A Black Man's Blues

The Indigo Night

2012-05-28T11:34:00.001-04:00

My awakened sleep now hear the cries of silent winds
knocking upon the window glass
of shattered silence as I begin to listen
to the shadows dancing still
against the moonlit spotlight of my imagination.

Silhouettes of bare branches shiver
as the midnight hour sings its arrival
before my eyes could see the motion of time.
A flashlight darkens the room with a translucent light
dressed with purple haze
as a door squeaks;
my eyes scurry and I am left standing
in hesitation unnoticed by the dark.

A phone rings, a glass shatters and a howl
sneaks up from behind shaking me calm
as sweat drips dry upon my palm.
I lose my grip as I float motionless
down upward stairs grasping onto my fall.

I am alone again, eyes wide closed to coherence
as I finally reach the entrance;
an entrance leading out to a long sidewalk
that thirst upon my resistance
but I walk, crawl and walk again hurriedly
to get nowhere fast as the air shifts
me back into reality’s appetite
as another dream
is swallowed by the indigo night.

© 2009
Tarringo T Vaughan

Caleb's Cry

2012-05-09T20:21:00.001-04:00

Flooded by the scars he cries a little boy drowns
in a sea of pain all alone. The innocence
of his youth reaches out,
but no one is there
to grab his hand; there are no open ears
listening to understand and no one hears the drumbeats
of a heart thumping and desperately calling
for just one person to stop the tears
from falling.

Silenced by abandonment he orchestrates
the song of a little boy lost—somewhere
out there
he is on his own trying to find himself a home
where the lacerations of his mind can heal
and the numbness of love can once
again feel.

Abused and emotionally used he shields
himself from the horror behind a life filled with rage
and wonders why he was brought
into this world. Tight to the night he holds
a prayer to be saved;

he wishes to be seen
inside his own dream where a child
can escape the wild and just be a child. He wishes for a place
where his growth no long bleeds from verbal whippings
and the heavy handed slap of neglect. His loneliness
whispers for someone to find his voice

for the internal sadness is not his choice.
Ten years of age suffers in silence
because as the world sleeps
a little boy weeps.

© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Bully

2012-05-08T19:34:00.000-04:00

“If you can make it through the night, there’s a brighter day.” - Tupac Shakur

I see your tears crawling silently on the stairs of fear, alone
no one is near but your cries are heard young child. Emotion
black & blue from the punches of their laughs/the commotion
inside your mind baring scars from the lacerations
of loneliness you feel -- searching but finding no way to deal
with the internal pain that throws you up against
the wall of difference and trips you onto the curb
of your own self-expression.

I feel your heart calling out for someone to grab your fall;
someone just to see that you are someone other
than the names they call you and you are someone other
than the shouts of abuse that has you afraid to step out into a harsh
world and someone who sees that you are someone
other than the echoes of humiliation that threaten to tear
down the walls of your mental stability;
you just need someone to show you that

within you there is an ability to escape and fight back
with the force of just being you. Young child let your individuality shine
because every inch of your soul is someone proud and fine.
Walk strong because no matter how hard the world kicks you
your bones will not bruise. You will not limp
because your mind will not fracture through their attempts
to try dislocating your sense of self. There is always a better day
waiting to show you that you will be okay
and I know now your nights are long
as it is your fear that tomorrow will be cruel
but just remember you are filled with worth and a voice

born to be heard. Believe in you

because life is not a bully.

© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan

In Dedication: A Poem For Stella

2012-04-29T08:26:00.000-04:00

When I think of her, skin a golden bronze
like the ancient shine of an African treasure, I see
the perfect illustration of a woman; a chiseled face
of courageousness with a strength in her heart
no one else could measure.

She was a portrait of hope; gray hair like sparkling silver
glowing in the early August sunlight’s glare
still reminds me of a woman with so much flare. Her eyes
always told the story of a woman fueled with passion
as every tear she ever shed filtered through many
years of compassion as she taught everyone around her
how to heal through failure and how to dream
through darkness.

She was the foundation of our creation; hands like a fine
structure of a rough gentleness gave birth to each of our
souls. Every time she held each child there was a pleasure
in her heart beat which still reminisces as the perfect
lullaby that keeps us brave and standing tall
on our own two feet.

She was the victory of human condition; a soul fine
like the fragrance of an aged wine who
demonstrated balance despite the many hardships
of struggle and lived each day as a challenge
to continue singing lyrics written through her heart
and translated through the memories of each of us
who she had left behind.

She was the bond that held a family; she was the beauty
of forgiveness and growth and she was the genetics
of generosity and prosperity –

she was everything defined through the spirit
of greatness. She was a wife, mother, grandmother, sister
and hero. She is the fabric
of inspiration; an angel named Stella.

© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Burgundian Pinot Noir

2012-03-20T21:17:00.000-04:00

In the end…
None of this will even matter.
The money, the cars;
                   the large house in the vineyard,
the personal jets, the yachts,
the private island near Aruba--
none of this
                 will matter… when I’m gone
I once knew love
until the power took over my soul;
A heartless mobster unrecognizable to those
who once took comfort inside of this heart.
No more trust
                  lives in my world.
Just ruthless pathways
towards more money, power and control.

Lonely, unhappy but rich and powerful;
life sure can be a bitch.
I thought the money would buy
me the ultimate happiness
and the power would position me
to disguise the ending of my own fate.
But often I dine alone
with a pile of shit on my plate
watching seagulls fly in formation
             in the sky
until sunsets gave way to crescent moons – saddened flames
only recognized in my own blind eye.

A glorified gangsta I became
all for the riches and territorial gain;
now that it is too late, it has become my regret
because no one views me the same,
they can’t find it in their hearts
to forget.
So here...I sit alone
Sipping this wine -- a glass of Burgundian Pinot Noir
Intoxicating my mind
with memories of all that I deserted
for the money and power

Tarringo T Vaughan
©2008

Winds Of Change

2012-03-19T17:57:00.001-04:00

Winds of Change

She knew that change would come like the blowing winds of life,
but only time could provide the answer to her fate.
Whereas addiction took hold of her (unrecognizable to herself)
She had to regain control and capture pride from faith’s shelf.
She faced the winds of change. Around her, eyes stared.
When she cried friends no longer listened. But for her tears they cared.

She always thought things would be different if he never left.
Others say that man who held her heart was a serious theft.
She was tired of her world tilting upside down,
Who needs a love that wasn’t meant and caused a frown?
She faced the winds of change. Healing blew towards her.
Time eased the pain. Drugs no longer did she prefer.

She heard an old love song twirling in the wind,
A reminder of the hurt and fragility that his love left behind;
the same day strength abandoned her and said goodbye,
cocaine gave her comfort, held her at ease( she got high).
She faced the winds of change. Her feelings were numbed.
Nothing else mattered, decisions made were dumb.

Her recovery was orchestrated by lessons learned,
Love will never again come easy, trust had to be earned.
Never again will she leave her soul exposed
No matter what the remedy of a lonely heart proposed.
She faced the winds of change. She grew strong. Today
She has her life back, ready for anything that blows her way.

© 2009

This Feeling So Alive

2011-08-15T21:20:00.000-04:00

I am standing here watching words drizzle on the granite sidewalks
of time/ they are endless emotions cascading on smooth marbled plateaus
of thought. The sensory of eyelids revel in the sensationalism of reality
as the framework of vision become more than a conspiracy
of vivid fascinations. I am smiling at the wind as the sky opens up its playground
to a sun that double-dutch between clouds that formulate
lips which are kissing a sweet rain flavored brightness of this feeling,

and in this moment I feel so alive as I am more than a fragment
of a never ending energy. I am hearing the trees breath through nostrils of nature
into an air that is radiating through the filters of my mind/becoming…a new process
of a heartbeat and in this feeling so alive, perfect strangers
are the punctuations of life as they are stumbling through
their own moments of interpretation. Some are historians waiting

to capture the tranquility of present and future ideals;
some are thieves stealing this moment as their own
but forgetting to claim their own merchandise left behind
in the memory of self-definition; Some are optimists
who are praising dreams as this reality and some are free thinkers
who believe in dreams and who believe that the religion of time
is in itself a mind of genius and I am standing here taking it all in
because in this feeling, I am a poet capturing the words
that are now puddles of mystified inspiration: translations of colorful
poetics scribed through this feeling so alive

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

There Is Always Home

2011-08-06T14:55:00.000-04:00

The days no longer dance to the music
of sunshine glimmering to the tone of their
presence and the blue sky has disappeared
in the shade of distilled clouds;
even though time has left me wandering
alone, I know there is always home

Yesterday hasn’t forgotten me as I
still sit at the big oval table (five years Old) watching
Nana cooking a pot of beans on a gas stove
lit by hand and mama is laughing
in the other room as the grown folks
drink their liquor and play a hand of cards.
Granddaddy is staggering on the porch
sipping on his wine and singing along
with Billy Blue Band as the night
howls down onto his drunken delight;
his spirit shining brightly in my eyesight.
Today I look back and I watch, listen
and feel the togetherness
blended in with the joys of family
nurturing my youth into these future days
but they are all gone now; faded laughter has become
just an echo vibrating in an old decaying house;
a portrait re-mastered by the palettes
of my heart.
The night sky no longer shifts with the wave
of the moon and the shadows of the stars
have faded behind the quiet storm
of a memory;
even though time has left me wandering
alone, I know there is always home.

Poetry Birthed Me

2011-07-13T17:28:00.000-04:00

Poetry birthed me and left me stranded on the stairs
of literary conception. Exposed to the sunlight of inspiration,
my soul was naked, I had no protection from/ this new world’s
affection. I learned how to walk barefoot on extended metaphors
on the heels of emotional strain/writing away hidden pain,
my days of growth experienced much more than life can explain.

I grew up on a two way street with no shelter from poverty’s rain
but I never allowed it to drench me because my strength
always stayed dry even when I heard single mother’s cry.

Their tears where my motivation to survive
because through a certain amount of years, I wasn’t expected
to be alive, but I continued to strive as to my left/every day
I watched dreams die. I watched them break down on street corners
in the daily hustle of exposed crime. I saw youth taken from
this world too soon as tomorrow’s hope faded
inside a neighborhood addicted to dope.
Every time I thought the desperation was too much to cope
I turned to my right and saw the brighter skies.

There were eyes awakened as artists painting new realities
of imagination. Goals were achieved as souls begin to believe
in the craftsmanship of their expression/there was no more
self-denial or depression in a society filled with a new
determination and aggression. So I decided to take those steps
to the right never forgetting what I was leaving behind
to my left because it was all a part of the becoming of a poet/
it was all necessary in the nourishment of my muse

because poetry birthed me and left me standing as a man
overcoming adversity. It showed me the many ways
we are able to embrace diversity despite differences/despite
the different shades of the worlds we all share. It helped
me grow up and walk through obstacles of fear because there
was a whole new air to breathe just by inhaling the emotions,
the pain, the tears, the smiles and everything that blends
life into poetry.

© 2011
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Rewritten History

2011-06-22T20:05:00.000-04:00

Dare we challenge tomorrow’s history
by living today/proud
despite yesterday’s misery; shall we heal
the scars of slavery by understanding
and appreciating our ancestors bravery;

shall we recycle the ink dripping from the pages
of hero’s past; an ink that will outlast
the destruction of our streets where hope
is decaying fast or will we allow all the progress
to eventually fade into a blank sheet
of sacrifices made.

The chains have to be lifted off the brain
and allow our knowledge an escape.
We have to take the torch of might
obtained from years of hard fought civil rights
and write a new text
stamped into tomorrow’s manuscript;
a publication of strength, pride and survival,

and from the shackles of freedoms withheld
to the desegregation of equality victory spelled
from a dream that still breathes
to be upheld to the corrupted streets
where crime and poverty has upheld
we must heal past separation and become a new freedom
of integration as together we will be the transcriptionists
translating today into tomorrow’s rewritten history.

© 2009
© 2010 (revised)
Tarringo T. Vaughan

On Barbury Lane

2011-06-16T18:36:00.000-04:00

The tender nakedness of love’s escape still remained
on the very pathway where the eyes of two lonely hearts
erupted in passion’s flame. And although the moment
could never be the same, the presence of her kiss
still fragrances his name.
They were two well versed souls
bonded by the exploration of connection
as two separated paths on the same road
of reflection discovering an emptiness instantly

filled
by the common touch of emotional surrender.
and now that she’s gone all he can do is
remember
how the temper of her smile acquiesced
the embrace of the poplar trees
and how her golden locks of hair breezed the air
causing him to blanket the ground
with the romance of his knees.
Oh how he use to adore the way her eyes
brought out the glow in sunset skies;
that poetic inheritance of heaven’s surprise
which made her twice an angel
and always there within him at their place
of invention.

A place where he has learned
to walk alone again and a place where
her memory still holds his hand
and as his tears began to rain
he knew they would be forever together
on Barbury Lane.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

One Of Many

2011-05-22T15:24:00.000-04:00

I am just one of many experiments who stand alone
in rehearsed crowds lost in a maze
of widowed daydreams
trying to find tomorrow
with transient eyes shut to the reality of yesterday.

It is when I open my mind that I – not only see – but recognize
that I am just one of many questions
who camouflage as the answer trying to find a way out
of the curiosities and possibilities locked and chained
inside the cages of isolated thought
with mental freedom being held hostage by the knowledge

that I am just one of many poets
trying to stand strong against the inertia of time
held back only by fear and the protection
of my own escape - desperate to rise
but sinking in my own environment of unreached
dreams that dangle out of reach but right there
for the taking,

but until I realize
that I am just one of many aspects
in an abstract world, I can only be recognized by literary progression
and the ability to aspirate through the suffocation
of a crowded maze of imitation as one of many
trying to find the correct path towards translation
of the mind and find the focus

to stand tall upon the concrete stairs
of creativity,
because without creative innovation,
a destination to stand apart only justifies
the paths leading to dead ends where possible dreams
remain uninspired.

And without distinction I am one of many poets
translating words into nothing
but just words
sculptured from meaningless expression;
an expression that can only defined
when I find that way towards transcendence
and step away from being one of many
into the spotlight where I am one in many
unlocking the chains of my voice
to become one me

© 2009
Rewritten 2011
Tarringo T Vaughan

Miss Jackee

2011-03-05T14:12:00.000-05:00

She believed in miracles because she lived/a miracle
    and in a dimmed room filled with unfamiliar faces,
the inspiration in her heart glowed and lit up the room
as the bronze of her skin shined brightly within the ambiance
                   of laughter and playful chatter.

There wasn’t a moment her mind didn’t smile;
there wasn’t a moment I didn’t hear her voice
rejoicing in a soulful dialect that had everyone/around her
enthralled in her words. Her cheeks were rosebuds
              blossoming into brownish red every time her
face laughed; a color perfectly matching
the technique of the shawl she wore strategically placed
                around shoulders that once cried.

She was a woman wise with grandeur; a woman
my eyes told me was in her late thirties and life
            placed in her fifties but the spirit of her heart
gave off the magnificence of a woman/ageless.

As she spoke I heard within her tone the voices
               of bravery, sadness, fear, strength, defeat
and hope. She talked about a little boy she was guided/
lost temporary on the wrong path she reached him
and turned him back into the dream he had to be
for in his self believing he would find the structure
                  of achieving.

She talked and laughed about her days in the projects
and how togetherness was formed despite
not having much. Everyone knew other’s name
          and held each other’s hands in the times of need
when the angers of poverty sought to be freed.

I found myself at her table finally introduced. Her soft hands
shook mine as she asked me if I was also a teacher.
I responded with a nod that I wasn’t but she stared at me
never letting go of that warm smile that was still fresh
                   with tears.

It was then I recognized she lost a son too soon. The pain
guided her to the appreciation of the small things in life
we start to believe are meaningless. She talked and shared
of meeting her son’s childhood hero. A man she recognized
                one day at a charity event; a man she only knew
as a football card hanging on her son’s wall.

Her eyes glimmered as she told me how she believed
             the moment to be a miracle. She was given
the chance to meet someone her son worshipped
and it was a little thing like a football card/something
she always looked at as meaningless that connected her
             to the aspects of her life that helped her grow
and it was this little something meaningless
that turned into a meaningful friendship keeping
                       her son alive

and I believed in miracles because she was a miracle.
She taught me that night how to live and enjoy the moment;
how to appreciate the little things and that we all are a value
to someone even when we think we have no one.

That night I realized that I was indeed a teacher—
and she educated me as she danced into the night
               showcasing the rhythm of all her experiences
in a graceful pattern of life’s choreography.

She was a woman, a mother, a daughter and a believer,
                 her name was Miss Jackee.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

One Moment

2011-02-28T19:59:00.000-05:00

The trees are bare today as they reach out

into an open temperature of stillness with branches
that are waving to my eyes in a perfect salute;
time is staring at me through a fragmented window
just clear enough to see the energy of my mind.

Thoughts clutter in a silent rewind
as I sit here recognizing all I have come to appreciate
through loss, emptiness and the promise of renewal,
and as the clouds massages the sky into a gentle
relaxation, I am softly whistling the tune of faces
who have always smiled at me with warm voices;
loved ones who have gone but continue to touch my heart
with a paralyzed tenderness that never loses feeling.

They are the brightness that has led me to healing
all those dark, gray covered days where sadness and pain
met on the battlegrounds of my emotional disdain,
they are the memories I embrace and hear
in times I give in to the luxuries of life’s fear;
moments I hide just to observe the mysteries I feel inside.

They are the reminders telling me that the presence
I have become is a tribute to the appreciation
and value of every enjoyment of vision we see
as it only takes one moment to breathe
the freshness of connection; it only takes one moment
to believe and receive the hands fate has extended
into our lives and it just takes one moment--this moment—to give gratitude
to all who have strengthened my soul
into these awakening moments of solitude.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

The Complication Of Innocent Eyes

2011-02-24T19:28:00.000-05:00

Every time I look at you

             the lips of your eyes
kiss every mystery of my imagination as I wonder
where you have been
and where you have yet to escape.

Two spirals interlocking with time,
                   your stare is a galaxy
of emotions hidden inside the biology
of identity; two microscopes of golden brown
magnifying your surroundings
into a new science of understanding.

So I study you to find the hypothesis
               of truths unrevealed and the origins
of the future unknown as your eyes,
those spectacles of innocence,
digest all the complications of this world.

You are my assignment and I am your student
                           as you watch the sight of me
reflecting a knowledge only we share.

We are the dissected whole
                  of the vision of our soul.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

A Street With No Exit

2011-02-22T18:20:00.000-05:00

Heartbreak has had me afraid to travel
down side streets where the possibilities of love
were parked close to the curbs of my heart

I was afraid of another flat tire
leaving me stranded on the roads of loneliness
with no one ever stopping to give me that lift
I needed to refuel the engine of my passion

But one day I took a turn

on a street with no exit

Where

There was no end of a road
but a beginning to a natural

feeling of connection

that served as the spark plugs reigniting
my broken down emotions with the renewed
energy of romantic discovery.

© 2009
Tarringo T. Vaughan

West 42nd Street

2011-02-12T11:33:00.000-05:00

Her heart was a tourist searching exploring a new destination for that something once familiar.
She was lost in a silent crowd with the identity
of heartbreak splattered on a billboard of loneliness
                     right there
in the center of Time Square.

The flaunt of her walk was a hidden advertisement
for anonymity because she was there before
almost two years ago at a quarter past four
shadowed with tears as he told her goodbye; the one
                       who kissed her eyes
with the beauty connection was the same one
who left her standing reaching out
for his abandoned affection. She was studied that day
                                speechless, hurt
and standing on the sidewalks of abandonment
                           with nothing to say.

And now she was there again searching for the pieces
                of herself she left behind.
The failure of love was not kind
leaving the memories and moments
stuck on rewind. She stood by a newspaper stand
with the headlines of the many reminders
                      caught in her mind.

She was an editorial of broken feelings
misread for being weak. She needed
to be there once more to re-discover the worth;
                 the meaning of her renewed birth
and to escape her own language of anger
as she was searching; searching for healing
                      and searching for an answer.

And what she found standing right there
were the reflections of her own shadows
giving way to the clarity of a woman
who learned what she was searching for was the love
she rediscovered there on West 42nd Street/
                                            the love for herself.

©2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Something Said The Wind

2011-02-10T20:22:00.000-05:00

The day was a golden smile as my mind sunbathed

underneath the gaze of the tender skies
as shades of blue eavesdropped through the clouds
of blanketed eyes. I sat in moistened sand
looking out into the distance/a distance
cluttered by the fascination of time. There was nothing
but me and nature gathered on this textured land;
a land of escape and a place that pleasured my thoughts
and tickled the sensitivity of my admiration.
I was alone as the air dimmed into an azure fragrance
of dusk decorating my vision with a dark orangey
kind of blue as the ocean waves massaged my footprints
into the perfect sequence of relaxation.
My journey was a stillness steadily drifting
with a slight breeze that whistled nature’s music;
a soft sound of enrichment that made my heart dance
and remember the dreams of my soul.
It was always my goal just to be; just to exist
in moments of serenity allowing myself to listen
to what life was whispering through the air
and that day became a portrait of clarity
as the wind blew into my pain the many measures
of healing—a same wind that answered my reluctance
of all that was revealing. Something said the wind
that day; something told me to survive.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Sometimes The Rain

2011-02-06T10:48:00.000-05:00

There are times I walk through pouring rain
with no umbrella to shield me from all that grieves the pain.
The world watches me as I tremble through muddied
cemented fields where sadness remains and scurry past landmarks
studied through a mind of loneliness as I remember
tears I never allowed to sweat as my hearts perspiration
                                     and this is my quiet inspiration.

There are moments I stand still drenched in reality
looking up at a sky that stares back at me without blinking
as time drizzles into the distance of the recurring memories
I have sheltered deep within as my strength towards progression;
a progression that has led me to a temporary regression
as I filter through anger to find that dry place I feel I belong
and this is my search to be strong

                 because sometimes the rain
washes away the emotional stains
of all the heart gains; sometimes the rain
is the healing dark clouds release
in order for me to shine again; sometimes the rain
reveals all that has emptied/
all that has escaped down an never ending drain

         and sometimes the rain
is just all that remains.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Wind Chimes

2011-01-24T18:26:00.000-05:00

It is a s h a t t e r e d silence
that massages the eardrums
of my mind as I dream
within the currency of timeless winds; priceless
arrangements of sound whistling
and ringing in harmony
like a choir of voices illuminating in the ministry
of song.

And I am captured inside radiating
echoes of lyrical imagery; an escape
within an escape of dancing rhymes floating
in a mist of crystallized mystique;
soft notes of music
unique… to the naked eye
of modulation.

These are the wind chimes of living
that reminds me that I am alive
with their sudden motion
of delight that rattles the stillness
of the night releasing a magic
of disappearing emptiness
inhaled through the imagination of musical
vibrations awakening
the tone of freedom.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Problems

2011-01-20T20:39:00.000-05:00

So I guess I’ve made some mistakes/
have done some things in my life that has my mind
fucked up on an overdose of regret
seeking answers to all these problems I’ve faced;
these problems so hard to forget.
So I guess that makes me a flawed man;
a man who have made some bad choices
just to find the right path towards growth
and as my heart reflects, I wish someone would’ve told me
that life is meant to be this way.

I wish someone would’ve told me at the age of five
that it was okay to be scared because it is that fear
that instills in us the strength to survive.
I cried so hard from trying to hide tears of vulnerability
that led me to problems that scarred me mentally;

I wish someone would’ve told me during all those times
I was lost that there would always be directions
leading me back to the destination of my own heart.
I was so afraid of never finding my own way
that I faced self-made problems that led me to tear
myself apart;

and I wish someone would’ve told me before I began to love
that it would hurt and sometimes neglect me
because love is not all about the good feelings, it’s also about
the heartbreak and pain that builds
our inner emotional frame.
But I wasn’t prepared leading me towards the problem
of trusting and feeling again.

So I guess I’ve faced some problems/
have made some mistakes to protect my own heart.
There are even days I don’t even recognize
the scattered tears that overflow into this acute
ocean of remorse; tears that just won’t let go
of past healing. So I guess this makes me a flawed man
but I just wish someone would’ve told me
I never had to be perfect.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Born To Write

2011-01-09T11:17:00.000-05:00

My ink is the articulation that flows freely from the womb
of expression. I’ve lived the everyday hustle
and survived the reoccurring struggle
of broken dreams
poor themes
and rode the railroad of survival

to destinations where hopeful promises
were never what they seemed.

I’ve seen hungry eyes dilate through centuries
of starvation and I’ve heard angry minds
bow to the applause
of determined ovations;
I’ve watched homeless souls search
the fields of anxious streets
for new shelters of hope; I’ve heard desperate silence
disrupt into new energies of violence
and I’ve witnessed through this air
many faces of strength evaporate
into disrupted fragrances of fear. And their voices
have given birth to my words,

because I was born this way;
I was conceived with the ink of poverty
hemorrhaging through my mind;
I was born to write for the child who challenges
new strategies of believing with the victory
of achieving; I was born to write for the eyes
that blink new illustrations of inspiration
and through the translation of my heart
I was born to write the cure
for the unspoken.

I breathe poetry in every emotion I’ve inhaled
and through the nostrils of influence
I’ve written the realities of those who have suffered
on the cold, harsh roads of a poor society’s soil
because I have lived these words
and I have felt these words
I was born this way;
I was born to write.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Hidden

2011-01-05T17:16:00.000-05:00

There is deepness in my eyes/a deepness sculptured/from the journey
of my grandmother’s strength and the passion inflamed through the energy
of many ancestors who have risen through the tunnels of defeat
molded from the sweat and scars of pride as they continue to march
in every pour of my textured definition/a familiar recognition/that strengthens
my soul to stand on these thirty-four year old tired feet.

Take a good look at this face and see all that is hidden
behind the mask of my hearts embrace/ my stare have walked
through fields of ignorance for many years shielded
by a self-made disguise and guided by the tracks of my own tears;
I’ve been a gladiator battling in the coliseum of life with no amour
to defend the shadows of pain and no mediator to shield me
from the hardship and sadness of an internalized stain,

but still I’ve stood in victory/determined/with faded sideburns
showcasing the genetics of honor and the biology of discovery
because those who have come before me have taught me to rise
and find the prize within me and hold it as a trophy/shining bright;
a reward recognized in the chiseled framework of my chin
and the fight that exploded from the definition in my cheek bones.
So take a good look at this face and uncover all that is hidden
and discover the many places my blood has traveled.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Some Kind Of Wonderful

2010-12-26T10:04:00.000-05:00

Is this where I’m supposed to rip the picture
of our love in half and burn the memory of your smile
in the fire pit of my anger?
Is this the part in the movie script where I’m supposed
to break down and wilt into pathetic
ball of crumbled self-hate because you are no longer
the nest of warmth next to me to wake me with a stare?

Who the fuck made up the rules for a broken heart anyway?

Because tears do not drip drop into puddles of emptiness
without you by my side because you instilled the courage
to love and to bare a soul I kept hidden all my life.
You welded my heart into a concrete storage place
for dedication, passion and caring that can never again
be penetrated by the crafty hammer of loneliness.
You showed me a companionship that will last beyond
the fortitudes of partnership.

You are indeed some kind of wonderful
for recognizing the world out there through eyes
visualized to heal. And you healed me
without leaving a scar; without leaving me with an ache
that returns with every memorized vision of hurt
and you continue to be that sweet morning sunshine
that provides the vitamin D I need to rise and shine
as fearless and provide an energy to reveal to life
the brighter side of believing.

It is my pride and human nature that is defining you
as some kind of wonderful.

© 2009
Tarringo T Vaughan

It Came To Me In A Dream

2010-12-12T09:49:00.000-05:00

I'v stood here before; right here
in the center of a moment watching my own existence
romance the skies of time with elegant
touches of prismatic duration.

But these were not my hands;
these were the hands of history
massaging everything that is now
into the relaxation of reoccurrence

of momentary fingerprints smudged
down the glass of fossil images reflecting
faces emerged within visions of sound/silent
but heard brightly in mutation.

But these were not my ears;

These were the ears of sight
listening once again to the sweet melody
of imagination as it walks
on hard wood of oak waxed by reality.

I'v stood here before; right here again
in the middle of my mind watching jumbled
thoughts perform on the stage of consciousness

with no beginning act and no ending
applause; just the stage fright of symbolic distortions
serenading with gestures of definition/undefined

but present in the clarity of sleep.

And it all came to me in a dream
that I'v stood here before( not as me)
but as fragments of imagination’s reality.

© 2010
Tarringo T Vaughan