Most mornings, I look out of
my hallway window and watch
the sky turn bright rust.
I’ve always loved the early
morning sky-glow: All the
words yet to write and
ideas yet to learn and
chords yet to build, form, and fret
surge and swell inside of me.
The sun’s illumination
triggers a rising tide where
creation crashes staid shores
where apathy erodes t’wards
a poem or character
or song –
with the sky blooming from black
to fire
to blue.
The morning sky’s transitions echo my soul-colors: black moods give way to anger’s fire which then give way to calm blue peace. All the shades and hues within my mood transitions lead to a need to draw ink from a pen or vibrations form a guitar string in order to communicate a new emotion I felt when hearing a two-year old say to her young mother: Ode you? And the young mother knowing to lift the child into her arms and embrace her with mother-love. Theirs is a secret language out of public reach. Still, I want my words and music to be like their bond:
simple
deep
connected.
But, my life is a fight and there’s not much time these days: I just cannot turn a blind eye to the child left behind, who struggles to read or add, for no other reason than the color of his or her skin. I’d rather my own skin be stripped away while I watch than the little ones disappear and drown in the valley of the gaps…
my life is a fight to build a bridge and fire will rage until it’s built. For the innocent, I lift my pen and stir the black forces so that they never have to…
