Who Am I, Really?

Just an Old Soul

I long for lyricism

that complements the Rhythm

& Blues grooves I grew up with –

that uplifts

my mood.

Takes my funky attitude

and soothes it –

that old school R&B music.

And even that neo-soul

that once took control

of my afternoon driving airwaves.

My ear craves

Regina Bell and Brownstone as well

as Brooklyn’s Will Downing.

That brother is astounding!

Even Jurassic Hal Jackson’s classics

on WBLS was fantastic

listenin'.

Chillin' the kitchen when

Sunday mornings rolled around.

I used to git it in!

Fell in love with “Summertime”

by Billy Stewart.

Blew my mind the ill way he used to do it.

I could go on and on. Song after song,

my heart still belongs to this music!

This Silence

In the silence

of the morning

I write

before the souls I love stir

drowning out

the precious words

whispering in my head

before daybreak.

Before the pitter-patter

comes a running

looking for a playmate,

and honey begins

 doing a new list,

I sit at my desk

and do this…

I express.

I revisit and feel.

I imagine

and then I make real.

I sometimes expose my pain

and I heal

before the Arabica

gathers in cups.

Before my dog-in-the-trash

What the f^©ks?!?

fire off over chicken bones

(When will I ever learn?)

I get in this zone.

This?

This is MY time,

and I cherish it

like God’s personal gift

to me,

exclusively…

This…

Untitled

She imbued her testimony
with the waves of emotion
a stolen people have drowned in…
Her spirit marred by the scars 
these stars and stripes cut deeply 
into her brown skin…
She channels the cries
of the souls who survived the crossing 
to find lives awaiting
more violent than the tossing ocean,
only to have the tongues they had spoken 
cleaved from their throats
with the sharp cracks of whips,
humanity abandoned in holds of those ships
along with their sense of identity.
The ancestors spoke through her,
and she testified of violated thighs,
of offspring ripped from their bosoms,
and of genitals severed 
stuffed in dead throats that couldn’t 
swallow this indignity. 
Despite all this she stands 
proud before crowds
poetically heralding justice!
Courageously...

Blanched Nostalgia

After the sun goes

they hang low.

Suspended…

swaying to

and fro.

Human piñatas –

beaten,

dishonored –

blow in the breeze

like withering leaves.

Daughter of the big house

parted her knees,

covered her lover

and said it was we…

N!ggers!

She claims,

to my chambers

they came

in the night.

Black bodies

burned under moonlight.

But you wish to make

AmeriKKKa great

once AGAIN.

- HymnAgen

Don’t Need a Season

Truth is… 
I don’t really care 
for this time of year. 
It all feels fake 
but I’ve made the mistake.

Myself I allowed 
to be swallowed up in crowd-think 
in the past,
for the maintenance of @ss.

Ex-lady was a slave
to these traditions.
It’s my nature to view all
things with suspicion,
but I played my position
as her loving man, 
sung along with her song
but I couldn’t give a d@mn
‘bout Thanksgiving turkey
or fat Christmas ham.

These lies ain’t delicious!
I never needed pretense
of a season of auspicious
occasions to spread love.
I’m Brooklyn born –
That’s what I does!
It’s in my blood!

Plus, it’s hypocritical
if I claim Christ
but uphold pagan rites.
But hey,&#...

Definitions

F*ck your forms.

F*ck your norms,

and f*ck you.

F*ck being culturally

accessible to you

before my creative vision

is considered artistic

in your opinion.

F*ck your limitations

on creation.

F*ck your views that reduce

pure artistry to a vocation.

You don’t appreciate

what you do not control.

Cannot appreciate

what you cannot define.

Disregard expressions

needing only a soul

to be seen by the heart.

You are blind.

-HymnAgen

Who Am I, Really?

The eyes are the window of the soul

unless it’s mirrored glass that casts

the image you behold.

I can never see whatever’s

captured in your gaze.

I only see as much

as I’ve confessed upon a page…

- HymnAgen

Old Habits

I have these

moments

of self doubt.

So I censor the emotions

that would overflow out,

stifling my effervescence

like a knife blade skimming froth…

spilling it

like brews of malt on tablecloth.

My poignant thoughts

are wasted.

Meditated on

intended to be tasted by the world,

but I hold back

like a man scared of commitment

when he hears

her first

“I love you,”

but pretends as if he didn’t

with a “Huh?”

and blank expression…

because that intimate connection

would leave him vulnerable…

and he’s not ready.

This fear

won’t let me share with other spirits

on that level.

I attempt to,

but a lawless interloper is my devil.

Yes,

my e...

Love Triangle

From time to time

I must allow my pen to rest.

Give my ink some time to dry.

Unplug my writer’s intellect and disconnect.

Take my hiatus.

Those blank pages I have left

will be there when I return

with more emotions to express.

It’s okay to leave them bare.

I have the right to flex my stingy.

It’s not written anywhere

in law that all which abides in me

I must share at all times.

I retreat from parts of speech,

immerse myself in samples,

chord structures, and funky, broken beats.

Lose myself in winding melodies,

and rhythms of the streets.

Feel the pounding of the drums

like my stomping ancestor’s feet.

I’ve no peace ‘til it’s released.

I must create to feel complete.

Follow my muses where they lead -

be it poetry ...

Until Next Year

I harbor no resentment,

only the discontentment

of a child whose parents

have been gone for a while.

So I get inside my head,

find the feelings I have fled

and climb inside them,

breathe my grief in them

attempting to revive them

like fading memories

of the demented.

The names and faces

long ago imprinted

are those of the emotions

I abandoned

like sick slaves on open oceans –

things I rarely share

‘cause few can understand them.

But they resurface

two successive months each year.

The other ten, they are deflected;

numbness shields me from those spears.

Now, is this healthy for me?

I don’t know and I don’t care,

but it offers some relief

until next year.