
Streaks into the night,
Looking for love
And mice...

Two hookers in heels
Case the block
Flashing random Johns
And Jills
For 10-dollar thrills

Salt, shovels and greased elbows
Battle ice and snow
And frozen mountains grow
In the aftermath,
Strangling Michellins
And mice in polar death grips...

For Rufus...

~ Pablo (#ASCNR)
2/19/2014

filed in
the most deviant chambers
of my memory bank
is a
summer of bliss
in a
breezy city
of blue lakes,
buxom blondes
and *****,
near the baltic sea

eva's skin-tight
****** white jeans
were the envy
of my roving eye

"hi"
she replied
to my
transparent thought

and I
bought her
a screwdriver
with a twist
of jive

we sat poolside
chatting about this
and that

and after the
5th *****
driver that is,
we both knew
'twas time for
some intercontinental
love-making

she was curious
and excited
to sample the coffee
in my african skin

and her talented
slavic tongue
stirred me gently
from
gdansk
all the way down
to krakow

I took eva
for a long
wild ride over
the serengeti
on my faithful thoroughbred
johnson

together
we climbed
the rugged hills of lust
to passion's prurient peak,
a blissful journey
that left us
gasping
breathlessly

we embraced
under a fountain of rapture
as words
hung dry
in our throats

we would wear them later...

~ P
(7/21/2013)

were you a 50's
godchild in the city,
wing-tipped feet
running the streets
all week, ketchin hell...
then you gots that check
come friday
and needed a taste of heaven...

you and the dog pound
swung mid-town
to broadway & 47th
after 9,
and joined the line spilling
from the royal roost round 48th...

by 10, the joint was jammed
with gents well-coifed,
matching honeys, and the sounds
of money being made:

chime of silverware ~ cling,
and the cash register's ~ swish cha-ching,
and the chatter of guests,
servers and bartenders
doing their thing ~ wah da bing

then the lights dimmed
leaving a semi-dark haze
of gray smoke swirling
over the crowd,
and mc symphony sid
grabbed the mike:

"...welcome to the friday nite jam session
at the metropolitan bopera house
ladies and gentlemen...."

hysterical hoots and applause
followed
as  the circular spotlight paused
center stage,
unveiling:

~ the miles davis nonet ~

featuring,
max on drums,
john on keys,
gerry and lee on sax
and a genius
on trumpet

'twas the birth of cool
and soon the rhapsody
of modern jazz
waxed hypnotic,
casting a spell
over god's children
when budo chased lady bird
down allen's alley,
spittin'...
          riffin'....
boppin'...,
          po­ppin'.....
superfluidity
like acid through
varicosed veins

the earth stood still
it seemed
for 4 thrilling hours
as heaven rained a rifftide
onto the lucky crowd...

and dewey's sublime trumpet
exorcised the devil
from the week that was...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/24/2013)

Piercing rays of Sunshine
Thawed the chill some
And I shed my black cashmere scarf
With subtle silver stripes,
A birthday gift from ma,
Dear departed,
Who loved God
And wanted to preach on Sundays
Like Jimmy Swaggart
Or Bennie Hin

She'd write checks
Of a thousand or more....
'For The Lord,' she'd say
'They are doing The Lord's work!'

And I smiled like the Saturday  morning sun
Over Canarsie;

My tearful tide had crested on Friday at sorrow's peak;

And I stared at the clear blue heavens,
Scanning the clouds
For the smiling face of a new angel
Who loved God
And wanted to preach on Sundays
Like Jimmy Swaggart
Or Bennie Hin

My grieving eyes soon  found
A solitary bird,
Wings askew  and waving,
Dashing with childish glee
Through the skies above...

A whistling dove,
Or skylark,
Or perhaps the mariner's albatross;

Her work on earth was done...

'Twas time to fly...

In Paradise

~ P (#attf)
10/31/2013

between wrinkled sheets
and a week in september,
her voice swims through my dreams,
a misty fusion of exotic blues,
samba and a tropical breeze
from rio;

smitten by the  melody,
dripping promises of ****** delights,
lazy  days and long steamy nights,

I plunged in,
arms of impulse,
***** of steel,
eager for a spin 
on her heavenly wheels;

and my head's been spinning
ever since,
stuck in a vortex
of blissful regret,
memories I'll never forget,
of that tropical breeze
from rio..

~ P (#PabloATBFR)
(8/17/2013)

At the party,
I saw faces
    painted passionately
In  smiles and laughter;

Eyes sparkling
          like Crystal
In every hue of inebriation;

Hands clapping
     Extended waves
Of cheerful celebration;

Lips smearing
      lavish layers of
Love on captive ears;

Friends toasting
   The Life
With Ciroc, Moët and beer;

Hollywood wannabes rocking
     Bootlegged Ray-bans
In the dark;

Buzzed ex-lovers
         waging battles
Of the heart;

15's smashed
      into 10's,
Flashing rolls of flesh;

Uncle Johnny
    in his Walkin' glory
Stumbling way past 'when';

'83 Hustlers
         in furs and fedoras
Feasting on free treats;

Soul Train rejects
    moon-stalking
On two left feet;

iPhones and Samsungs
     Making memories
For the curious web;

PotHeads
   in the smoky loo
Getting bloodshot red;

At the party,
  The  living colors
   of life
Piqued my creative core...

And
   I saw
poetry
      in motion...

~ P
(#AtTheParty)
3/3/2014

To the players
Made before '72...

YEAH  U!

Overt Consumers of
Just For Men;

Heads bobbing too long
On 2 Short,
Under Beats by Dre;

Hands directing traffic
In Slime Square;

Lips spitting lyrics vile
And profane
In public buses and trains
Like it's  your private studio....

IT AIN'T COOL
FOOL!

Take your recycled verb-age
To the shower,
And your Audience of One!

~ P
(#AudienceOfOne)
3/9/14

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

*****'s screws weren't loose,
they were missing,
all of them,
leaving gaping holes
of unpredictable insanity
in her manic life

only 22,
and built like haya,
the mistress of desire
and lust,
every male nurse and
a certain shrink  at the nut house
couldn't wait to ******
a missing ***** or two
into her

~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~

so mum the matron gave her
a protective room at our crib

only 13,
and built like *** wee
the hermit of lore,
I sat at the dinner table
opposite *****

she played footsie
with my naked toes
then gave me the crazy eye
as her lazy tongue
slid in...and out...
of her crazy mouth

~ she needed some ***-wee therapy ~

seed planted,
*** wee fed the fantasy
until it bore fruit:
a succulent apple
in his prurient mind

~ ready to be ...reaped ~

*** wee knocked on the door
~ silence ~

knock.....knock....
~ silence ~

*** wee turned the ****
and there she was...

~ en el desnudo ~

curves, *****, legs
open and inviting,
vacuous eyes staring at me,
daring me...

then she started screaming....

~ P (Pablo)
(7/28/2013)

they cower in motels
behind brave windows and balconies,
hurling mortal nouns
into private spaces

avatar faces
painted dirt brown
spew hurt and shame
like acid rain
with decadent refrain

and broken blades
seek veins hidden
in sheer fright
from eyes cued to gore,
grime and more

criminal cocktails
circumvent cogency
by a moonshiner's mile

improvised neckwear
leave a mark
as the world goes dark
like forensic files
or the hunt

and another soul
checks out early,
bypassing the lobby
and the regally blind

eyes cued to gore,
grime and more....

~ P
#bedroombullies
(8/3/2015)

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

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

"do you live here?"
said a woman labeled white
and bred to prejudge the spectrum.

a woman I had greeted thrice
previously,
and offered a ride
on McGarrity.

her dog
of mixed pedigree
glanced at me,
eyes glossed with shame
as if he sensed my pain.

he tugged on the leash,
eager to be rid
of the tension,
or her....

i couldn't tell.

so I swallowed my nuclear option
and biked on.

~ P
#BikingNearLake_Dow
2/10/2017

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

black chile o' mine...

the unfulfilled dream of slaves
and martyrs

the envy of restiviks
and refugees worldwide

who'd risk life and limb
for a slice of your pie

and your choice of a
learning tree to climb
or pepperoni

a marketable skill
with cheese
or a street hustle
on the side

black chile o' mine...

on line since yesterday
for new kicks by mj
and kanye

blowing stacks on grills
and transient thrills
to impress

quoting 2 chainz
and ti
like scripture

twiddling thumbs stuck
on virtual play
deep into school nights

classroom eyes
sleep-deprived
dotting "t's" and crossing "i's"

and you wonder why
black chile o' mine
ain't on spelling bees
like kumar khan
and lisa lee

why the pen
not the pullitzer prize
fits the hidden script
written in cursive
between typed lines

black chile o' mine...

flashing gang signs
and guns
on facebook

tweeting
net lingo typos
on twitter

while the good books
with master keys
to unlock unlimited potential

and fulfill
the dream of slaves

gather dust...

you betta get your act right!

back chile o' mine...

~ P
(7/19/2013)

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

in the foyer of midnight
bleeding into the lucid gallery of dreams,
a cluster of curious voyeurs
wait impatiently for the floodgates to open

they shuffle in the misty air
swirling through the room
dimly lit
like a theater in session
feasting the hungry eyes of patrons
with gore du jour

blood red drapes ascend
as my guests are seated
in the dark still of night

a staccato drum roll shatters the silence
signaling the intro to...

scene I

a recurring theme of
the one-eyed carpenter
hammering a nail into my coffin

tap...
tap...
tap...

"It won't be much longer now, sir pablo," he snaps
between gaps of rotting yellow teeth

"I'll save the best nails for the house-warming...."

what a charmer.....I muse....hugging my pillow tighter

scene II

a gang of my favorite seafood - giant king ***** -
is chasing me
down flatbush avenue in brooklyn;
they are brandishing broken bottles, bricks and machetes,
chanting, "payback is a biyaaatch.......payback is a biyaaatch!"

my peeps in the streets do nothing
to save me from the crustacean beat down;
they stop and stare and clown
as the killer ***** corner me downtown
in a cul-de-sac...

with *****-f$#k!n friends like that....I cuss...
huffing and puffing between the sheets

scene III

the fat nurse with a cataract in her left eye
bangs on the door to my small private room
in the psych ward at byberry

"It's time for your meds pablo.....make sure you're decent now....
I'm coming in...."

I'm curled up naked like a fetus
in the far corner
teeth, hands and feet shaking
under the nervous spells
of mania and parkinson's

she jams a long needle into my back
and fills me up with anti-psychotic cocktail
my crack for the week

she leaves and locks the door

I roll on the floor
it's moving
shaking up and down
there is a quake in my head
It's a 9
the bed's coming to get me
I'm losing my mind
there's a fat lady sitting on my spine
I can't move
she has a gun
stuck between my eyes
It's loaded
a 357 magnum
she has a cataract in hers
It's cocked
mine gets bigger

she pulls  the trigger....

ringgggggggg!

my alarm goes off.....it's 6:00 am

I yawn.....stretch......roll out of bed

wiping the cold from my eye...


blood red drapes descend


~ the end ~

~ P

Ambition,
Like green ivy,
Is a twisting thing.

She scales walls meant
To divide,
Uplifting spirits like bossa nova
To new highs.

Objects in the sky
Beyond the naked eye's locus
Descend into focus
Filling voids of mind
With lasik clarity.

Super-headed fuel
Refined for
Optimal thought production.

Problems complex appear
Then recede as your motivation
Bleeds like coletrane
through life's storms;

And seeds of preparation

Bear fruit....

~ P
(#BossaNova)
1/12/2015

Falsetto screams of beggars and teens
Shatter my dreams of slumber on the subway,
Southbound
and stacked...

Unwritten boundaries of propriety crumble
Under petulant pleas for pennies, compulsive giggles
and a mindless medley of random profanity...

My urban shell swells,
Adding a coarse layer of indifference into
the ever-shrinking space between
sound values and the urge to crudely pound
A defiant fist into the rude faces of insensitivity...

Instead,
I lower blood-red beats over
my sleepy head and
turn up the volume....

~ Pablo (#brooklynTough)
1/25/2014

Flames flew from Salem to Soweto,
Fanned by freedom's winds
In sails stubborn like mules
Seeking the rights of  thoroughbreds
And the thrill of the trifecta;

But in the land of speed
Horses and zebras reign
And the mules,
They dream of pristine barns
With piles of fresh hay
And corn...

Dry, white, primed
For revolution
by fire
Like crimson race-cards
And threadless black tires...

~ P (#burnfree)
12/20/2013

She was barely getting by;
He didn't even try;
Even the roaches knew
The shack painted blue
With no lights
Was on the chopping block

A butcher in a black tie
Rode by,
Greased hands dripping
The couple's blood

The roof leaked
Their pain,
Each drop of rain
Digging deeper

Wet, soul-crushing boots
With toes of steel
Kicked through the door
And the security of home

She was barely getting by;
He didn't even try;
Even the roaches knew
The shack painted blue
With no lights
Was on the chopping block

~ P
#ButcherInABlackTie
(9/16/15)

he wore it
like stripes
and patches earned,
stitched to his chest
with needles through flesh;

...from amazing face at birth,
fresh, with cheeks to cash
and grow into
something valued like
commitment  or blue chip stocks

something his children
could latch on to

that's my dad...

like medals and awards
and highlight pictures on the walls
of foyers
and family rooms

like gates to
the family's estate
swinging free of debt
for generations
next
and beyond...

something his children
would embrace
not erase

like foul stains
on childhood memories
in the making

like the illusion
of traditional ties
and vows

like graduations
and weddings
missed
and new births;

...to the lifeless face
of another casualty
of addiction;

cheeks pale like ashes,
cashing
only dust

~ P  (Pablo)
(8/4/2013)

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

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

did the common fish
bear witness to your dive
from cliff conformity
through that raging hole
in the sea
carved by uncertainty
and fear?

did the strident lark
hear your resolve
ringing with resonant refrain
from the ivory sill
up yonder?

did the hapless beggar
see her tears
in your eyes
dripping with empathy
at her demise?

did the orphaned child
smile with glee
unbridled
when the toy
he so craved
arrived suddenly on a star
piloted by you?

did you leave
a blissful byte or two
in the memory
of another?

lift a soul
in plight
like a buoyant kite,
with a gust of kindness?

or were you so consumed
chasin' hell
that you missed
the heaven
in earth's purest pleasures....

~ P
(#ChasinHell)
1/27/2015

came from a land of 6
races
to a land of many
more
with many doors
locked
by the color code

broke a few
down
with erudition
but the ultimate
combination
elusive remains

you gonna make it P,
said J of another
persuasion,
citing actions affirmative
as key

then rodney got beat
down
to a pulp
in LA
by the po po

*** *****…
didn’t you know
you’s still a ***** to me

don’t be deceived by dem
degrees;
summa *** laude this
***** f#kka

and all lives matter
became the chatter
after 3959 swung from trees
down
south

laura nelson’s blood-shot eyes
dug-out,
sold as souvenirs
for a nickel;

pics of the scene
went for a dime;

**** *****…
didn’t you know
you’s still a ***** to me

jim’s crows
stole 40 acres
then drove the mule
to detroit,
chicago

and brooklyn’s first houses
built by fiorello in ‘35
became the hive
for black b’s

honey, why are they fleeing
in droves
to jericho...

coz they think we sting baby.

~ P
#chasinhoney
(9/7/2017)

memoir of a life
bookended by a teen in labor
and a place for mom;
a father whose paternal anxiety
made her bleed
like she was the child
of another,
and a carousel of ex-lovers,
the fast, magnetic type
in tims, saggin jeans
and pockets filled
with every dream
but rent,
and a ring.

a life spent
throwing things and thongs
at lying mirrors
until clinique said, “bye bye;
those lines and wrinkles
I can no longer hide.”

she never looked
within,
beyond the flawed skin

she never owned
her sins

she never found
her truth

she blamed him,
the father whose paternal anxiety
made her bleed.

~ 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

I’d like to shake your hand.
I’d love to hug you
But those gentle acts of kindness,
Once a natural thing
Are now forbidden sins
With a grim sentence of death.

The roads are empty.
So are the bars;
Scars of social distance
Borne near and far.

Fear and uncertainty
Fills the air.
Cases rise like bushfires in Brisbane
Filling ICU’s, beds and morgues
To overflowing.
.
For whom
Tolls the next bell of infection?
A silent killer roams;
Unseen. Unheard. Unhinged.
A nightmare on every street
Of humanity.

Your race or royal blood
Cannot protect you.
Your wealth and walls of segregation
Are useless as an idiot with a blond toupee.

Your life flashes before you.
What heinous deed have we done
To earn this vicious wrath of Nature?
This mutant of terror.
This sobering reminder
Of our fleeting mortality.
Of the need to curb
Our insatiable greed
And abuse of God’s sacred home and children.

~ P

When time, my treasured friend,
and folly knew no end,
then laughter pure did flow,
raucous echoes from the soul.

Woe whistled with the wind,
claws never sinking in.

Sin hovered in the dark,
waging battles for the heart.

Sparks of lust and love did fly,
flashing doves white through the sky.

Fledgling wings of feathered lies
swept us both to frenzied highs.

Cries of passion!

Miles of joy!

Ran by every girl and boy,
left us grasping breathless air
pillows scattered here to dare
a pair who knew such bliss
as this
would end with letters
torn to bits
and hiss like serpents
seeking blood.

Splattered dreams...

Broken chime...

O, how the heart corrodes through time!

Once my very treasured friend,
now a folly come to end.

~ P
(#CorrodedTreasure)

When time, my treasured friend,
and folly knew no end,
then laughter pure did flow,
raucous echoes from the soul.

Woe whistled with the wind,
claws never sinking in.

Sin hovered in the dark,
waging battles for the heart.

Sparks of lust and love did fly,
flashing doves white through the sky.

Fledgling wings of feathered lies
swept us both to frenzied highs.

Cries of passion!

Miles of joy!

Ran by every girl and boy,
left us grasping breathless air
pillows scattered here to dare
a pair who knew such bliss
as this
would end with letters
torn to bits
and hiss like serpents
seeking blood.

Splattered dreams...

Broken chime...

O, how the heart corrodes through time!

Once my very treasured friend,
now a folly come to end.

~ 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)

somewhere deep within,
sheltered from
the litter of life
unrecycled....malodorous...
like civic lessons unlearned,
ignored even,
stuffed into spastic bags
piled high like butter
on southern rolls...

sat a child
in a cocoon of innocence,
eyes wide with desire
to explore and discover;
staring at the sun,
chasing the sparrow
over solid rock
and red hills,
day-dreaming of play stations
and ice cream;
eyes blind to color
class and creed...

then the real world
started talking...

and the child listened,

and morphed into you...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/25/2013)