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