As he studied my attention
I refused to blink.  He told me things about my-
self I tried to keep hidden under a coffee stained
American Eagle sweat shirt
that found me on the Clarence rack.


I told him to *******!  But he continued
to weave his words through my intelligence.
He was such an inspired *******; cruelty
bunched together in fifty-seven pages


of brilliance.


There was no winning against his intellectual
abuse.  So I let him have the last word.


I closed the book.

So… he looked on, watching from afar the imagery of family.
Now alone, sitting in place on an old cranky stubborn
porch, eighty-one years of tears laughter and memory/smiled;
his smiled gleamed through the haze and humidly
of another summer day:   a day that reminded him
of his younger years when the joy in many eyes gathered
                       for a day of barbecue and rejoice

in his voice, as his raspy cough briefly interrupted the moment,
was the song of an elderly man missing the days of innocence
but briefly in this time, in the sight of the young boy
he now studied from across the street
he saw a familiarity.  His vision saw support and togetherness;

his hearing heard the song of compassion
and in the charcoaled flavored heat, his heart felt
                 what he thought was forgotten;

the genius and destiny of hope.  In his life he has seen
once inspiring  brick-layered sidewalks become the mask
of crime that has kidnapped a neighborhood once
proud.  He has seen the dreams of children become temporarily
paralyzed by the heights of poverty and many visions
of fear.  He watched in silence over all these years

but the tears of his mind has always been vocal.  

                                The shackles
of osteoarthritis that now held on to his bones and the slight
battle with old-aged deafness that now challenged
the vibration of harmony  and not even the parade
                 of high blood pressure marching through his veins
could keep him from feeling the pain and decay

of days passed.  But as he looked on at the sight
of burgers and hotdogs sizzling on the grill;  as he looked on
at the pleasantries of young and old joining in good times
and fun playing the games of life; as he looked on
and lived again through the body language of the young boy
                        who now looked back at him

he saw the glimpse of renewal in a community
holding on to the aspects of a neighborhood’s inheritance.
For the first time in many decades, he saw the enjoyment
in dancing trees that waltzed in the breezes of tomorrow;
                           he felt shades of sweat trickle down his bronzed almond skin
that was the welcomed condensation of happiness
and he smelled a renewed energy of genetic fortitude
that was family all in the aroma of summer cooking --

                                  and so…he dreamed on.

Dear desolate eyes,

I write this letter as I reflect upon the fog that breathed
around you on a heavy damp day back in September
and all I could remember
was how you stood on the corner of my eye
dressed in a three piece fitted suit that dripped
down over your boney frame.
And then the rain came
soaking your presence with a familiar
sound of invisibility

but you seemed to embrace it
as you clutched the earth’s tears with shivering lips
and buckling knees that lowered down
into shallow puddles of loneliness and distance;
a distance that could only be healed
by a simple connection.

And I walked past you that day
failing to recognize your wardrobe of hidden
emotion and the raspy voice of your soul
calling out for help.
I walked past only wanting to see you as a stranger
but you needed me to see you as someone
so to whom this may concern
I apologize for not seeing the deep sadness
in your eyes and although it’s too late,
I apologize for not trying you off with a “hello”

and P.S. I’m sorry for not remembering

your name.

sincerely,

  another stranger who walked by.

“If you can make it through the night, there’s a brighter day.”  - Tupac Shakur

I see your tears crawling silently on the stairs of fear, alone
no one is near but your cries are heard young child.  Emotion
black & blue from the punches of their laughs/the commotion
inside your mind baring scars from the lacerations
of loneliness you feel  -- searching but finding no way to deal
with the internal pain that throws you up against
the wall of difference and trips you onto the curb
of your own self-expression.  

I feel your heart calling out for someone to grab your fall;
someone just to see that you are someone other
than the names they call you and you are someone other
than the shouts of abuse that has you afraid to step out into a harsh
world and someone who sees that you are someone
other than the echoes of humiliation that threaten to tear
down the walls of your mental stability;
you just need someone to show you that

within you there is an ability to escape and fight back
with the force of just being you.  Young child let your individuality shine
because every inch of your soul is someone proud and fine.
Walk strong because no matter how hard the world kicks you
your bones will not bruise.  You will not limp
because your mind will not fracture through their attempts
to try dislocating your sense of self.  There is always a better day
waiting to show you that you will be okay
and I know now your nights are long
as it is your fear that tomorrow will be cruel
but just remember you are filled with worth and a voice

born to be heard.  Believe in you

  because life is not a bully.

Through their eyes I see the instruments of hope
and in their faces I hear decayed dreams whistling
through the hollow silence of these forgotten streets
where only those with strength can cope;
they are the many lives
who reach out to be heard in this place
where very few stop to listen to their song
but tears dry strong
because in this world everyone needs to feel
they belong.

In their hearts I feel the blues; single mothers
standing on street corners because
they have nothing else to loose. Selling their soul
for survival just to stop the heavy beats
of starvation from silencing their young child’s
future ovation.  They do what they need
just to find a way to feed as poverty
has become their song
but their tears dry strong
because in this world everyone has
a place to belong.

I hear in their voices the echoes of many cold
lonely nights  -- some are familiar strangers
lost and confused and others are old
searching for something out here to feel and to hold.
No amount of spare change
can heal their minds because they were left
without a home as alone
they stand as a song
but their tears dry strong
because in this world everyone
needs to know they belong.

I write for their eyes
as I narrate the loneliness they feel
from the inside of hidden identities
that have become immersed
within the transparent confusion
of society’s delusion.

Some are brave and stand alone
on judgment’s concrete stone
afraid to shine their difference
in the dampened skies where hateful
eyes
plagiarize their souls to be ashamed
of how they were born;

some are young, abandoned and living
in houses that done feel like home.
They are trying to be clones
of who they are told they have to be
but in their hearts they just
reach for the moment where
they can be free

and some are reminders of me—hidden sexuality
searching for air
and the right to breathe their own
civil liberty.  I write for their pride, their beauty
and their strength
I write for every emotion
they feel they need to keep locked up
Inside/afraid no one would understand;
afraid there would be no one
on their side

and I write for their courage;
the everyday journey
of new discoveries and the celebration
they will inherit by loving who they are
because they will be loved.

I write for them and I write for who
I used to be – lost ones
ready and searching to be found.

I Heard The Blues In Her Eyes

Her tears only dripped when my eyes closed.
I pretended not to hear them
but I listened,

I listened to the clutch of her heart
whisper an apology asking for the forgiveness/of my hunger.

I wasn’t mad at mama,
she was younger;

younger than most mother’s.

Twenty-one  years of age
standing in welfare lines
reaching
for free cheese and powdered milk
to go with the half empty jar of mayonnaise
and three slices of bread
sealed with a rubber band
to protect
from the rats and roaches.

I didn’t like when mama cried

because I knew how hard she tried

to hide the desperation that strangled her;
to fight back against the deep kicks of poverty
that was like a bully on a playground
laughing and tripping
until she was just tired of falling --

but she kept strong for me,

because a five year old didn’t know
the strange man at the door
was there to shut off the gas

and a five year old didn’t know
the rent was two months late
because the fifty seven dollars

worth

of food stamps just weren’t enough
to keep food on my plate

and a five year old didn’t know
his daddy was just a ***** donor,
more like a dead beat cloner.

I didn’t like when mama cried

            but She did

and didn’t hide her tears
to well…because her eyes
always would sing to me

the blues

andt they told me, with a soft voice,

that things would be alright
and they eventually were

because  my eyes were enough

to give her the lyrics of strength; lyrics
which created a song still echoing

and spinning on the turntable of life

I’ll always remember mama’s tears.
They flowed to give me a future;
a future built off struggle and commitment
and those tears were the fuel
that energized our survival
but still,

I didn’t like when mama cried

because even within the silence of her smile,
I heard the blues in her eyes.

© 2009
Tarringo T Vaughan
www.TarringoVaughan.Net

Son, I have but a few words for you
and it is only going to take a few minutes of your time –
Boy as I look down upon you from the heavens
of my new journey’s horizon, I can still feel the joyful pain
from the day I released you into this world.  The many hours
of excruciating labor gave birth to a miracle
and from the very moment you were put into my arms
I knew
You were special and you still are special
and just because I’m not here now
I will always be that presence in your heart.

Now son, I don’t want to see any more tears
because as I now look into your eyes I see a journey
of determination; I see fight, dedication
and a belief in yourself that has made
you the fine man you are today, but don’t you go thinking
that you would stop ever being mama’s little boy

because no matter how old
in years you get; no matter how independent
your life has become; no matter how wise
you have grown; my memory will always be those open arms

of warmth, nurture and protection.  Although my physical
presence has left you, that bond
is a connection that will live on through the genetics
of your soul.  You see son, the day I died, I gave birth to you
again.  I watched you cry, survive and grow
internally.  I watched you succeed, release your fears
which has lead you to be freed
all the pain you have grieved.  As I leave you,
I just want to take these few minutes
to let you know I am here
and that you will always be
mama’s little boy – as I now rest free and filled with joy.

© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
http://www.flexwriterscreativenetwork.net

Sometimes you can forget
where you came from, but that somewhere
will never forget you.  Memories triggered
by glimpses of familiar faces.  Smiles I once knew
and eyes I once recognized
repainted a portrait of childhood
over twenty years aged, but never faded
on the canvas of yesterday’s past.

They were reminders of who I used to be,
just a child exploring the playground of life, unafraid;
filled with laughter, much to be taught
and together we all learned
how to grow and how to fear, how to fail
and how to care
on the street’s of yesterday’s past.

Together, we were the reunion of innocence
as I looked into each eye.  I was reminded
of how we each wanted to reach the sky,
some of us never left the ground,
while others fly high.
But we will always be connected,
each of us a product of a place that will
never forget our name, a place where each of us
is a vision of yesterday’s past.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net
http://www.flexwriterscreativenetwork.net

Borrowed Time

I wouldn’t say I am one for sitting on bar stools
in empty ***** bars studying time, but here I am/
all alone/ staring out a stainless glass window
watching life happen and wondering about
the sublime.

So many heartbeats out there strive for greatness;
so many dreams colliding while searching
for possibilities hidden inside shells of moral
capabilities.  Some lead with eyes wide open/blind
to the finely crafted ******* of rhetorical motivation
and some are the followers who waggle
just slightly behind inspired by historical innovations
and there are some, who drink alone/like me,
who search for truth in a half empty glass
of optimism slightly buzzed.

It’s funny how when you are drinking everything
makes a little more since.
Sometimes you need the alone time
to hear what your thoughts are saying.   Sometimes
you need to be away from everything out there
to understand the true ideals of individualism
because we are fascinated by difference
even when we think we are afraid
of not fitting in.  We seek shelter in handcrafted
cliques just to delay the inevitable of standing
on our own.  

We all embrace that maybe tomorrow entitlement
of procrastination, that daily hesitation that makes
everything around us happen….eventually
and maybe I’ve just had too much to drink/swirling
around ice in a empty glass once filtered by Tanguary
and a twist of tonic while still studying the sobriety
of a drunken society of hopeful prosperity.
Life makes a nice drink
because it is a bunch of nonsense we intake
until we’re intoxicated in the mind and stumbling
just to stay on our feet/stuck in time; a time that ticks
slowly when we’re in pain
and fast when we’re entertained
but at times, like now, it does pause
reminding us that we are on borrowed time
sipping on life with imitations of the sublime.

© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan
http://www.tarringovaughan.net