White Wine and Walnuts

Your sweetness requires dilution
Some contrasting flavor to equalize its intensity
Like sour chases sweet in pursuit of perfection
Watering down “too good”
So that it may be accepted as “true”

Your flavor is intoxicating
The elixir of your kiss warms my blood
Leaving me inebriated
Staggering about the town drunk
Looking for coffee and quiet
To cut the euphoria

So that I may breathe again

Sun showers are sweeter than downpours
They leave the scent of balance in the air
Equally engaging the senses like
Red Wine and Smoked Gouda
Whole Milk and honey
Golden sands and raging seas
My raw expression and your sweet acceptance

The merging of textures so different
In a universally scripted collaboration
Becoming my favorite midnight snack
Lovingly consumed in small portions

© 2010 Keith Horton

I and I

Once the smoke clears I will still be
Upright and strong
With the corpses of disbelievers at my feet
With or without you
I will rise
As the son of a King

From the womb of a Harlem Queen
Forged with an iron mallet
Struck on hot steel
Cured with ancestor's blood
To mark my path




I am a black rose
Growing out of city pavement
Spat upon and stepped on
By passers by
Beaten by all four seasons
Standing upright and strong
Still

Alive to thrive
In the light of hope and love
A peaceful warrior
Still believing in dreams
Regardless of your opinion
I am

The nurturer of children
Kissing boo-boos and broken hearts
Touching with seasoned sensitivity
With humble but hungry strides

Spitting fire if tread upon
Dismantling threats with my bare hands
Eliminating their existence
With forceful measure
Fighting for the right to be

I am fire and ice
Ying and yang
Lover and fighter
Healer of hearts
Passion unbridled
At both ends of the spectrum
Centered and balanced
By the love of Allah



© 2010 Keith Horton

Liberty and Justice

Hypocrisy drips from your forked tongue
while you pledge allegiance to your blood stained flag,
leaving murky puddles of dissention
that harbor the stench of century old lies.
‘Land of the Free’, and ‘Liberty and Justice’ for me,
as you turn a deaf ear to that Black Baby’s cries.

You,
the Sleepwalking Patriot
in a devil’s dance with double standards.
Eager to send our Sons to spill blood in foreign lands,
even as bombs blaze the night sky at home.
America is challenging its own freedoms,
while Lady Liberty hangs her head in shame.
Her country is bursting at the seams
protesting the Black King’s reign.

Marches in the streets are like Soweto in reverse.
Now, those in power scream bloody murder.
The justice you pledge is resented by you.
It was never meant for the brown masses.
You host Tea Parties serving hot brew
stoked with bags of their blood.

Who dare build a Mosque on this sacred land
where your legacy once stood tall and erect
along with Banks, Law Firms, and Houses of Ill Repute
built over the ancient  burial grounds of  slaves.

Put to rest in stolen Native American soil
Where their collective bones screamed
as they crumbled under the weight of progress,
like the mighty towers burned
as they crumbled under the weight of ‘success’.
Sacred land indeed,
but violated long before metal birds rained down from the sky
when many
Christian
Hindu
Jewish
AND Muslim Americans lost lives.

You,
The sleepwalking Patriot remain deaf dumb and blind,
blending together in your brainwashed mind
This beautiful Religion of peace….and….
these acts of hate by HUMAN kind.
Not Muslim Terrorists.
Not Islamic extremists.
No more than The Pilgrims,
Or The Klan
were Christian extremists.
But you don’t get that.
You want some ‘get back’,
so you serve the masses tall glasses of the Arab oil that you raped from them,
while they take cover from fragments of bombs raining down on them,
with the letters ‘USA’ stenciled on them
waking to see the sunrise kissing their dead children in the street.

Can you handle the truth?
Do you care to know the history?
The timeless war between Ismael and Issac
is facilitated by your weaponry.
Your ignorance perpetuates hatred
as you burn Qur’ans in the street.
Sleepwalking in the land of plenty.

Let’s us pray that the new Black King
Is wide awake!



© 2010 Keith Horton

Thoughts of Brother Shabazz

In memory of El Hajj Malik El- Shabazz
May 19 1925 - February 21 1965
Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji un



Rain licked pavement in Washington Heights
makes my heart heavy.
My spirit grows silent even with loud whispers
that scream from uptown streets.
This city never sleeps,
and rain still mixes with tears cried in ‘65
leaving salty puddles on the corner
of Broadway and 165th street.

There are no apologies;
No resolution in the offering.
Only theories and stories
of how he was slain by his own.
This great warrior
who trumpeted loudly for victory;
Called us to battle for dignity
by any means necessary.
When Kings down south turned cheeks,
facing fire hoses while they marched for peace,
this warrior primed us for battle,
believing that the time for asking was over.

Tuned our bones with a message of empowerment;
Carried us with his fiery tone;
This man, who could see through his own death
over hills yet to be formed,
to fertilized valleys in need of cultivation.
He dreamt as well,
but with urgent action;
Built bridges with his bare hands
that still stand strong.

His words still ring in my ears
summoning the peaceful Warrior in me
that resembles what he came to be
in the end;
When they wheeled his lonely gurney
from the Audobon ballroom,
across the broad way
through cold February wind.,
past many weeping hearts,
and suspended dreams
into the halls of Presbyterian Hospital
where his last life seeped through
The many holes in his chest.

At 3:30PM the world was told
of our deferred dream and silenced voice;
Of our extinguished fire;
Of our leader lost;
Snatched from Betty and the world
by hate that bubbles to the surface

when it rains in Washington Heights.


© 2010 Keith Horton

Hot Ink

My lover is insatiable
Calling my name with hungry urges
Fondling my dreams awake with life
Inciting late night merges
French kissing my fantasies
Inducing hot ink surges
Leaving my sheets stained and wet
With creativity

We move with curves and swirls
My hand living in her contours
Guiding her
Pressing her into sheets
Feeling hot ink boil
Inspiring the growth of my piece
Causing it to grow
From seed to embryo
From embryo
To steady flow of
Comforting rain
Pleasurable pain
Abandoned Chrysalis
Sacrificed for life
Water and wind
Blessings and sin
Manifested in the merge with
my insatiable pen


© 2010 Keith Horton

Silenced Warrior

He knows no other way but to lay flowers at her feet
Loving her as he came into this world
With innocence directing his urges
Uncooked and lightly seasoned
Knowing only real
Embracing the light of possibility
Not acknowledging the fear of failure
Welcoming the street fight that will leave novelty and formality
Scattered like broken glass in the schoolyard
Wanting to be there when the dust clears
To wrap her in his soul

He breathes only truth since the year of late night vigils
Remembering the time when he saw her naked
Leading cheers while she wrestled with fate
In her corner to wipe blood off of her face
Wondering why she hurried to find her clothes

There was beauty in the way she survived
Watching white ice melt into puddles of determination
If there is tragedy to be found
It is in her self imposed limitations
It is her way
She has lived it for too long
He quiets his Warrior spirit
To find strength in his patience


© 2010 Keith Horton

Our Final Goodbye

I was never one for long goodbyes.
That had never been our way.
As children of the ghetto our swords were sharpened on blacktop,
Even as we witnessed our hearts bleed;
Or heard our souls plead
For a sequel to our Bonnie and Clyde epic.

Truth would prevail.
I watched her windows shatter
Into shards of broken dreams on late night pavement.
Sparkling in moonlight like fallen stars
Dropping from her emotionless cheek.

She watched me fade away.
Taillights glaring;
Hardened heart riding shotgun.
Swerving with regret while switching lanes;
Running red lights to flee the pain;
Missing my Hip-Hop as soon as the music stopped playing.

Drowning out my lonely
With dope beats.

Paying a toll to nowhere
As I Dissolved into city lights.
Tasting the burnt bridge behind me
Blending with lost souls of the night.
Searching for comfort in understanding
Why
Blanca from the Bronx
Needed to take flight.

Our stoic endings were déjà vu.
So much so that we played our parts perfectly.
Armor donned and polished
Portraying ‘strong’ while taking the ‘L’.
 She left and returned.
 I Left and returned.
 She left and returned.
Left and………….
….returned with lips bloody.
Soul frail and hair thin from tainted love.
Her sword dull
Her armor tarnished
Vulnerable and weary at my front door.
Ready to receive
Needing to be believed

Wanting to hear real Hip-Hop again.

Not wanting to accept
That my hardened heart
Had found a home in the loving spirit of the Islands.


© 2010 Keith Horton