Untitled (Inspired by God) 12/9/2001

I am that I am,

I never claimed Islam,

Hindu, Christian, Jew,

Recall the parable and learn,

I manifest as fire,

and wood that wouldn't burn,

As every element indeed,

As water that caused the bush to bloom,

air and earth that nurtured it's seed,

I am that I am,

I am Alpha.

In the beginning,

Hebrews called me Elohim,

I am depicted as a lamb,

I am Ein Sof.

The Egyptians called me Amen,

I am depicted as a ram,

I am Omega, in the end,

I am that I am,

I've been called Emmanuelle,

Jehovah, Jah,

Yeshua, Jesus, Allah,

Shiva, Messiah, Amma,

I am the Way, The Truth, and Light,

Some simply call me LOVE,

You can call me what you will,

The world is mine and the fullness thereof,

just call me if you feel,

I am the Creator of the sun,

Under which you bask,

Do I need your piety?

I shouldn't have to ask,

I am that I am. ©

A Short Walk: This Walk We Take

          1.

This walk we take
from cradle crawl,
to stagger gait,
assisted baby steps,
before we fall,
to solo straight,
into the rising sun,
we walk upright,
before we learn to run,
into his light,
a gleam in our eyes,
a spark, a fire,
we chase the night,
we hunt for hope,
for dreams, our souls desire,
along this walk we take,
Too young to know fear,
or the bite of pain,
we only hear, and vaguely discern,
the lessons of, those who've loved,
and demand we love, and be loved, in return,
we hardly listen to the survivors,
the elite few,
who've walked this walk before us,
who know these treacherous forest,
How steep the hills, the sun, the rains,
and the traps of the predators who lure us.

             

          2.

This walk we take,
has become a jog,
a daily routine, 
into a mist a fog,
to a finish line,
which remains unseen,
but we keep moving,
we heed the call,
we've seen too many others fall,
into pits we know not where,
We soon learn to heed,
the jungle creed,
that parasites feed,
on both weak or strong unaware,
we pray a nightly prayer,
carried on angel wings,
to keep us safe,
and in God's care,
we slow for breath,
when obstacles arise,
beam gone now from our eyes,
it's not to the sleeper go the prize,
but to the deft,
those who are wise,
who veer not too far,
either right nor left,
but stay the course,
who will survive,
This walk we take.

          3.

This walk we take,
onward, upward,
this road we trod,
brings us closer  to
our beckoning God,
and so we come,
our backs now bowed,
we hear the voices,
of our ancestors now,
from cane clutch,
to stagger gait,
assisted elderly steps,
before we trip,
to fainting falter,
no medaled victory,
for the race we run,
nor newspaper clips,
of our win or slaughter,
before we touch,
with tear wet lips,
the outstretched hand,
of the HEAVENLY FATHER!
who carried us through,
This walk we take.

victori ©

How I Do?

How I Do?

I do worst than some,

but better than most,

I don't have riches or wealth,

but the Holy Ghost,

Who gives me health,

Don't need to make you fall,

so that I can rise,

I can lift you tall,

and still soar the skies,

There's room for us all,

From where ever I start,

To where ever I flow,

I entertain angels, in my heart,

Just so you know,

Don't need to blot your shine,

For me to glow,

No need to push you behind,

For me to grow,

Even if you treat me unkind,

 knock me to the ground

Plot my decline,

Push me over the brink,

but  if  you  thirst

I'll still offer you a drink,

it may place me first,

and cause you to shrink,

but it's how I do,

don't care what you think,

This gift of God is free,

This gift of God is true,

I reach my apogee,

It's how I do,

I get the victory!

What about you?

Victori ©

Where You Belong!!! for my brother Dennis June 1, 1953-July 25, 2010

If I could rewind days,

back step through yesterday,

Pause the hour, 

before the tears,

freeze frame the minute,

that you were still here,

anticipating your next breath,

I would moonwalk minutes,

stomp the present,

and hitchhike a soul-train line, to the past

to those natural days of

"braid it tight Vickie

so the afro could pick out just right."

To those super-fly do's

and magic shave don't's

and those super-fly zoots,

in the mirror to watch,

My handsome brother flaunt,

"Mr big stuff tell me now

who do you think you are

Mr Big stuff, you drive a

big fine fancy car, Mister Big Stuff."

I would chase those glory years,

of track star fame,

and girls in the bleachers,

screaming your name,

of trophies on display,

and press release,

If I could rewind the day,

set my mind at ease,

stop the clock,

and stop the time,

rewind to your very prime,

I would find you as twin,

one speaking gospel,

the other seeking sin,

If I could rewind the day,

go all the way back,

to before the slip,

To hustling peanuts,

To Devil's Dip,

A place you used to play,

I'd kidnap you my brother,

And steal you away,

Then bring you my brother,

Home to today,

WHERE YOU BELONG! ©

This Place Without Feeling I written 14 Jan 1986

My heart is not breaking,
nor my head aching,
No gasp of laughter taking,
my breath away,

My feelings have all gone numb,
of this life, what is the sum?
I maintain no ultimate illusions,
or minimal intrusions,
to multiply confusion,
and lead my mind astray.

As you lay there in death,
I stand here bating my breath,
thinking it can't be true,
but the person I see,
laying in front of me,
is certainly you.

I wish that you would speak and sigh,
say it's all been a lie,
a simple-minded notion,
to determine devotion.

Instead, no emotion breaks forward,
or pupil go lowered,
as tears fall toward,
the floor.

'cause this place is without feeling,
emotion or willing,
or time to be killing for,
no bridges have crumbled,
as tear blind we stumbled,
we never even mumbled,
our last good-bye,
now I stand in this place,
no smile on my face,
or gleam in my naked eye.

The Prophetic Psychotic

What makes the poet speak the words,

that others want to hear?

Is it spoken out of love,

or is it spoken out of fear?

Is it envy turned inward,

or rage set loose,

or courage that brings the poet forward,

to speak the words she choose?

Is he a rising prophet predicting doom,

or trying to convey some truth,

or is she psychotic you presume,

expelling litanies of her youth?



What makes the poet speak the words,

that others want to hear?

Is it because they were born to say things,

others simply can't?

Or because when they speak they say it smooth,

while others merely rant,

or is it because they speak their truths,

in rhyme, and prose and chant,

then walk away, and leave you pondering their parlance?




What makes the poet speak the words,

that others want to hear?

and their poetic prophecy become psalms,

never-ending, in your ear,

like a psychotic syntax, their voices clear,

their stories told, their truths to fear,

The poet is a prophet,

whose spirit waste no time,

but reincarnates into another psychotic,

and lives again to rhyme.


2000

This Place Without Feeling II

My heart is breaking,

and my head aching,

a gasp of grief taking my breath away,

as you lay there in death,

I stand here bating my breath,

thinking it can't be true,

but the person I see,

laying in front of me,

is most certainly you.

I wish that you would speak and sigh,

 and tell me it's all a lie.

only a prank or notion,

to determine devotion,

but no sound do you make,

as I attend this Wake,

and thus the irony of the name,

because you never speak nor stir,

nor return to the way you were,

although my life has completely changed,

somehow now that you're gone,

I'm expected to find strength to carry on,

Strength to weather the coming storm,

but my strength use to come from you,

you were the light that would guide me through,

You were the light switch for my brain,

the voice of reason that kept me sane,

The one love in my life that I considered true,

There will never be your equal,

no wait for an upcoming sequel,

The twin to my soul  has died away,

Now who will I tell my secrets to?

There will never be another you,

not in this place without feeling,

not in new loves with hearts so cold,

nor in the stone cold hearts of old,

When your heart stopped beating.

I unraveled too,

You were my glue,

As I stand here falling apart

truth be told,

I lost a heart of gold.

You were my heart,

And I am left here to wonder why?

The good ones are so young to die?

As I stumble tear-blind to the door,

As my heart falls to the floor,

As I mumble my last good-bye. Victori ©