My cheeks were sore.
I stood at that window on my toes until my Achilles felt like worn out trusses.
In my pain, I would run to the TV and turn on the news station.
My stomach had that light, airy, tingling feeling,
As though I'd digested a bevy of butterflies.
The anticipation manifested itself in my legs,
They became restless...shaking like I was sitting on a jackhammer.
Then, the news broke in, "This is a special weather report."
Despite my cheeks feeling like overstretched rubber bands,
I was able to grin.
"There is a severe thunderstorm warning for all counties in the metro Atlanta area,
please take cover now. There have been reported funnel clouds, and hail as well."
Before the weatherman could get another sentence out,
I ran back to the window.
Ominous clouds, large dark grey puffs of havoc,
Were headed straight for us.
Mom was already headed downstairs, apprehensive as usual.
Dad on the other hand, was trying to find a flashlight.
The sound of him rumbling through the cabinets was interjected upon,
boom-BOOOOM boom tap. Thunder ripped through the house,
Leaving a noise similar to that of 1000 pennies coming to rest after being spun.
Most kids would've been terrified, but not I.
I just wanted the result of the rain.
As if Mother Nature was making her own alphabet,
Lighting was streaking across the sky, her protean manuscript.
I felt like a basketball player, with the lightning as my camera flashes.
Dad implored me to join him and Mom downstairs, but he knew it was to no avail,
And just told me he'd come get me if he felt it was that bad.
No sooner than he said that,
Rain in sheets thick enough to mystify a man with cataracts began to fall.
We had a fairly large house, so the resulting sound was tranquil,
As though I were a child in a womb while my mother was showering.
The thunder and lightning continued, and I just stood in the window.
Between us having the lights off and the cloud cover,
The house had been saturated gray.
I always did enjoy that particular color of sunlight that was given during storms.
Soon, hail began to fall, which sounded like marbles being poured out of a glass bowl.
It was ephemeral though, with the entire storm passing 15 minutes after that.
With the alacrity and determination of an archaeologist running to see a newly excavated fossil,
I slipped on shoes and ran outside.
The front yard was soaked, and before I took two good steps my legs were drenched from the calf down.
I had to go see it though...this is what I was smiling about.
There was a slight drizzle, like a falling mist greeting and cooling my face that was warm with glee
The humidity was extreme, causing me to gasp for breath though only running a few feet
I was wet, warm, and refreshed, but this was not what I wanted from nature;
I only wanted to see the mud.
When I looked down and saw it, the excitement in me boiled over,
My eyes began to water and I jumped up and down, only furthering how wet I was.
Mud was always so amazing to me...
Water and dirt, two totally different elements,
Came together seamlessly.
It was a concept that I wished applied to life.
I wished that Whites, who were always flowing in some direction towards betterment,
And Blacks, who were strong and solid,
Could come together and make a peaceful mud.
I wished that America, with its fluid motives and desires,
And North Korea, with its staunch stance
Could meet in the middle and make some mud.
I wanted more mud in the world....
Water and dirt are ok, but sometimes you have to come together.
Mud was strong too, as ants used it to build their homes.
Just think if the mud I had imagined was that strong...
Strong bonds between opposing factions in the world...that would mean peace!
Mud does turn back to dirt though, which could mean the deterioration of relations,
But the rain of diplomacy could build it back.
What a novel concept...
Or maybe, just maybe,
I was simply a kid that used to love mud for one reason, and one reason only:
I loved being a dirty little boy, trying to be a 'manly man.'
My thoughts are a bit muddy...
So who knows?
-A. Lewis
Friday, July 24, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A Poem: Breakfast - 7/23/09
Oh how I loved breakfast.
It was the only time we were together.
Mama, Papa, and me
All gathered around a table happily,
Enjoying bacon, eggs, and flapjacks.
Papa would update us on his work,
That steel stuff was dangerous and kept him on his toes.
It paid awfully well,
Considering what Papa said he made in the South.
All that work in those searing, unforgiving fields
Work designed to forsake human life,
In the name of profit.
But we had escaped that now,
A once destitute family strained by meager wages
That was able to migrate north and begin anew.
What was our first tradition?
Breakfast.
We were so close to each other.
I always hugged my parents before they left;
Mama would clutch me so tightly that
I thought osmosis would take place between her breast milk and my cheek.
Papa would always pat me on the head when I hugged him,
A 'manly' show of affection.
Both left early in the morning,
Papa to the steel mill
And Mama to go clean up houses.
I went to school shortly after,
And always enjoyed going to school full.
Breakfast prepared me for learning,
Something I was good at.
I was the best in my class, though we were all Black.
Mama and Papa saved all they could,
They wanted me to go to some White school in the future.
We would discuss that kind of stuff at supper,
Though that was rough at times...
Mama and Papa dealt with a lot of racism,
Papa especially.
Some White men felt Papa was intruding,
Taking up a job that another White could have.
He'd come home perturbed,
But would be all better by breakfast.
Papa was a strong man though, not backing down.
He was polite to those mean Whites, and refused to quit his job.
Mama was always worried something would happen to Papa,
But he would allay her fears every morning at breakfast.
There was one morning though, where it was different...
He had a look of trepidation on his face,
The wrinkles on his forehead resembling stacks of pressure mounting on him.
He told us that a man wanted his job,
And that he felt his coworkers were plotting against him.
Mama was scared for Papa...and he told her he'd be fine.
Well, Mama got home that evening,
She was still worried. I told her that I hadn't seen him,
And figured he was working late.
Then there was banging on the door,
Loud pounding.
Mama opened the door,
And then it began.
The white men burst in,
At least 7 or 8 of them.
They were carrying my father
Who looked a complete mess...
They had beaten him senseless
His clothing soiled and bloody.
They tossed him on the floor,
And blood immediately began pooling beneath him...
I wanted to scream, but the sound escaped me...
I hid in the kitchen, while Mama dropped down next to him in tears.
She moaned in such deep sorrow that my own tears began to fall,
The man she fell in love with
The man she worked in those fields with,
The man who helped her get to freedom
The father of her child, lay strewn out in his own blood.
The men in sanguine-tinged clothing yelled and cussed at her,
Telling her that she better not tell anyone about this
But my mother, being the strong Black woman she was,
Got up and cussed right back at them.
Not to be content with trading expletives,
A young one bent down and dipped his fingers in my father's blood.
After rubbing his fingers, he slapped Mama so hard, she couldn't help but fall.
And then....they all raped her.
This woman, a descendant of a beautiful civilization,
Had been reduced to being raped while partially immersed in her husband's blood.
My heart had been broken...all my love had been taken from me.
My father, the pillar of strength and my role model, was nothing but a ragdoll,
While my mother, the paragon by which I judged other women and the nurturer of my life,
Was but one ravaged orifice.
My world was....well it wasn't.
Those men left seeds of hatred in my mother...
And once they finished, they proceeded to bludgeon her, until her skull was but a crescent.
Then they departed.
All I could do was stand over them...looking down at my life, a puddle of blood.
Two people that meant so much to me, were but carcasses.
By now it was dark, and only twilight gleamed through the window
Such an appropriately somber setting...
Their deaths would lay in the dark just as their bodies
While it would shine in my head as the moonlight made it so in my eyes.
And so I sat, staring at the remains
Wondering what remained for me.
When love is taken, what is left for thee?
I could not scorn, for that would make me as dark as the Whites
I could not complain, for Negros had no rights
I could not love, for I had no relatives anywhere near
I could not forget, for I would never see hatred so sheer
So I did all I could do...which was drop on my knees and pray
Pray to the Lord that I could live to see the day
My heart was in Satan's clasp and needed extrication
I begged my mighty Savior for peace and salvation
When my knees got tired I layed a few feet away
The last I saw of my parents would be the next day.
For the first time in years, I didn't wake up to breakfast.
I awoke to the putrid odor of death, and the shine of the sun on my mother's necklace
I went to the closet and retrieved what was supposed to be my college fund
After counting it up, I appraised what needed to be done
With my face ablaze, trying to hold back tears
I blew a kiss goodbye to each of my dears
When I closed the door to our home, what happened became the checkered past
It was time to make a future; so to pay homage, I decided to break fast.
-A. Lewis
It was the only time we were together.
Mama, Papa, and me
All gathered around a table happily,
Enjoying bacon, eggs, and flapjacks.
Papa would update us on his work,
That steel stuff was dangerous and kept him on his toes.
It paid awfully well,
Considering what Papa said he made in the South.
All that work in those searing, unforgiving fields
Work designed to forsake human life,
In the name of profit.
But we had escaped that now,
A once destitute family strained by meager wages
That was able to migrate north and begin anew.
What was our first tradition?
Breakfast.
We were so close to each other.
I always hugged my parents before they left;
Mama would clutch me so tightly that
I thought osmosis would take place between her breast milk and my cheek.
Papa would always pat me on the head when I hugged him,
A 'manly' show of affection.
Both left early in the morning,
Papa to the steel mill
And Mama to go clean up houses.
I went to school shortly after,
And always enjoyed going to school full.
Breakfast prepared me for learning,
Something I was good at.
I was the best in my class, though we were all Black.
Mama and Papa saved all they could,
They wanted me to go to some White school in the future.
We would discuss that kind of stuff at supper,
Though that was rough at times...
Mama and Papa dealt with a lot of racism,
Papa especially.
Some White men felt Papa was intruding,
Taking up a job that another White could have.
He'd come home perturbed,
But would be all better by breakfast.
Papa was a strong man though, not backing down.
He was polite to those mean Whites, and refused to quit his job.
Mama was always worried something would happen to Papa,
But he would allay her fears every morning at breakfast.
There was one morning though, where it was different...
He had a look of trepidation on his face,
The wrinkles on his forehead resembling stacks of pressure mounting on him.
He told us that a man wanted his job,
And that he felt his coworkers were plotting against him.
Mama was scared for Papa...and he told her he'd be fine.
Well, Mama got home that evening,
She was still worried. I told her that I hadn't seen him,
And figured he was working late.
Then there was banging on the door,
Loud pounding.
Mama opened the door,
And then it began.
The white men burst in,
At least 7 or 8 of them.
They were carrying my father
Who looked a complete mess...
They had beaten him senseless
His clothing soiled and bloody.
They tossed him on the floor,
And blood immediately began pooling beneath him...
I wanted to scream, but the sound escaped me...
I hid in the kitchen, while Mama dropped down next to him in tears.
She moaned in such deep sorrow that my own tears began to fall,
The man she fell in love with
The man she worked in those fields with,
The man who helped her get to freedom
The father of her child, lay strewn out in his own blood.
The men in sanguine-tinged clothing yelled and cussed at her,
Telling her that she better not tell anyone about this
But my mother, being the strong Black woman she was,
Got up and cussed right back at them.
Not to be content with trading expletives,
A young one bent down and dipped his fingers in my father's blood.
After rubbing his fingers, he slapped Mama so hard, she couldn't help but fall.
And then....they all raped her.
This woman, a descendant of a beautiful civilization,
Had been reduced to being raped while partially immersed in her husband's blood.
My heart had been broken...all my love had been taken from me.
My father, the pillar of strength and my role model, was nothing but a ragdoll,
While my mother, the paragon by which I judged other women and the nurturer of my life,
Was but one ravaged orifice.
My world was....well it wasn't.
Those men left seeds of hatred in my mother...
And once they finished, they proceeded to bludgeon her, until her skull was but a crescent.
Then they departed.
All I could do was stand over them...looking down at my life, a puddle of blood.
Two people that meant so much to me, were but carcasses.
By now it was dark, and only twilight gleamed through the window
Such an appropriately somber setting...
Their deaths would lay in the dark just as their bodies
While it would shine in my head as the moonlight made it so in my eyes.
And so I sat, staring at the remains
Wondering what remained for me.
When love is taken, what is left for thee?
I could not scorn, for that would make me as dark as the Whites
I could not complain, for Negros had no rights
I could not love, for I had no relatives anywhere near
I could not forget, for I would never see hatred so sheer
So I did all I could do...which was drop on my knees and pray
Pray to the Lord that I could live to see the day
My heart was in Satan's clasp and needed extrication
I begged my mighty Savior for peace and salvation
When my knees got tired I layed a few feet away
The last I saw of my parents would be the next day.
For the first time in years, I didn't wake up to breakfast.
I awoke to the putrid odor of death, and the shine of the sun on my mother's necklace
I went to the closet and retrieved what was supposed to be my college fund
After counting it up, I appraised what needed to be done
With my face ablaze, trying to hold back tears
I blew a kiss goodbye to each of my dears
When I closed the door to our home, what happened became the checkered past
It was time to make a future; so to pay homage, I decided to break fast.
-A. Lewis
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Pyromaniacal - 7/22/09
First and foremost,
I'm no pyromaniac.
However, I've been playing with fire.
How hot it is...
Mm, mm, mm.
Such a curvaceous flame
Brilliant and warm,
It's heat both deterrent and inviting.
This was no ordinary fire though,
The ashes scattered about it
Were clear indication of it being fed
And the core was flashing, nearly pulsating,
As though it was constantly growing.
Such calescence should worry a man...
But the allure was just too much,
Playing on my doubts
By leading me to believe it's warmth was worth the risk of burns.
I could not deny this possibility...
I had never fed a fire before, I had only been burned.
And so I devoted myself,
Finding anything I could to feed this fire.
Be it sage, time, roses, or whatever I could muster
The fire consumed it all,
But without emitting any heat.
It was effulgent yes,
But it didn't nothing to satisfy me
Which caused me to grow languid...
The symbiotic relationship had grown parasitic.
Whenever I thought of walking away,
The flame would flash blue,
A spectacle that left me in pure flabbergast.
The conflagration struck chords in me,
Featuring a bluish-purple tinge, appealing to aesthetic senses of my brain
And such heat that could only be matched by the fervor I have for life.
But, this became the typical rigamarole.
Every time I was fed up with the situation,
The flame showed another side.
And so, now, I am at an impasse.
This flame, this shining beacon of nature's beauty
Uses me because I am convenient,
And am willing to do what most men would not,
Yet I hold out hope that this flame will simply reciprocate.
If I stay, I'll never have the warmth I seek;
If I leave, I may not find a flame as spectacular.
Until I issue a quietus,
I guess I'm just playing with fire.
...Guess I'm a bit of a Pyro after all.
-A. Lewis
I'm no pyromaniac.
However, I've been playing with fire.
How hot it is...
Mm, mm, mm.
Such a curvaceous flame
Brilliant and warm,
It's heat both deterrent and inviting.
This was no ordinary fire though,
The ashes scattered about it
Were clear indication of it being fed
And the core was flashing, nearly pulsating,
As though it was constantly growing.
Such calescence should worry a man...
But the allure was just too much,
Playing on my doubts
By leading me to believe it's warmth was worth the risk of burns.
I could not deny this possibility...
I had never fed a fire before, I had only been burned.
And so I devoted myself,
Finding anything I could to feed this fire.
Be it sage, time, roses, or whatever I could muster
The fire consumed it all,
But without emitting any heat.
It was effulgent yes,
But it didn't nothing to satisfy me
Which caused me to grow languid...
The symbiotic relationship had grown parasitic.
Whenever I thought of walking away,
The flame would flash blue,
A spectacle that left me in pure flabbergast.
The conflagration struck chords in me,
Featuring a bluish-purple tinge, appealing to aesthetic senses of my brain
And such heat that could only be matched by the fervor I have for life.
But, this became the typical rigamarole.
Every time I was fed up with the situation,
The flame showed another side.
And so, now, I am at an impasse.
This flame, this shining beacon of nature's beauty
Uses me because I am convenient,
And am willing to do what most men would not,
Yet I hold out hope that this flame will simply reciprocate.
If I stay, I'll never have the warmth I seek;
If I leave, I may not find a flame as spectacular.
Until I issue a quietus,
I guess I'm just playing with fire.
...Guess I'm a bit of a Pyro after all.
-A. Lewis
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Sunrise Posting - 7/19/09
"He that can accomplish all on his own is not strong, he is merely capable. He that asks for help at times is strong; strong enough to accept his limitations, and humble himself for the completion of a goal."
"Some women these days are like an oasis; they are nice to look at, and appeal to your desire, but when it comes to reality they're just not there, as though they live in a fantasy. Many guys are like tattoos; they're nice to see, even nicer when you first get them; but after a while, they fade and their true colors begin to show. Point being, know what you're getting into before you get hurt."
-A. Lewis
"Some women these days are like an oasis; they are nice to look at, and appeal to your desire, but when it comes to reality they're just not there, as though they live in a fantasy. Many guys are like tattoos; they're nice to see, even nicer when you first get them; but after a while, they fade and their true colors begin to show. Point being, know what you're getting into before you get hurt."
-A. Lewis
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Just One This Time - 7/16/09
"Fear is the threshold of love; it is up to you to choose whether you cross it, or yield to it."
-A. Lewis
-A. Lewis
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Titillating Tidbits! - 7/12/09
The things we understand least in life help us to understand the most; however, this is only through the prismatic lens of retrospect, which diffracts our once singular view so that we may see the same occurrences in different lights, allowing for deeper understanding and more mental clarity.
Logic is but a path, a set of thoroughfares built to lead you to an answer or a conclusion. However, understanding is a never-ending archipelago, surrounded by a sea of questions, answers, conundrums and such, to be traversed by free thought. And so I ask: are you an explorer? Or do you simply drive the streets everyday as though life is a 9 to 5.
If you were poetry in motion, I think you'd probably consist of elaborate metaphors and elevated diction, apropo of your eloquent beauty.
She made me feel like sand, coarse, because she was so fine and of course, she was so very fly, but when I came at her she didn't hit me with an attitude, this elicited my gratitude, her altitude made me want to change my latitude, told me she didn't have a dude, knew I had to move, so I invited her to my place, told her I was a poet and would spit a few bars, took her to the balcony for a night amongst the stars.
-A. Lewis
Logic is but a path, a set of thoroughfares built to lead you to an answer or a conclusion. However, understanding is a never-ending archipelago, surrounded by a sea of questions, answers, conundrums and such, to be traversed by free thought. And so I ask: are you an explorer? Or do you simply drive the streets everyday as though life is a 9 to 5.
If you were poetry in motion, I think you'd probably consist of elaborate metaphors and elevated diction, apropo of your eloquent beauty.
She made me feel like sand, coarse, because she was so fine and of course, she was so very fly, but when I came at her she didn't hit me with an attitude, this elicited my gratitude, her altitude made me want to change my latitude, told me she didn't have a dude, knew I had to move, so I invited her to my place, told her I was a poet and would spit a few bars, took her to the balcony for a night amongst the stars.
-A. Lewis
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
An Interesting Piece - 7/7/09
Our heartbeats form the metronome of the path we take, paved by the coalescence of our differences under the premise that we complete each other. I can only gaze at you as such for I have never seen a light so bright and complete, and full light that is my sun yet my north star, leading me with warmth. How novel it is, and as I move closer to this light, I begin to lose myself, as love begins its dilapidation; we are being stripped down, you become a light, as I become the night, the body in which you find comfort, solace, and rest. The conjoining of two such bodies creates eternity, as my moon and your sun, your day and my night, melt seamlessly and effortlessly into one condition, that of unconditional love and endless affection, bonded by immeasurable pleasures of both the mind and flesh...with needs met and wants satisfied, we are one.
-A. Lewis
-A. Lewis
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