Just My Thoughts: Twenty – Seven (Two Brothers - Seven Years Apart) ...

Just My Thoughts: Twenty – Seven (Two Brothers - Seven Years Apart) ...: A little  Afro  hung above a face that was the color of his grandmothers cornbread/ He spent his early time alone and seclud...

Twenty – Seven (Two Brothers - Seven Years Apart) #Poetry #REMIX

A child was born/ and at that moment/
A little Afro hung above a little face/ the color of coffee with two drops of cream diluted/

He spent his early time alone and secluded/ Blocks, Firetrucks, crayons and puzzles/

Developed an artistic sense/ curious to know what made the clock go tick – tock/

The energy around him was filled with optimism/

Catholic School/ only 14 other kids in his class/ a teacher and an assistant teacher/

Mother and father watch the little Afro grow into something magical/

“My One Son” 

His mother called him by that name/

Then came another/

December 14^Th 1977/

In came the Younger Brother/

The year he came there was a war for the souls of the ghetto/

Pharmaceutical products flooded certain communities by grand design/

The energy around him was filled with cynicism/

Making the younger brother of “The One Son” grittier than he was/

Folding bunk beds/ is where the brothers laid their heads/

Late night it was also where the Little Afro told many stories and his Younger Brother would ask many questions/

Two brothers, seven years apart/

You wouldn't know this had you closed your eyes and heard them talk to each other tho/

Standing on the same Earth back to back looking at 2 different horizons/

The seasons changed and the little Afro came of age/

He felt compelled to go and baptize himself in the waters of manhood/

His younger brother saw no need for him to leave tho/

In his eyes/ they were already baptized/ minus the holy water/

This water came from sewer pipes built by the armies who dismantled the black family/

Doctor! Doctor! Nervous breakdown in room seven!

The family goes through crisis/

A mother gets pushed to the very edge of craaAaazy/

The little Afro has gone far away/

When the little Afro returns the two brothers do not recognize each other/

Two brothers Seven Years Apart/

Now also separated by the last seven years they spent apart/

Their war is a spiritual war/

A dichotomy of styles and personal truths/

The Little Afro still told many stories and his Younger Brother would still ask many questions/

You wouldn't know this had you closed your eyes and heard them talking tho/

For this time there was testosterone in their tone/ There was yelling/ there was shouting/

Posturing and bold bluffs/ chest to chest before fist of cuffs/

Ashy knuckles after scuffles/ frozen hot pockets on swollen eye sockets/

Laughter came after...

Two brothers seven years apart/

Doing what brothers do when boys become men/

Then the system took the youngest boy/

The system that profits from public fear robbed him of his precious freedom/

Another seven years would pass/

Again the two brothers did not recognize each other/

Yet still, the Little Afro continued to tell many stories and his Younger Brother would still ask many questions/

The stories were filled with optimism and the questions were filled with cynicism/

Their different perspectives taught them both the value of each other/

In spite of the different horizons they looked at, they still stood back to back/

They grew to love how much stronger two spines back to back were as opposed to one/

They grew to respect the fact/ that they had each other's back/

Once love and respect intervened something magical happened/

Healing began and for the first time since they were both children/

They were at peace/ For they both realized that they were two versions of the same man/

Only separated by two different ideologies/ and seven years of time/

- GB

Paradise Island... by #Collective member @BWALTERPoetry

A void seems to appear in your absence.

When you leave you are free to coast along the breeze and during your levitation. I hope you gain awareness to be mindful of your actions.

Slowly feel every subtle detail given from sensations sprouting through your consciousness, all the way down to your physical interactions.

Pay attention to the poetic chemistry, theatrically performing, and its progressions for your mind's eye to see. As you dissect you're own questions to see if it's all connected.

Or if it isn't.

Try to discover, that all is not what it appears to be, unless you fuel its energy, to be a continuous factor reappearing in future chapters.

A problem can only manifest if stored in the depths of your psyche trapped behind a rusted lock. Without any attempts for a solution to set it free.

Along with false emotions and ill notions. Eventually, will fade and drift away if never given the opportunity to be noticed.

Once that happens. You harness a magic that few encounter. But grasps it when recognizing its true power.

For that absence, has been a journey towards self-discovery.  If ever attained, emit that radiant energy at your own frequency.

Once projected out towards the world. You realize entirely, you're the key for that void to be restored.


Journey well.
You're one....

Byron Walter 

#SALUTE    

Inventory #REMIX

My Mother once told me that her father was the type of man who hated not being the smartest man in the room/

And although I am not as obsessive as grandpa/

I will beat myself up for not being better between the ears/

Unfortunately, beating yourself up is not a good strategy for winning anything/

Even the smartest of the smart, know they don't know everything/ 

The smartest also know that your mental approach is key when opening locked doors when success is on its opposite side/

If you beat yourself up/ think you won’t win/ not good enough to win/ or better yet/ feel lucky to even be in the position to play/

You will more than likely lose every time/

Just happy to be in the play – offs/ gets you swept in the 1^st round/

Self-discipline is hard enough without the self-inflicted beat down/

What seems to work better than frustration is adaptation/

What seems to be a big part of the solution is evolution/

What seems to stimulate positive production is negative destruction/

So pardon me as I take inventory of my old house so that I may move a new/

My 1^st stop/ is at the cigar box/ in my home office that gives birth to thought/

I open the box and so many creations are wrapped in lyricism and metaphor like cigar paper/

I see old perceptions of what love should be/ blow away like burning ash to make way for the fire love is/

Moving on to the spice rack/ Just below the cupboard of my passions/

I see inspiration just between the cayenne and the pepper/

Many dashes go over my brushed off shoulders and into a steaming pot of water/

Drops of passion overflow as oxygen gets released from the blood in my pumping heart/

The beauty is in its simplicity/

To some its transparency is perceived as weakness/

Must be why they point arrows at the dragon’s chest/

The arrows never kill him/ but they do make him mad on rare occasion/ 

Somehow I identify with his annoyance completely/

My wings spread from my back/ looking like Samuel Jack/ in the role of the Archangel Gabriel/

Moving forward through this motherfucking house I step/

The team greats me and shows me the city where my home resides/

Sacramento/

I can almost hear the trumpets blow/

All the while poets hitting me with bars and game/

A peace sign and a raised glass goes to all language lovers/

Let’s step out of the kitchen and continue with the inventory/

My living room is filled/

Looks like I've got company/

Cats that are one man shows/ Improvisation aficionados/ spirits that spin free as the wind/

Minds that spin like open faced watches/

Onto the bedroom/ a tree is in the corner/

It protects me from myself at night/

Sap drips from the bark like the tears from lonely prayer/

Slowly down the wood it goes/

A bed is here telling my lips to keep a secret so I follow suit like the Queen and King of Hearts/

Onto the patio I see the moon I share with the universe/ it reminds me of my selfish ways/

I want her all to myself/

I want the universe to know that she belongs to me/

I don’t apologize for this verse for they see your light inside my eyes/

Let’s move forward to the dining room/

A meal is on the table/

A hot dish with spiritual vitamins/

I take small bites hoping the flavor will last longer/

Beyond the plane of the physical/

A taste my soul will remember/

A Napkin at the corners of my mouth before I start walking to the closet door/

Pause/

My vengeance lives in here/

He’s 12 years old/ he’s shy and he’s the ugliest child you've ever seen/

Because I feed him disappointment/

Love finds a way to make him beautiful/

No apology for the verse but an apology to a darker me/

For not adding more sunlit readings, writing and prayer/

I am determined to change his diet to blessings and appreciation/

Inventory now tallied at the conclusion/

I move forward appreciative knowing that the blessings are endless/

GB