Urban Perspectives: 2011

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Star Gazing

I watch you through secluded eyes;
affixed to the heavens to account for your distance
and call for you with muted prayers
that dissipate into the vastness of night.

Celebrating your celestial dance--
my shooting star in my night sky,
apprising the trail left in your path
that speaks to my dreams in sweet whispers.

You come to me on beams of moonlight;
kiss my taut face with soft rays of hope;
bathe me in inspiration, making clearer my vision
to ponder the intent of your season.

I watch with loving eyes;
you find comfort in my gaze,
as it blushes from your beauty.
Reluctantly, I acknowledge the obvious reflection
of my answered prayers in your presence.

The Eclipse

We lay together, to watch the moon--
it blushes orange, before our eyes;
holds us captive beside pulsing stars,
as we witness its slow trasformation.

From pale yellow, to orange hue,
to crimson heat, in winter sky;
leaving the night dark for the stars
to speak loudly of God's presence

and as we lay to watch the moon,
it recaptures its gift to reflect the sun--
we embrace this celestial kiss
lying together
in seperate locations

Monday, June 13, 2011

Southern Comfort

Angry woman
bakes away days in lonely fields;
hopeless,
with bitter in the back of her throat.
Curse that man and his sun-kissed promise--
fickle heart will keep him runnin’.

Broken woman
suckling independence with her sweet bosom;
ain't got plans to pack for no man
to leave for greener pastures,
cause tha’s what Massa’ said he’d do
a long time ago.

Shattered woman--
no place to stand beside her.
Demons got her enclosed;
afraid of the southern sun--
front door locked tight
with a rear window open;
Fixin’ for her quick escape.

Precious woman,
I’d be obliged to love you.
Come sit down beside me
on the old porch swing.
Leave your fears to rest
on my able shoulder,
to melt with the color
of the southern sunset.

Lost friend

Even as you slip into the creases of night
and live in shadows cast by your forgotten brilliance,
with eyes red, like dying embers
left behind by your once raging fire;

I remember a time when we chased the sun
over blacktop cooled by open hydrants--
past demons, who had yet to make our acquaintance;
their existence blinded by our dreams.

Where did you go to, my childhood companion?
I didn’t notice when you left my side.
I missed your cryptic cries for help
on the day the demons seduced you
and darkened your dreams like the night,
and caused your embers to die;
Snatching your soul, to leave in its wake
a hunger for pain and destruction;

Even as you slip into the creases of night
with red eyes and abandoned brilliance
and disappear into the distant darkness,
my memories of you live forever

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Shea Butter Down

The glow of you rivals sunset--
your velvet texture creamy between my fingers.
I hold you near to inhale you,
to infuse my core with your essence;
swimming in the sea of your earthy bouquet,
the scent of organic potpourri
consumes me;

Spread you messy on my parched skin,
pressing deep to help you melt in;
you feel natural against me,
and as you caress me,
my temple glows from the presence of you.

The shadow of your fragrance walks with me,
causing those in the village to smile with me
in recognition of the the velvet texture
of your earthly bouquet.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Law of Attraction

Had there never been a day
that I surveyed your smile,
or tasted the scent of roses
flowing from your untamed locks.
If I looked, but failed to notice
the timeless possibilities
alive in the depths of your soulful eyes,
or if in haste I missed
the perfect placement of your mouth
on your sun kissed Taino face,
or passed the chance to bathe
in the mist of your breath
and float free on waves of bliss.
If the day had never come
when I sampled your embrace;
warmed by the realization
of how perfectly you fit.

I would have known you still
as a child of my dreams

and I would have found you,
for the universe is awesome!

Prince

To look into the eyes of this Man-Child
is to summon the strength of the ancestors.
Re-igniting torch passed
that rainy April day when Papasan was called home.

His smile, with bulbous and rosy cheeks
recall memories of Grandma’ Jean
and capture the crisp Virginia wind
that brought him home to me--
held him with my heart; inhaled his purity
left overwhelmed with the scent of duty
to tune his spirit
to the sound of tribal drums.

That his name translates to Prince is no coincidence.
His purpose permeated his Mother’s womb before his birth.
His arrival humbled me.
The Earth collapsed around me,
until all that was left was sun and sky--
vast with endless possibilities;
showered blessings of a continuing legacy;
all from a stare into this Man Child’s eyes.

It is more than his birth that fills my heart,
though his cries of hunger awaken me still.
It is the Witnessing of his twigs
as they sprout into branches,
while roots dig deep into Mother Earth;
And endless inquiry
of how, what and why
appointing me as teacher and student
simultaneously.

The calm of Queen Mother walks with him;
grace and dignity gifted thru her touch.
The intensity of the Warrior King
providing food and shelter on rainy days.
I sit as captive audience
and witness his beautiful struggle
to balance the two.

The breath of life resides in his chest,
delivered to us in the song of his voice,
nourishing me with each encounter
and with every stare
into this Man Child’s eyes.

Angel (Inspired by Ashante Ayana)

My first glimpse of life
was the crown of her head--
escaping safe and warm,
embracing cold and hard;
Silent, until compelled
by hand placed forcefully on bum'
to yell.

witnessed her inhale cold and hard--
pained for her,
wept with her,
scared for her,
caught between emotions
of her arrival and her departure.
Tears stream down my face
causing permanent tracks;
footprints if you will
of purging memories,
like rusted shackles in Williamsburg
and tattered confederate flags--
the memorial on Sweet Auburn Ave
where Martin birthed his dream--
like Flip on 163rd,
stuck there since 1982
with tracks etched in his face
and in his arms
from footprints of his own--
like empty crack vials
under monkey bars where I used to play--
like thick budda' haze taken into lungs
to make memories go away;
lacking courage to do life on life's terms;
melt down the shackles,
burn the flags,
dream like Martin did
until I heard her yell--

the sound vibrating my every cell;
leaving them flooded with light
and shoulders heavy
with debt, owed to our ancestors--
heart buoyant,
floating somewhere in the innocence of her eyes.
And as she looked through me,
helping me to see my strength,
somewhere behind me
where I'd left it long ago.
She smiled at me
evaporating my tears--
i kissed her brand new cheek
and knew instantly
that my Angel had arrived.

Water and Wind

Sounds of my heartbeat
color my mood with steel resolve;
even as I collide with walls
in this maze called life.
Compass in my backpack, buried under
other’s opinions and expectations;
unchecked ego and toxic relations--
lost under years of saving face, before saving ass
and pseudo orgasms from mental masturbation.
A master at imagery
painting the perfect picture for you to see,
‘till I became the type to believe my own hype
and my dark secrets became secret to only me.

Blue white city lights at night have a way of exposing you;
the streets are hungry for tragedy, and irony,
like greeting my brother with "peace"
with poison in my pocket, to distribute to my community,
or luring ladies to my lair
to awaken in empty beds,despite their nakedness next to me,
or poison in my pocket becoming MY means
to deal with society--
script flipped from me doin’ the city
to the city doin’ me.

……Then God smiled on me--
humbling me by feeding me my own existence;
navigating misdirected persistence--
shredding my blood stained canvas
forcing me to start anew--
filling my palate with the colors of water and wind--
placing in my bed pure love--
pulling an Angel from her womb;
Intoxicated no more, except by God and his blessings
and his pardon of my transgressions.
Nowlue white city lights inspire me
The only opinion that matters
is his ........ of me

Blue Train (Inspired by John Coltrane)

If there is vision in sound
it was birthed in the bosom of his soul;
forged by passion for pain and pleasure--
manifested in musical mold.
Autumn fire pales in comparison
to the color and texture
that saturated the air
everytime he played,
with every song he made;
of scales and chords
he broke the chains--
blew in the face of such disciplines,
leaving landscape forever changed.
As a wingman for Miles
he built smokey spots in Philly',
riff by riff,
note by note;
and later for Monk
when they took NYC
and made the 5 Spot the place to be--
He played for Cousin Mary;
took giant steps while my lady sleeps;
exchanged violets for your furs;
showed us the lush life
with Trane's slow blues,
while he played for Naima
like someone in love.
He made the bass blues leave me breathless
as if it were hot like summertime.

And when autumn leaves fell
the world grew afro blue,
for we knew that the color of
pleasure and pain,
scales and chords,
violets and furs
would never be played the same.
Train has reached the station
conquering his demons before his last stop
comfortable with Alice
and all that surrounded him
and if one listens closely,
they hear in the saturated air
the vision in sound.

May his soul rest in peace

Strawberry Fields

There’s a place I know
tucked just off the Avenue of Mixed Fortunes--
below 110th where the sun shines brighter blessings
and dreams have unlocked doors.
Smiles walk easy
on winding paths blazed thru rolling fields;
blacktopped in the name of progress;
holding calm, still.
Cries of Yellow Cabs
melt in an aura of peace.
The hush of God’s whispers
embraces disturbed spirits,
keeping the oasis sacred;
delivering a call to imagine
with a perfectly tiled mosaic,
crafted into asphalt; surrounded by grassy hills
in remembrance of a spirit
who sang for good will.

Our souls bend when reflecting on his message--
enriched with the color of life from his vision;
how he spread love and peace in abundance,
while nursing the world with his humble song.

Imagine if his vision was contagious;
if the world inhaled his message
and embraced it like God’s whispers.
It wouldn’t take tragedy or death
for us to open our hearts and reflect--
clouds would part in acceptance.
Nations would clean their streets, instead of their guns.
Fathers would be present to raise their sons.
Judgment would wither in the face of humanity.
Honesty would less often be viewed as insanity.
Hearts would hold love in a larger capacity
and Mother Earth would smile her approval.

There’s a place I know
across from the Dakota where anger reared its ugly head
and Yoko’s tears still stain the walkway,
until she passes into the field of peace.
She fills her lungs with the cherry blossom’s scent;
their petals floating on the winds of love’s spirit
landing with soft kisses on the tiled mosaic;
coloring the grassy hills.

I see her here often,
mingling with visitors who come to mourn.
Her smile,
the mosaic’s fitted tiles
and the cherry blossoms bouquet
leave them to depart
enriched with the color of life.

Nigga' Please

The pain is evident in sepia photographs of decades past
Their wrinkled edges crumbled from the weight of their own images
African Kings and Queens with screaming bloodshot eyes
Starved of oxygen from thick hemp nooses around their necks
Suspended from southern trees with angry voices
Dangling like dead leaves in summer
Towns people gathering to watch them wither
Unaware of exactly what that NIGGER did

Queen Rosa knew that pain well
In the back of that bus riding through her village
Watching Brothers and Sisters getting washed away
By pressurized hate to keep the NIGGERS at bay
Staring into the bloody jaws of Massa’s dog
With fresh NIGGER flesh hanging from their fangs

Emmett Till lived that pain
Until August of 1955
When at 14 years of age his young life was snatched from him
They claimed he whistled at a White Woman named Carolyn
Then they gouged out his eyes
And shot him in his NIGGER head
Threw him in the Tallahatchie
With a cotton gin fan around his neck
The two men responsible were acquitted of the crime
In Money, Mississippi, it was just another NIGGER dead

The pain still lives today
In the cries from the bosoms of our elders
When they walk down the streets of their village
Hearing the venom used to castrate our nation
Embraced by our youth

Wishing they had a way to summon the strength
To snatch out your tongue by the root
Wha’s up my NIGGA’
I love dat NIGGA’
NIGGA’ please
Yo da’s my NIGGA’

Do you know how FOOLISH you look?

Foreigners laugh at your sorry state
The lost African tribe perpetuating self hate
Surely the Ancestors convulse in their graves
To see you march in your NIGGA’ parade

In your sagging pants and foul mouths

Like some modern day minstrel show

Living out your pseudo Frank White- American Gangster Dreams

“MY NIGGA”!!!!.............

Can you hear the Ancestor’s screams??

Losing Time

Time ticks……..
Walking away seductively
Nasty eyes and floating hips
Leave you yearning for more
Her power is enchanting
Had you anticipating her arrival
As you sat in yesterday
Cultivating images of brighter tomorrows
She casts spells to make you lose sight of the fact
That she sat quietly in your lap
As you dreamed yesterday’s dreams

Time is jealous
She hates your pre-occupation
Of painting her to be what you want her to be
Casting her in the light that you want to see
She grows ornery if not managed correctly
When scorned
She will lull you in to a false sense of security
Dressing in your dreams to make them seem
As if they fit her perfectly

Then she will fuck you
and slip through your fingers
Never to return

So handle her graciously

First Impression

I am content,
If not happy
To nestle into your shadows
To admire you from a distance
In the warmth of your smile
To pray for patience
Awaiting recognition
Of this heart that pulses
In search of your rhythm

Resigned to find solace
In the quenching of my thirst
With the mere thought of your existence
In your power to soothe
With your mellifluous verse
And telepathic hugs and kisses

Understanding
That I am but one
That recognizes and covets your brilliance
Yet my soul is captured
By the breath of your presence
And the depth of your soulful eyes

Force me a bit longer
To admire you from a distance
Temper my hunger
To taste your candied kisses
Stoke my desire
With sweet innuendo
Still I would labor
To resist you

For in my dreams I have kissed you
A thousand times
Inhaled your spirit
Until it danced in my lungs
And Seas parted
Like fractured unions
So that I may stand before you
Naked and exposed

That I have felt you in my arms
Even for a moment
Is enough to carry you into my dreams
Enough to taste you in my sleep
And remember your scent
gracing my cheek
I am content
To have known what it was
To feel you there
If even for a moment

In a crowded room

Defying Gravity (If only for a Moment)

Gravity pulls decayed bones
Into a cesspool of lies
Dim grows the soul emptied of love
Muting sparkling eyes
Death multiplies wounds
Exposing chasms widened by seasons
Abandoned spirits scheme to be soothed
Bringing death to truth and reason
Her hunger is insatiable
Since left to build dreams alone
Empty wrappings litter the path
To the doorway of her home
Remnants of her sad chocolate frenzy
In quest to fill the sickening empty
Bridging the gap between her occupied bed
And her hollow belly

Taino Queens cry red tears

Mourning the sight of their Fallen Angel

Lost in a chase for contentment
Through cold lonely nights that sting
Numb from empty promises
With frigid lifeless embraces
Fleeting icicle kisses
Dissipate into nocturnal nothingness
Blue Moons pass un-noticed
As she sits in anticipation
Of hearing the words ‘I love you’
From lips smeared with obligation
They float through heavy air
Spoken to appease her
In an attempt to feed her,
If only for a moment

On days when the sun beams brightly
And chocolate treats with loose wrappings
Are abundant
She smiles again from her empty soul
And a flicker of spark lives in her eyes
Embracing a temporary fill of her void

If only for a moment

Hamoya

Her heart is their safe-haven
Resting in her bosom
To lick their wounds
Sheltered from the cold clutch
Of demons and concrete nightmares
That breathe death
On North Philly nights
Where street lights cast crimson images
Of sticky blood stained memories
On sidewalks that buckle and crack
Under the shame of their stories
And gun smoke laden winds
Chill creaky homes
Weary and rotten to the frame
From constant neglect
And bullet fragments
Where steel blue cold and desert hot sun
Blend to become one in the same
As a backdrop on a canvas
Of death and pain

Another Prince has died today
Just up the block from her home
Where she sat with Princes that she’d rescued
And embraced with her soul
Listening to their concrete dreams
Breathing life into their aspirations
Teaching the art
Of smiling from the heart
They had forgotten long ago
Then,
The familiar clack of a 9mm gun
Reminded them
Why the smiles never lasted for long

It is true
Death resides in the alleys
Between the many Churches and Liquor Stores
That prop up North Philly
It is also true
That hearts are rebuilt
Dreams are restored
And smiles learn to live again
In the living room of Hamoya’s home

~Dedicated to Yolanda Hamoya Reyes
A shining light and savior for many Young Men
And Women in North Philadelphia

Snowfall

City streets grow silent
From falling snow
Making clearer the voices
That speak only in whispers
Agenda laced footsteps
Crunch in deafening tones
Leaving dirty trails
As landmarks of twisted truths
Vision is vivid in winter’s quiet
As moonlight gives life
To a bed of silence
It screams while it blankets the lies
In silence
There is truth in winter
And we are forced to listen
As life is muted and cushioned
Tuning our ear to the voice of the soul
As it speaks in loud whispers

© 2011 Keith Horton

Of winter’s truth

Monday, April 18, 2011

Groupthink

Moved by what ‘they’ think
Resigned to what ‘they’ say
Floating on opinions of the masses
Through rough waters with skewed navigation

Rudderless ships lacking direction
At the mercy of the ocean’s tide
Hardly noticing shifts in current
Until suddenly they capsize

Timid sheep follow the flock
Into the depths of the wolves den
Sleepwalking spirits afraid to break free
Choking on their questions

Malnourished backbones
Fracture under weight to conform
If only for the reason
That it is all they’ve ever known

Slaves to trends and fashion
Breathing life into stereotypes
“Men are dogs”- “Women are superficial”
Raping individuality

Living Cookie- Cutter lives

It is easier to generalize

And meeker
And weaker
To just follow the masses

Eye of the Beholder

Your face,
Less than perfect
Except when viewed through my loving eyes

Each blemish,
A carefully blazed trail
From tears of your beautiful struggle

I find solace
In every freckle left by your seasons
Stroke them gently
For deeper understanding of your reason
Etched into my heart
Like delicate lines
That frame your pristine smile

Fingertips
Memorize every crease of your lips
As I trace their texture with eyes closed
And inhale your sweet essence
With a mental kiss
A love story in Braille for my soul

In all the universe
Abound with wonders
And its Stars and Super Novas
There is no beauty
That compares too the light
Of your less than perfect face
Viewed through my loving eyes

In Our Passing

There is no home for regret
In the coming of our passing
No room for contempt
In my tender heart
No desire to curse you
With ill wishes
Or censor you
With electronic disses
Nor will a slandering word
Leave my swollen lips
There will remain honor in what we shared
When I speak of you
For to wield the sword of impulse and vengeance
Would tarnish memories
I choose to hold them gracefully
And remember the Queen with dignity
Feeding our souls with honey-coated kisses
From afar

Hazel Eyes

She Knew me before my birth
Cradled my essence before my existence
Nurtured my spirit through my Mother's soul
As they tuned their bones on Harlem Streets
Two Queens
Telling tales of royalty yet to be discovered
Making rich the blood that would run through me
Intertwining our souls for life

She knew me from my arrival
Understanding the cry of my urges
Recognizing them as witnessed before
In the sound of my young Mother's desires
She watched me grow restless
Saw my dance with self-destruction and flirts with death
As I poisoned my temple with the Devil's elixir
On too many cold city nights

Her appointment falls short of her worth
She shined as my beacon when Mother grew weary
When I made Mother weary with my refusal to grow
Her Pig-Tailed companion told me tails of royalty
Reminded me of our tuned bones
Held me to her bosom and cradled my essence
Helping me to navagate Harlem Streets

From the womb I remembered her presence
As a man have come to know the blessing
Understanding how very fortunate I am
To have Hazel eyes

© 2010 Keith Horton

The MC

He be that cat that spits the gift
In modern day urban hieroglyphics
With swift lyrical riffs that uplift ghetto spirits
Peeling graffiti off the bricks with a ‘yes-yes y’all’
So rival crews up the block can hear it
They fear it
He blasts with drastic linguistic gymnastics
As his DJ backspins break beat classics
Chasin’ his dope with highs and bass

Creatin’ a symphony for the streets to taste

Makin’ concrete sweat culture

from a multi colored face

He be the MC

And his skills is spastic!

Blendin’ African rhythm and Taino blues

Wall Street neglect and ghetto news

Could’ve found a ‘vic’ cause baby needs shoes

Clutchin’ the M-I-C is what he chose as a tool

Chose X-game poetry to lace dope beats

Chose to rest the gat and be the voice of the streets
His Soul is as scuffed as his broccoli Timbs’

Still he's in it to win
Long as his DJ spins

Master of ceremonies with many stories
That fall into various categories
Speaking of victories and tragedies
That mirror the life of many

Changin’ the world while movin the crowd
Paintin’ the streets proud
By Shoutin out loud

Next time you see that kid

Getting’ blounted in the cut
While the DJ is gettin’ warm

Yeah…….. That be the MC

Painting by Justin Bua

About Me

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Monday, June 13, 2011

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Monday, April 18, 2011