The Skipped Line

Have you ever wondered if the skipped lines in your notebooks were angry or sad that they weren’t used? This is what happens when you overthink….

They remain the same when the coffee’s cold, or when the

dawn bleeds color on the black night vigils of our studies, plans,

dreams, and goals.

If we could but sort through the

mounds and mountains of we’ve made of them,

man’s fathomable mind would know to explore them

and why they make us who we are, and how we think.

The unused line is passed over, left blank and wanting.

We see nothing, and nothing seems to change.

The line has nothing to show for its existence,

or so it believes.

Does it despair, perhaps ignoring a truer, higher purpose?

What it does not know is that it provides

a delineation and organization

of thought.

It is, in and of itself, a break in the narrative.

It whispers to the brain to retain all the information gathered,

then build on it, or depart from it to explore

a new realm of information, imagination,

the character of your story’s character.

If only we could tell the unused line

it isn’t empty at all.

That Time They Called Us ‘Nightskins’

Man, the hardcore nerds came at us with that word,

thinking it was an insult,

meaning it as a slur

When we embraced it, 

they were caught off guard.

When we thought it was cool, dope, or

(fill in your generation’s vernacular here)

it died on their lips because:

Number 1: they didn’t expect it.

Number 2: they felt stupid.

Number 3: they did not understand 

what we do about our ancestors:

It was at night they planned to leave,

and ran, and ran, and ran, and died

for their freedom

It was at night they sang the music to

to strengthen them for the next day’s labors and trials.

It was at night they made the babies for massa, 

(or by massa) and took no comfort, 

crying out for the days that brought

the grief of their sale and separation,

the gratitude for family that stayed,

for rare moments that brought peace of mind and solitude,

for vigorous health and hard earned joy

All in the middle of the madness they faced 

on this hostile cotton colored colony hellbent

on keeping and making the concept of ‘us and them’ viable,

while allegedly following a God they claim says ‘All.’

But here, I’ll always be ‘them,’ no matter what I do.

We don’t need you, your presence, approval, or permission.

We are the NightSkins, and you’ll never be that 

cool, dope, or (fill in your generation’s vernacular here).

The Skin of My Land

The skin of my land is alive with

the colors

of soils of the springtime

and amber of skies.

The ambers of dawn in a crystal blue heaven,

the amber of embers when bright sunlight dies.

The skin of my land is the color of wheat grass

that dances in winds that make soft summer sighs.

The skin of my land is the red of the clay that the summer storm

makes when we say our goodbyes.

The skin of my land is the

floor of the ocean,

the whitest of clouds,

and the blackest of nights.

The skin of my land is a melanin melody.

Blessed the beholders of such divine sights.

Sun Child

Come outside, my baby.

Come out, little one.

This one I’ll call, ‘Daughter.’

This one I’ll call, ‘Son.’

The joy and the giggles,

the sadness and silence.

Too soon come the questions

unanswered by science.

Grow, beautiful flower!

Probe deeper, young root!

High knowledge dwells not

in the low hanging fruit.

Farewell, precious princess.

Goodbye, noble prince.

You’ll find me still sitting here.

Been ever since

you sailed ‘cross the waters,

flew ’way in the sky.

And now comes the sunset

for Mother and I.

Sun Children, they’ll hate you,

and you won’t know why.

Your light is too much for them.

Try not to die.

What Do I Call This Space?

What do I call

this space

where you once stood?

How do I tell

the silence

to be still?

When dinner is ready,

there is no shadow

to dine with me.

In the places we haunted,

there are no echoes or whispers

of your voice.

No trace of your perfume.

No watching the candles

glow, caressing your

bronze skinned richness

alongside my fingers.

Where we lived,

no sighs of love

disrupting the quiet night.

What do I call this space?

‘Loneliness’ is too sad a name.

‘Alone’ is too cynical and stark.

‘Freedom’ is a lie.

What do I call this space?

Come back and tell me.

The Bells of Spring

Ah! The spring bells ring below.

The waters run to flood.

And too soon sail invaders

wanting plunder, flesh, and blood.

They ring the spring bells in the vale.

It is a happy sign,

between the zephyr and the gale

to make the summer wine.

And hard at work the bardic guilds

will seek to make their coin

at night in all the taverns when

the men and women join.

The bells of spring don’t just ring here,

but all throughout the land.

The frozen winter’s over.

Child at breast, and sword in hand.

Sometimes they’ll ring out happiness,

and other times, alarm.

Their song unites the people,

hand in hand, or arm in arm.

We pray always the bells of spring,

will now and ever always ring.

Restore Me to You

Restore me to you,

to how you used to be,

to who you were before.

I don’t like this closing

you’ve imposed

on us.

Little polite smiles

of inattention,

and holding me

as if

you’d just as soon let me go.

Your neck stiffens when I move

to kiss you.

Sometimes you even turn your back,

pretending not to see.

If you are in the process

of cauterizing your love for me,

give me the honesty directly,

instead of the random hints

that hit and hurt like boxers’ jabs.

I will not beg for love from a coward.

Restore me back to us,

when the joy and love in your eyes

at seeing me reflected my own for you.

Restore me to when

we danced and traveled,

played and loved,

and only warred over chess boards,

and sometimes puzzles.

Restore me to when

you diffused and disarmed my temper

with a witty comeback that made us both laugh.

Restore me, or leave the workshop

of our love,

and let it be unfinished.

I’d rather not leave first,

but I’m falling out of love

right behind you.

I can lay my feelings down,

set my affection aside,

and rather you break my heart

than play with it.

The Gold Standard

Aranella spins the gold

’til the dragon story’s told.

Gathering in crease and fold,

summer’s heat turns autumn cold.

Aranella spins the song,

days grow short as nights grow long.

Curses for the midnight gong,

muscles red and sore and strong.

Aranella spins the steel,

so the wyrm be brought to heel.

Kept me long enough, she thinks.

Village blood around her stinks

Hiding with a knowing grin,

hears the difference in her spin.

Doesn’t know how deep she’s in.

He will not let her side win.

Dragon pride’s a fragile thing,

magic swords have blades that sing.

Quench the fire, spill the blood.

Magic a torrential flood.

Aranella dances now,

child of sky and forest bough.

Sword in hand

and rich in gold.

Dragon’s roar no longer bold.

Turns her back and walks away.

War will not be waged today.

Will not war.

The I’s Have It

The I’s have it:

I, individual, feel so

insubstantial,

isolated,

invisible,

inconsequential.

I, individual, want so much to be

important,

invincible,

instrumental,

influential.

I, individual,

don’t know if it’s too late,

robbed of my

innocence,

insouciance,

imperviousness,

imagination

I, individual,

one day to be collected,

dispossessed of my

immortality.

Glimmer

Time passed, love lost.

Love lost, time past.

And so I ask you

now…

Is there a

glimmer

of anything

that once brought a smile,

however small and fleeting,

to your lips?

I felt the cold

inside your shadow

when you turned your back

to leave.

Is there an echo

in your ear

of my heartbeat

where you laid your head

on my chest

and whispered of your love?

Do you now say, in your

calculated callousness,

that not only should we have never been,

but you will act as if we never were?

If my heart was anything to harm you,

it was a kindling you set afire.

You hardened it to break off all vestiges

of love to remake, and rearm yourself

into the bomb you are,

laying waste to those who would dare embrace you.

My own eyes glimmer now,

but whether from the hot rage

or bottomless sadness,

I know not.

Only let the crows come,

and take these wretched eyes,

feasting on the memories of you.

Then I will stumble off

to finish forgetting you,

in the

glimmering

blackness of perpetual night.