This is an extension of a piece I wrote a while back that was short, found in my "short collection two." The other day I was reading through and more came to me, so here is the extended version:
Until death comes
Until my final breath comes
I'll breathe deep from wells sprung
from mouth
Swallow doubt and reach out to
East, West, North, and South; all around
At the very least I'll speak
My mind in time with verse and rhyme
And listen in kind
On this page, mine is yours,
Yours is mine
Until death comes.
Until life ends
Until all strife ends
I'll strive to love in ways
Only God can comprehend
Storge – affection, a love expected
Philia – friendship, a love respected
Eros – romance, a love connected
Agape – without condition, a love perfected
Build frameworks for spires
Smelted by heart-fires
Towers of selflessness and devotion
Devoid of all emotion save adoration
Because hate destroys nations
And so through my mouth I'll try and
Speak salvation
Until life ends.
Dum spiro spero – While I breathe, I hope.
6.17.2010
6.15.2010
on ducks and shooting stars
Lone ducks are hard to spot at night
Floating on Lake Wateree (Windsor)
But plentiful feathers on its tail are white
And they well reflect the pale moonlight
Thus making them slightly easier to see.
Back and forth the lone duck does swim
In an unverifiable figure eight
His summoning quacks echo in the moonlight dim
As he calls his lover back to him
Though she never arrives, so patiently he'll wait.
When looking up at the star-freckled sky
Wondering what celestial beings there may be
The pale dust trail of a meteor goes by
As the lone duck's lover may quickly fly
Overhead, his solemn call her ear cannot yet reach.
And so my eyes, and yours as well
Call the heavenly sent bodies our own;
Wishes upon them made. Don't tell.
We'll depart on seeing three strikes of the bell
And leave the duck to his paddlings alone.
Then off to bed we both retire
I to mine, and you to yours
Somewhere else two minds now conspire
Of wishes wished and stars admired
While up above a meteor still soars.
Floating on Lake Wateree (Windsor)
But plentiful feathers on its tail are white
And they well reflect the pale moonlight
Thus making them slightly easier to see.
Back and forth the lone duck does swim
In an unverifiable figure eight
His summoning quacks echo in the moonlight dim
As he calls his lover back to him
Though she never arrives, so patiently he'll wait.
When looking up at the star-freckled sky
Wondering what celestial beings there may be
The pale dust trail of a meteor goes by
As the lone duck's lover may quickly fly
Overhead, his solemn call her ear cannot yet reach.
And so my eyes, and yours as well
Call the heavenly sent bodies our own;
Wishes upon them made. Don't tell.
We'll depart on seeing three strikes of the bell
And leave the duck to his paddlings alone.
Then off to bed we both retire
I to mine, and you to yours
Somewhere else two minds now conspire
Of wishes wished and stars admired
While up above a meteor still soars.
life song
People say that music is life but
I contend that life is music.
Everything you're composed of composes
a unique composition so open up your
Mind's mouth and use it.
When I write a song it's more than just
Ink on pages with notes and musical phrases;
It's me celebrating what today is by adding
Parts of myself in stages.
A heart beat bass drum, treble tears, and the
Trembling tremolo of my shaking fears to start.
I want to combine my assonance and consonance
To create a dissonance that causes your
Tympanic membranes to dance.
I want to whisper with crashing cymbals and
Produce a din with something as thin as
a tin thimble; form overtones that you
Can only hear with your chromosomes.
The curvature of your backbone is a saxophone
And notes slapped out in a funkadelic style
Come together to form your spinal chord,
The air made hazy with the smoke from a
Parliament, of course.
Take a hammer to your brain cells and hear
Bells echo in your cerebellum.
I want to wrap my hands in paper and play
Guitar till my fingers bleed,
Red florets writing out my life's song for you
To play back to me, soulfully, allowing every
Note to reach into memory and conjure up the
Reasons I wrote that song in the first place.
I want to touch your soul's face with melodies
That return your spirit's grace to how it is in
Its innermost space. Eyes closed, mouth agape;
Letting words and notes take the place of breath,
Inhalation and exhalation, exultation
A total tonal intellectual invasion.
Reverberation digestion, taking in aurally and
Regurgitation orally, an ominous vomitous flow
From me; never ending, no pretending that the heart of me
is just part of what you're starting to see.
So listen closely to this lyrical flow presented to thee.
It may be an unfinished symphony but don't worry.
My life has only just begun to be.
People say that music is life but
I contend that life is music.
Everything you're composed of composes
a unique composition so open up your
Mind's mouth and use it.
I contend that life is music.
Everything you're composed of composes
a unique composition so open up your
Mind's mouth and use it.
When I write a song it's more than just
Ink on pages with notes and musical phrases;
It's me celebrating what today is by adding
Parts of myself in stages.
A heart beat bass drum, treble tears, and the
Trembling tremolo of my shaking fears to start.
I want to combine my assonance and consonance
To create a dissonance that causes your
Tympanic membranes to dance.
I want to whisper with crashing cymbals and
Produce a din with something as thin as
a tin thimble; form overtones that you
Can only hear with your chromosomes.
The curvature of your backbone is a saxophone
And notes slapped out in a funkadelic style
Come together to form your spinal chord,
The air made hazy with the smoke from a
Parliament, of course.
Take a hammer to your brain cells and hear
Bells echo in your cerebellum.
I want to wrap my hands in paper and play
Guitar till my fingers bleed,
Red florets writing out my life's song for you
To play back to me, soulfully, allowing every
Note to reach into memory and conjure up the
Reasons I wrote that song in the first place.
I want to touch your soul's face with melodies
That return your spirit's grace to how it is in
Its innermost space. Eyes closed, mouth agape;
Letting words and notes take the place of breath,
Inhalation and exhalation, exultation
A total tonal intellectual invasion.
Reverberation digestion, taking in aurally and
Regurgitation orally, an ominous vomitous flow
From me; never ending, no pretending that the heart of me
is just part of what you're starting to see.
So listen closely to this lyrical flow presented to thee.
It may be an unfinished symphony but don't worry.
My life has only just begun to be.
People say that music is life but
I contend that life is music.
Everything you're composed of composes
a unique composition so open up your
Mind's mouth and use it.
nomenclature
My name is Blaine Eugene Young II.
European blood runs through my veins as
Strongly as the names that represent that heritage
Flow from my mouth.
Blaine from Gaelic meaning “strong and lean.”
Eugene from Greek meaning “well-born and noble.”
Young from Old English meaning…well, meaning “young.”
And the II, a numeral of Roman origin to signify that I
Proudly bear the entirety of my father’s name.
And this is what bothers me…having that privilege, I mean.
Because while I have that right, I repeatedly meet
Black men, women, and children who share my Old English
Last name. How is it that men with blood from Africa coursing
Through their bodies to a beat of hearts pumping since the
Creation of Man can share this trait with me?
My deliberation leads to consternation as I realize that
It’s because Youngs from generations past decided that
Their Anglo-Saxon nomenclature was superior to that
Of the ones shared by generations unfamiliar to them.
This is for the men who lost their family’s
Last name legacy to slavery;
Men who had the right to give their sons
Something to pass down taken from them by force
Locked down by bars and chains,
By bushel baskets and whips.
This is for the men who were forced to wear
The name Young on their backs, etched by bits
Of stone, bone, and glass; surpassing human tolerance
And renaming not just mind but body,
Calling it “Owned.”
Can you see them? See the hands of wives
Rubbing a homemade salve into the raised flesh,
A human Braille, spelling out a name given
By white men to erase African roots.
Can you hear them? Free men taking on the name
“Freeman” to regain a sense of independence
From so-called men who feared what they
Did not understand.
Well I don’t understand either. And I never will.
Because my name is Blaine Eugene Young II,
The name of my father. And I will call my son a Young.
And I never thought that I’d be one to call for reparations
Because money cannot erase hundreds of year of subjugation
But I am calling for them now…appellation reparations.
But how do you give someone their history back?
I don’t know. Maybe my son can figure it out.
European blood runs through my veins as
Strongly as the names that represent that heritage
Flow from my mouth.
Blaine from Gaelic meaning “strong and lean.”
Eugene from Greek meaning “well-born and noble.”
Young from Old English meaning…well, meaning “young.”
And the II, a numeral of Roman origin to signify that I
Proudly bear the entirety of my father’s name.
And this is what bothers me…having that privilege, I mean.
Because while I have that right, I repeatedly meet
Black men, women, and children who share my Old English
Last name. How is it that men with blood from Africa coursing
Through their bodies to a beat of hearts pumping since the
Creation of Man can share this trait with me?
My deliberation leads to consternation as I realize that
It’s because Youngs from generations past decided that
Their Anglo-Saxon nomenclature was superior to that
Of the ones shared by generations unfamiliar to them.
This is for the men who lost their family’s
Last name legacy to slavery;
Men who had the right to give their sons
Something to pass down taken from them by force
Locked down by bars and chains,
By bushel baskets and whips.
This is for the men who were forced to wear
The name Young on their backs, etched by bits
Of stone, bone, and glass; surpassing human tolerance
And renaming not just mind but body,
Calling it “Owned.”
Can you see them? See the hands of wives
Rubbing a homemade salve into the raised flesh,
A human Braille, spelling out a name given
By white men to erase African roots.
Can you hear them? Free men taking on the name
“Freeman” to regain a sense of independence
From so-called men who feared what they
Did not understand.
Well I don’t understand either. And I never will.
Because my name is Blaine Eugene Young II,
The name of my father. And I will call my son a Young.
And I never thought that I’d be one to call for reparations
Because money cannot erase hundreds of year of subjugation
But I am calling for them now…appellation reparations.
But how do you give someone their history back?
I don’t know. Maybe my son can figure it out.
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