Dear Black Men,
They have been throwing you away like a trash can.
Never to Understand
That you have value, and for your life God has designed a plan.
So Here I am with you, Side by side I place my hands, in your rough, calloused, laboring hands.
Merging together in solidarity just as a musical band.
As you are Always being placed under Servere Scrutiny
At this moment I stand with you declaring that we start speaking the healing language of unity.
Or This will be The End of Our Community.
Before our Village becomes Extinct
within a moments notice like the eyes that blink.
Removing The hate from our heart and brain that have formed into a kink
like the negative thoughts that we think
Overwhelming the mind drowning only to sink.
They are an Important asset to the family  just as the body needs Zinc.
They're An Esstenial Mineral.
Yet you label them as a Criminal, Cynical, Miserable, Pitiful,
A Creature deemed Unforgivable,
But if you look beyond the attributes of the physical
Take a glace At the mental and spiritual temple.
Resting inside is Gods Love that's Unconditional.
Then is when you will see what I see  Indispensable Individuals; Descendents From Israel.
Does the pigment of thier skin disqualifies him as being equal?
Is this Prince of Egypt's Sequel?
Or maybe its the fact that These Men are  Gods Royal people.

And Still you label them a Negros.
But when thier Tribe looks at them we See A heros.
Trying to lead thier people to the mental state of freedom just Moses did In Exodus from Pharoh.
If only it were that simple
To see inside The temple's window
You would see souls so beautiful.
conscious men awoken to what thier mind and innermen has come to know
Or hearts so rare its special.
And Like A super Moon painted on the black sky thier spirits will glow.

They are kings whom are kind and gracious.
Like a lion's Roar thier Words Are Boldy spoken into the atmosphere and Audacious
Their presences is contagious
Their spirit his courageous.

They are men whos wife and children watch intentively and admire.
They are the household provider.
In their minds he sparks a fire
A flame That Inspires.

He's The The soul that lives within.
Their Maghony skin has been dipped into Hersheys Rich Chocolate Melanin
Thier Deep Voice sounds like A roar from Lions Den , Vigorous and Masculine.
They are powerful like strength and of A thousand men.
Thier smile is as bright as the Radient sun warm and Golden.
From what Cloth was these men woven
that such a men of thier statue has not only been called but also chosen.
Theres something they are Beholding
They are just as a campfire in the blackness of the night glowin.

They are men of color
They are the cover for thier lover
They are My brothers from other mothers.

To The Blackwoman they are our
Batmen, Supermen, Ironmen, Tarzan, Patrolmen, repairmen, handymen, guardsmen, Businessmen and Gentlemen.
And We are your support system, your biggest fans.

You all are The craftmanship of The Most High's hand.
Constructed from the dust of the ground on which we stand.
Mixed with breathe of Life created a human being who bare feet ran,
feeling the warmth from the grains of sand, As he Walked among the surface of the land.
Adam, the Earths first black man.

I Wrote this to let you know we value you My Dear Black Man.

I passed by ---but I saw you. I stopped and looked back
  ---right then and there, I knew you are special.
  You came to me and asked for my name.
I was coy, I was shy..I am fascinated by you.
Your green eyes is telling me of your stories.
Such gentleness, such calm, and chivalriouness,
I defenitely learned the very meaning of "Swept off my feet".

I can invent a thousand songs and ways to tell our story---believe me I can..
Stories of how we were good _TOGETHER.

I will sing of the flickering Shabbath light in the midst of melee and chaos..
of sea of endless discussions of some complicated logics
and jest with your friends
all the while chasing for my hand, held it a little while
and crochet you fingers to mine.
I then would tenderly gaze upon you while listening to the clatter and clang
of silverwares and silent stares.
  I will then transport us to my days, where all is sweet and innocent..
of another epoch of where the Mothers I held dear, and sisters, and no-blood brothers
would sing the same exact hymn,, held the same flame
of timeless prayers of Shema Israel,
  Yeshoua, and Avenou Shabbat Shamaim,..

Of how Friday nights would pass by the door
And eavesdrop while we can laugh about The Dictator,
goose-pricked by Pia Jesu, or ransacked your refrigirator.
  Or sit by the talking box and be glued to it's endless chatter about
pots, frying pans, Birjaya University, or Emanuelle Stroobant.

I can paint our Saturday mornings with lazy hues and anchorings
thanks to Bernard Lewis, stumble upon,
our dears Kindle 4th and Kindle touch
with Jon Snow and Daenerys of houseTargaryen.

Zara will then invite us to her house of fashion
and oh! how I hate the prices and prefer to accompany you in
dockers or gaps and spencers. Same thing my love,
I have not coveted you for this, not at all.
I always, always love the sound of your voice
while you were explaining about the craftmanship and quality of tis and artistry in tat.

I will remind you,,.. of how we or rather ‘I’ banged the tables of Le Chateu?
and forks and knives flying to and pro?
  All because we agree and disagree about liberalism, Islam,
Catholic bishops, Religious Tolerance, and dogmas of Christendom.

Put on the cherry of the week in my O's ice cream.. SUNDAY.

We would stir and wake to the gentle nudging of the sunlight...
of mornings full of laughter and wonderful thoughts and prayers.
You would often ask me, why do I dance..
dance like a child or a crazy woman if you may..
In the middle of the streets as we thread the route to the Sunday market.
I dance because I am happy..because I don't care ,
Because I love to sway my hand and jump on my feet and hung at your neck..
and kiss you and tell you how even after eating to the nth time that same
Morrocan chicken stuff, I still love the taste of it. It's our SUNDAY RITUAL my darling!

QUE SERA SERA... you said…
We as opposed to time, is like a ticking bomb..                        
Reality is our friend, he would remind us by his tic, by his tac…tic..tac..tic..tac.
He would sing no matter how good we are together… Que sera sera..whatever will be, will be...
Oh how I hate the very sound of it…
I will fight it, claw at it, beg…admonish..placate..and scream!
I lived and breath by the PRESENT.
I wish you would stay.., I wish you would like me enough to love me forever.

I want to give everything without reservation, as love
Love is what I have, I am , and will be…
To offer and spread it upon your feet…
Behind my heart is a  prophecy..
We will build our long line of family dynasty.
Family that is gravitated towards God,
and molded into mine heart and your being.
A family where laughter is the main hearth of inspiration,
idealism, and warming love.
I want you to teach our kids to be good men and women,
I'm sure they would, as you are a good man.
So compact and resilient and gentle in nature...

You my darling is the person that I would love to get to grow old with...
The very person I have fallen inlove with and will always love.

YOU asked me to be BRAVE...
I said I am... as Always.

You fly...

I talked to the silver moon beyond the dark sky.
pour out my heart, wretched and wanting to die.

I roam the streets of where we've been ...
Drank a cup or two at Tea leaf and Coffee Bean.
I could not forget you and what could have been.
Sitting in that same chairs of what has been,
Mirage across my desert of sorrow would appear as if I am insane.
Somewhere across the Universe...of thousand stars and leagues.

QUO VADIS?
There my Lord... him at the end of the road.
A smiling and familiar face of a man.

My heart started to pound with every heart beat.
The steps I take are but a sing-song in my feet.
I will to run towards you,  but you do not believe it.
I am floating with each stride, an exhilarating excitement
towards whose smile I so love.

HEARTS on FIRE!
It is wonderful a feeling to be enveloped in your kisses
and be overwhelmed by your gaze – AGAIN.

Painters, by the highest degree of inspiration,
And poets who with the Muse commune,
Command in their respective trades un-
Common craftmanship, exquisite creation
Of pen and brush upon the parchment
And canvass, through unfettered figment.

Gifted: poets, painters and musicians. Three
Geniuses on this terrestrial plane, with mind
As efficient as the moon in its fullest grind,
As do all artistic souls whose mastery
In finest workmanship are seen. Worship
The God of arts ye astronauts in spaceship,

For poets and painters are cardinal in artistic
Enrolment--and no less endowed are many another
Like sculptors--with thoughts solitary and cryptic.

In toasting Mike I recollect
His steady watching gaze,
I recollect his calm
On a thousand stormy days.
I recall his jaunty humour
In his funny cockney style,
And the rationale behind it
And the pleasure of his smile.

And the quiet determination
In the steeliness within
And the love that emanated
When his Jules laughed loud with him.
When he held her hand and strolled
In the life they shared as one,
In the racket of the grand kids
As they shout and leap and run.

Through the years of hardy seamanship
From England's chalky reach,
Across the ocean's vastness
To far antipodean beach,
To the soft greens of New Zealand
And the promise of this land
And the shining eyes of Jules
When he offered her his hand.

And the life they shared together
Through the joy, the strain the tears
The utter joy of baby Kristin
And her beauty through the years.
The seamlessness of craftmanship
In tradesman's art supreme
And the pride of his achievement
In a sweet successful dream.

A chasm has appeared in life
Where old Mike used to be.
Dreadfull death has exercised
It's right to set him free.
But I can't feel bad for Micheal
For the brilliance of it all
Is celebration of his life well lived
And my toast to judgement's call.

Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
10 January 2010.

I am a man against violence.
See my own blood spilled, rather
Than that of any other.

But I have a wall full of knives.
I've collected them my whole life.
Still do. Tools of war.

Tools of craftmanship.
I know the story behind every
Blade, Bowie or handmade

Russian letter opener.
I am not a man of religion.
I see God in every thing.

Worship all; therefore none.
But I collect rosaries.
The one on my desk, I bought in

Vatican City. The one above my
Bed was brought to me from
Transilvania.

I know the story behind each
One. I may seem confused at
Times; contradictory.

Construction working poet.
Heavy metal loving meditator.
iPad wielding viking.

I collect interacting opposites.
Wear snakeskin boots with my
Funeral suit.

Shave only my head at times.
Warrior monk. Knives and rosaries.
Stabbing at

Gods. Praying
For my
Enemies.

Ting, Tong--ocean is a mason--hear his chisel ring,
deep down, always erasing, with a Tong, Ting.
glassy stone is what his frothy sizzle brings.
anchor lines vibrate like heart strings.

A Ting, and a Pong, no more beloved chiselled font,
those dates gone, because the ocean is a mason,
and when I submerge into his basement,
Tong and a Ting, his craftmanship sings.

and those swings, vibrating anchor strings,
with a pong and ping, bring you to shore
his backswing, causes waves to pour,
bowing prow of windjammer rides contour.

and his distant Ting, commands the wind,
they are bellows for him, but throw your hat,
watch it come back again, a Ping and Tong,
the ocean is a mason, hear his song,
with power to rescind, nothing is gone,
throw your hat to the waves, watch it come back in.
submerge your ears// and hear the Tong and Ting.

Walls of innumerable colors
Irritable by aging hands
Massaging gently
A glacier surface with such ease
Craftmanship with untold stories
Only a few will know
Secrets are hidden
In each stone plate
Representing ****** fabrication
Built on blood and sweat
Shedding tears of loneliness
Many lives sacrifice their own
Involvement
To pattern
A better life
To pay homage
For those decease,but not forgotten
As time revolves the Earth

Tightly stretched across the frame I am cut from unbleached cloth,
The coarse craftmanship of my canvas awaits an artist's touch,
Outline the path to discovery and redemption on my surface,
Paint me with the colors of hope and prosperity as you guide my creation,
Let the pigments dance across my existence as I glisten and gleam,
I am a sight to behold,
A testament to the contributions of all before me,
Unified together through this masterpiece I now carry their legacy.

3 brown, tall, large and stately bottles
of Trappist monks' beer,
each with their own individual and historical label,
stand quietly, sentry-like on a shelf.

Craftmanship in
3 colours and 3 tastes,
7, 8 and 10 percent strong:
from dark robin-red - fresh, soft and a little sweet;
to dark blond - fruity and sweet and sour;
and finally amber - fullbodied and sweet and sour.

Religious beer
celebrating
the festive season
of Our Saviour's birth.

3 times a heavenly treat, indeed!

A resonant gratitude streams through my veins,
Consecrated to my middle school heroines, deflecting
The whispers of shame.
But they taught me that I do not have the luxury of shame;
I have a voice, and I must amplify it––that’s what my mother said.

Elles m’ont protégée, blossoming my oneness.
I am here now because of them, I harness their divine feminine
Strength.

Standing on the bones of my aunties, their anguish travels up,
Their histories following suit.
Beneath my feet, to my knuckles; charging my inner being
My spine is rigid, fortified with the duty––
To liberate, to reform, and to love.
“But my love,” she tells me earnestly, “this love, has been assumed,
Taken for granted, blended into the background of the White man’s portrait.”

My dun skin lives in the ambiguity of praise and prejudice,
And my sisters are dead. Exploited, first––then dead.
As were my mother’s grandmothers, when the Britons drew the line.
The assembly line, however, was an American invention––
Where the American Dream came to fruition. Commodified neatly,
‘Cheaply’ produced, and easy to swallow: fine [Black*] American craftmanship!

Her tomb
Stone, will be mined by her brothers.
He is unearthing the buried history, but forced to push coal into the fire,
Cremating the legacies of his own kin.

“So what are you going to say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me?”
Her lasts words, found amongst the ashes.

Finally got that Brass ring
All the other times just wanted to set you free and go galloping
The beautiful artwork and craftmanship from Coney Island to both US coasts always caught my eye
Still ride you wherever I am but enjoy how incredible regal you are
Ridden horses before but nothing compares with the ride I take with you and that music
Amazing organs not the ones that are recorded
Love Carousels
Up down and around

C@rainbowchaser2021

This place had met annihilation
How long ago none could say
But it's ruins yet stood
Among the hills and forest valleys

I walked among such ruins
Since I was young
Yearning for the sights and sounds
This walls held in their prime

The craftmanship was unparalleled
Gorgeous even in destruction
The inscriptions on pillars
Beckoned me as if alive

I could never read them
For I knew not that old language
The language of a lost empire
That rose in distant ages

In my latter years I now shudder
Having studied that ancient tongue
And recalling the passages
Engraved upon those marbled archways

They spoke not of great conquests
Or kings and heroes of old
No they served only as warnings
For the generations to come

The penultimate inscription
That lay upon the palace walls
So important it was inlayed
With obsidian and gold, read thusly;

"No Utopia may exist upon this Earth.
The perfection of man is a troubled one,
Doomed from its inception.
Man seeks to put forth into the world
What does not reside within him,
And so he corrupts the world
And himself in the process.

Oh how little you know,
Son of the Second Moon.
When..."

Beneath the etchings I remember
The bones of four men
About them lay rusted chisels
And other carving tools

I noticed as well, that the inscription
Appeared unfinished
As if the engraver was stopped
Forcibly before his work was done

I reached out to touch the groove
The final character never filled
With the obsidian and gold inlay
It was colder than stone should be

But that is all I remember
As I appeared to have passed out
And woken up with the gentle sun
The following morning

Marshmallow pinks amidst cobalt blues.. dawns daylight’s dazzling hazy hues..the visionary artist’s inspirational surprise as her palette of pastels portrays the skies

She slaps her subtlety so senique.. to convey her cloudless colour technique..such a virtuoso pièce de résistance..as she marvellously mimics a replica existence..Oh if only I could paint on demand with my trifold easel and bristle brush in my hand

Though I can appreciate such sensational splendour from the fascinations and supremacy of Mother nature’s surrender..Alas I have no artist’s skill nor an ability to  craftmanship at my free will.. so I shall use my perception and write it in books from hollow happenstance and yon shadey nooks