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

Just My Thoughts: Sucka Emcee... #Poetry

Just My Thoughts: Sucka Emcee... #Poetry: The time between this verse and the verse I wrote before this has been awhile/ I consider awhile to be one full moon and then 2...

"Sucka Emcee" #Poetry #REMIX

The time between this verse and the verse I wrote before this has been awhile/

I consider awhile to be one full moon and then 2 full moons later/

That very night, inspiration herself came to visit me bathed in moonlight and irony/

The irony was this/

She came by way of the Moon/ But she spoke on how we popped and locked to the record
"Planet Rock"

She spoke of Hip Hop culture and the days of Boom Bap/

How consciousness moved underground/ and how popular culture became wack/

She opened the pocket behind me/ then she pushed me and I fell back/

At that/ very moment an approach was decided/

The approach to this verse/

Like the angle of a pen aimed towards paper/

The angle of a turntable's needle laying in the groove of vinyl/

The angle of 2 heads tilting just before a kiss/

The angle of a Dragon’s back just before he attacks/

Again I say the approach to the verse was decided/

Inspiration came to me because my love for the culture of Hip Hop is sincere/

And suddenly everything became oh... so... clear/

I decided to give the new punk and old name because he’s really not new at all/

Seeing the past and how much things have changed/

Also showed me how much, many things have stayed the same/

So with a salute to Hip Hop, Jam Master Jay, DJ Run and DMC/

I title this verse to be 

"Sucka Emcee"

Sucka Emcee is my general term for those cats that “Emcee” Sucka shit out of their mouths/

I say “Emcee” because they say shit rhythmically/

I say “Emcee” because they preach shit biblically/

For example/ the cats always speaking on wealth/ how they hustle/ how they pursue it/ how they spend it/ how they blew it/ Yet in real life they're part of the few who actually do it/

I will salute those soldiers/ even if I don't agree/ with their braggadocios philosophy/

But for all those other Cats/ filling their verses with drug packs/ money stacks/ cooking and selling crack/ exaggerated truths and twisted facts/ when their real life day to day doesn't even come close to that/

You are definitely a Sucka Emcee/

I salute you as well but with mixed emotions like I would have at the funeral of a crooked cop/

21 guns fired off at the cemetery/

Cowards can almost smell the gun powder/

Scared to death because thoughts travel faster than bullets/

Making poetry change lanes dangerous like folks who don't check their blind spot/

Now then/

A Sucka Emcee/ could possibly be/ that Cat who speaks with contempt about what you stand to gain/

So consumed by exploiting you they refuse to see the blessings they had coming/

A Sucka Emcee/ could certainly be/ that Cat who talks shit to calm skies and turns bitch when the storm hits/

A Sucka Emcee/ might even be/ that Cat that never follows through/ always speaking on what they’re going to do/ when the intentions aren't matched by ambition/

One who stands at the intersection where dreams become old and regret becomes new/

However the worst kind of Sucka Emcee/ is an artist who expresses fearfully/ without the courage to stay true to them-self/ afraid people won’t accept who they are to the core/

A Sucka Emcee/ could even be/ a poet very similar to me/

But this one doesn't know his history/

Doesn't pay attention to the faces in the audience/ and isn't in touch with the room and its energy/

A poet who speaks so fast you can’t absorb the poetry/

Simply trying to impress you with cryptic words and a propensity for lyrical memory/

Why would I pretend when it's so much fun being me?

I'm from Queens, and I'm not wrapped to tight so I may not be what you expected to see/

I just had to take it back to Jay, Run and DMC/

So take that/ move back and catch a heart attack/

Because there's nothing in the world that Bleu will ever lack/

GB

Just My Thoughts: Celebration of Life #Music #Video

Just My Thoughts: Celebration of Life #Music #Video

Celebration of Life #Music #Video