Mel BrakE Press is proud to publish the poetry of Tom "WordWulf" Sterner.
Tom Sterner Bio:
Tom Sterner lives in Redding, California and Arvada, Colorado with wife Kathy. He has been published in numerous magazines and on the internet, including Howling Dog Press/Omega, Skyline Literary Review, The Storyteller, and Flashquake. His internet pseudonym is WordWulf. A native of Colorado and proud father of five children and a stepdaughter, he writes lyrics, sings and composes music with his sons. He is winner of the Marija Cerjak Award for Avant-Garde/Experimental Writing and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2006 and 2008. Published work includes two novels, Madman Chronicles: The Warrior and Momma’s Rain.
The Poetry of Tom "WordWulf" Sterner
Those Without Graves
On the drive to work each day
I watch the soldier's cemetery pass
Everything seems equal there
stone tablets standing attention, the grass
trimmed by small brown skinned men
I see a lady bend down, she kneels
sets a cup full of wild flowers
before two stones, I feel
a hitch in my breath to watch
Flags always in evidence
the here and now of this place
and this day each grave is adorned
a tiny standard, its solemn face
Warm day end of May
I roll my window down
senses immediately assaulted
by a most deep and haunting sound
My legs walk away from the car standing
The first time I witnessed his marching
tartan kilt his regal attire
pipes slung over his shoulder
moaning, set the morning afire
There was certain precision to his gait
distance practiced known too well
Here walked the souls of these soldiers
to ring their lives with his mournful bell
My heart was flushed with guilt its watching
His lady, with a single flower
came to gather up her man
his pipes with their mournful singing
She held his arm with her hand
I went to the stone of her choosing
where Ian the first was lain
then to the end of the piper's walk
the sky shed a tear of rain
These eyes confused in their seeing
A newer stone whose name the same
here lies Ian the third
I followed the voice of the piper
loneliest sound ever heard
and there was Ian the Junior
standing aside with his wife
a fair compliment of mourners
bidding farewell to a life
What greed mine curiosity shown
The pipes trailed away in their singing
the reverend mumbled words to the sky
that Lord, they are brave in their going
these lads to their sweet by and by
A final note owned the moment
to soar with its soul way up high
The crack of twenty-one rifles
exclamation mark against the sky
What mortal undone was I
Ian the second passed by me
his proud pipes bellowed once more
His wife let fall of her flower
on top of that last mortal door
And he paced from Ian to Ian
this man no one could save
whose soldier's sin was still to be living
with father and son in their graves
And the rain hid my face from his eyes
Ode to Eos
Waking up to lavender skies
peeling off layers of sleep
the future comes from the east
Dreams and schemes of deliverance
appear as opiate fantasies
spider cross web of morning
Eos resides in our spirits
immune to time’s messages
whose breath fresh is dawn
whispers aweigh, secrets of night
lain on cloud pillow
held high and higher yet
promises to self are kept
Lift me up, sing to me
voices fresh a-morning
These are cleansing of solitude
a lullaby and just before
full consciousness, eve is lost
Behold the celebration
to which dawn aspires
Knots & Circles
Any circle, society, family
must find children on one end
elders on the other
When these touch, the circle is complete
We have nuclear equivalents
some device of cloning
sex therapists, gender benders
neuters and foreskin groups
I see a lady and a small boy
She is teaching him knots
he is feeding her cat
She drops her ball of yarn; they
bump heads reaching, fall down laughing
Family Thanksgiving
A basket full of hugs and kisses
a piece of cherry pie
a warm smile on a cold morning
a place to go and cry
stories to tell and secrets to keep
those kites that refuse to fly
holidays at Grandma’s
and there’s Grandpa’s knee to ride
A symphony of tiny voices
pictures hanging on the wall
loneliness and happiness
bathtubs in the hall
beginnings and birthdays
and fires in the fall
those letters that say, “I miss you
I miss you most of all”
All the fourth of Julys exploding
and when there’s a scraped-up knee
magick kisses chase the pain away
and cats up in the tree
new shoes and hand-me-downs
those brand new glasses, “I can see!”
fighting and loving and loving and fighting
the past that’s the past of “me”
Bicycles and training wheels
time gets in the way
fairy tales and teeth under pillows
that place where the old dog lays
special seats to sit and blankets to hold
report cards and bright sunny days
little pockets full of bugs and bolts
picnics and camping and weekends away
Where some friends belong and some are just friends
all kinds of neat stuff to share
noses and roses and photograph poses
everyone’s favorite chair
Countless messes made by “Mister No One”
the search for the three-legged teddy bear
pennies in couches, pencils and cookies
the feeling: there’s always someone who cares
It’s you I’m really talking about
and the others I’d like to see
what we are is what it really means
to be part of a family
I guess drifting apart is natural
the way God intended it to be
to be apart and a part, full circle
is to be part of a family
We all must grow in our own direction
for surely we must be free
but once in a while we should meet and remember
what it means to be family
It is you I’m really talking about
the pieces of you that are me
the pride I feel in the sharing
being part of a family
A Sense of Sixth
I can’t hear the night with the lights on
They blind my ears, destroy my focus
The tiger of fear stalks their shadows
creeping up to capture my spirit
and terrify the little boy me
I can’t see her face in the music
where I go to hide away from her
Songs I used to sing to her image
are my new door to freedom
in their legion of sadness
I can’t find my ass in the dark
with hands, invisible arms
a tactile prisoner of light
whose eyes demand proof and purchase
the illusive wall of life
Wednesday took the lies of summer
wrote them on a book of leaves
divided amongst the winds
scattered to hither and yon
tablets in stacks and stones beyond
These Hands
These hands awoke in water
to the voice of mother hum
They offered a bit of solace
I swam and sucked their thumbs
When the outside invaded
these hands made tiny fists
as they held themselves before me
punching holes in the mist
These hands have whispered prayer
whose voice the life I’ve lived
a quiet thanksgiving, my children
those gifts life has chosen to give
These hands have reached for the heavens
asking and wondering why
until they returned to the prayer
voices of answers inside
These hands have known the woman
in all her moods and graces
as she led them through the darkness
into her secret places
Even as she touched them
these hands were hers to teach
They stood upon her body
she drew them down to reach
These hands have served as warriors
to put the monster down
and fluttered in confusion
their life blood on the ground
They’ve gripped the steel of cages
when pushed behind the door
been manacled and chained
at odds with law and war
These hands have known the prayer
pressed against the lips of time
When the final truth has spoken
they have learned to say good-bye
When these hands are fin’ly resting
upon my quiet breast
of all the things these hands would do
remember they loved the best
Taking Daddy Home
You might have seen him
if you lived out West
He would be the man
who helped you fix your car
or offered you a ride
He was good and deep
in his quiet way
When he knew his time was near
he did some traveling
made his last good-byes
and I, being the oldest of his girls
spent some good time with him
helped him any way I could
in his end days as he had my beginning
My tiny boys
will never know him in the flesh
though I see him on their faces
My heart will remember
and teach them what I know
as they travel this road with me
taking Daddy home
The wheel turns
Daddy’s hope lives in my heart
He is more of me than I knew
I’ll take him from these Rocky Mountains
his Colorado roam
Those Black Hills are calling us
I’m taking Daddy home
I Would
If I could be a pillow
a safe place
to lay me down your grief
I would
If I could be a basket
I would gather all your sorrow
cast it out into the seven directions
I would
If I could be a fountain
I would flow with you
through the seven waters of your soul
I would always be your friend
I would
Might Have Said
I might have said I love you
ten thousand echoes reside
Three wandering moons of Atlantis
conspire to conceal, they hide
the city, my love is a rainbow
whose path is come open and wide
a tumble me down and forever
whistling of prayer, neap tide
I might have said who are you
whose sleep I have come to share
far misty mountains abiding
a halo of sun as they bear
tree children, my love is a whis’pring
wind through the needles, their hair
Lift me up, I’m a flying man
whose heart is lighter than air
I might have said where are you
lonely nights lying awake
a misty gath’ring of shadow
fair ghosts of tomorrow may shake
their heads, my love is a phantom
a cry of hope for their sake
whose spirit may lie in my bosom
a lay me down I would make
I might have said I’ve found you
into the face of the night
The sun, a cascade of falling
makes narrowing pathways of light
A fire, my love is a ribbon
shimmering gem of delight
the body of faith come rewarded
healing caresses ignite
I might have said I love you
then finally found your face
the stars, a sprinkling of Heaven
find sorrow and come to erase
the dark, my love is a promise
a choosing of time and place
whose moment I have come seeking
has found me and blessed me with grace
Flame
Pushing words away
lest they eat my sleep
become the only part of me
devour those golden hours
which amount to the rest of me
yes, away with dreams and all that seems
possessed to make an end to me
Anesthesia is an art
to which I might at once lay claim
a shallow grave divided
I might just lay between
some token awareness consciousness
which came first coffee or cream
blackout describes the best held dreams
I lit a candle to threaten the stars
but nobody’s laughing in this wayward place
would someone put out the light
stop this ringing in my ears
I am not afraid of the night
but see what is done in the light of day
no, don’t take my candle away
Insomuch as I Am Able
Insomuch as I am able
and ever bent to stand
I will sing a song of children
what they may say with eyes
and tiny hands touching
goodness and wellness
a solid stand of days
Insomuch as I am able
and ever kneeling tall
I will sing a song of mother
that voice before all others
the space she touched within
I’ve never been without
a simple peace of shade
Insomuch as I am able
and ever standing down
I will sing a song of family
those before and after them
storms of circles touching
sadness and gladness
a gentle cleansing rain
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Poetry of Kai Laursen
Mel BrakE Press is honored to present the poetry of Kai Laursen.
Kai Laursen was born and raised in Seattle. He earned an MFA in
Writing from California College of the Arts. Currently he lives in
Bali.
The Poetry of Kai Laursen
HAIKU RAIN
for W.S. Merwin
through the bamboo forest
making friends out of clay
one who is far away
we dream them in waking
the star is fading
we invest in loss
we think about angel island
the deer that swim the channel
swimming against the current
the star is fading
we invest in loss
there is a poem in this pencil
hanging upside down
like a nuthatch
the star is fading
we invest in loss
friend the jet engine
friend the book
the look of the other
the last cheetah on earth
we have thrown away the ladder
the star is fading
we invest in loss
DEAD POETS
For David Wagoner
He read from Yeats, Thomas, Stevens and Auden.
Pray to the Muse, he exhorted.
What was her name?
She has a tragic sense of humor.
He praised and blasted my early poems.
That old raven; or hawk; the next moment—a dove.
When he read Yeats’ The Fascination of What’s Difficult—
That got me; the bolt burst off the door.
He even dared to pull the curtain on my father,
Whose mask hangs like a trophy, in my room.
CAFÉ COYOTE
This poem does not begin with a feeling-tone or image. This poem begins by chance at the Café Coyote. You wearing a buffalo skin robe, me in a blue tuxedo. The band plays a slow peyote song and the little people dance. I look you in the eye and say: honey, you look familiar. You laugh and pull your hair back in a ponytail. We speak in a secret language. We trade eyes. I place my hand on the small of your back. The moon takes a detour and makes love to the sun.
THE WHALE HUNT
Tilkut prepared for the whale hunt,
fasting on fern roots and wild lily bulbs,
purifying himself in the sweat lodge.
On the fifth night of prayer and fasting,
Tilkut invoked the spirit of the whale.
He danced like a pine bough in a gentle wind.
Sage is burned. A haunting song began:
Salmon crooned in the whale’s belly,
baritones and high-pitched trilling,
the drone of plankton swimming,
a sea lion howled. And the whale joked:
Tilkut, all your preparation was in vain,
for as you cook me, I will rise up in smoke
THE WORDS ON THE WILL
The words on the will
Are a portrait of a man:
One third for the artist,
A quarter for the sergeant,
A cut for his attorney,
All the rest to Prince Charming.
WATERWATER SYMPHONY
Ugly puppy void like winter.
Beneath music is language.
How may purple please time?
Drive goddess chant petals.
BLACK BUTTE FLYING SAUCER TRANSMISSION
I TELL YA GOOD BUDDY WE GOT BRIGHT LIGHTS BEAMING DOWN IN ALL DIRECTIONS AND HEADLINES ABOUT FLYING SAUCERS IN PHOTOSHOP CLASS I’M PERFECTLY WILLING TO BELIEVE IN FLYING SAUCERS BECAUSE I HEAR THEM RAVE AT THE CLUB WITH SHORT SKIRTS AND GREEN TIGHTS THEY ARE BECOMING PSYCHEDELIC POSTERS WE DONT KNOW THE FUTURE WE KNOW THE FUTURE HEAVY CLOUDS BUILDING A STRETCH OF RAIN LATER HE SAID IN AN ENGLISH ACCENT BLOODY HELL A TIGHT GAME SHE ONLY CONCEDED TWO POINTS ALL AFTERNOON IT REALLY CARRIED MUCH TO CLOSE SHE REALLY GOT A HOLD OF THAT ONE THE RUNWAY SIX AND OVER BIRDS CHIRPING IN THE BACKGROUND GIVEN IT WASN’T A CLEAN BREAK IN THE END THE BOUGHS HAD COME OFF STILL WELL DOWN THE PITCH AND LOOKING DOWN THE HEATHER LOVELY SHOT AGAIN WE HAVE TO MAKE ROOM FOR IT YES THAT WAS A REAL CROWD PLEASER THE POWER WENT OUT IN AGREEMENT.
THE IRISH CASTLE
The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are not the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for anything.
The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for the darkness.
The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are not the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for anything.
Kai Laursen was born and raised in Seattle. He earned an MFA in
Writing from California College of the Arts. Currently he lives in
Bali.
The Poetry of Kai Laursen
HAIKU RAIN
for W.S. Merwin
through the bamboo forest
making friends out of clay
one who is far away
we dream them in waking
the star is fading
we invest in loss
we think about angel island
the deer that swim the channel
swimming against the current
the star is fading
we invest in loss
there is a poem in this pencil
hanging upside down
like a nuthatch
the star is fading
we invest in loss
friend the jet engine
friend the book
the look of the other
the last cheetah on earth
we have thrown away the ladder
the star is fading
we invest in loss
DEAD POETS
For David Wagoner
He read from Yeats, Thomas, Stevens and Auden.
Pray to the Muse, he exhorted.
What was her name?
She has a tragic sense of humor.
He praised and blasted my early poems.
That old raven; or hawk; the next moment—a dove.
When he read Yeats’ The Fascination of What’s Difficult—
That got me; the bolt burst off the door.
He even dared to pull the curtain on my father,
Whose mask hangs like a trophy, in my room.
CAFÉ COYOTE
This poem does not begin with a feeling-tone or image. This poem begins by chance at the Café Coyote. You wearing a buffalo skin robe, me in a blue tuxedo. The band plays a slow peyote song and the little people dance. I look you in the eye and say: honey, you look familiar. You laugh and pull your hair back in a ponytail. We speak in a secret language. We trade eyes. I place my hand on the small of your back. The moon takes a detour and makes love to the sun.
THE WHALE HUNT
Tilkut prepared for the whale hunt,
fasting on fern roots and wild lily bulbs,
purifying himself in the sweat lodge.
On the fifth night of prayer and fasting,
Tilkut invoked the spirit of the whale.
He danced like a pine bough in a gentle wind.
Sage is burned. A haunting song began:
Salmon crooned in the whale’s belly,
baritones and high-pitched trilling,
the drone of plankton swimming,
a sea lion howled. And the whale joked:
Tilkut, all your preparation was in vain,
for as you cook me, I will rise up in smoke
THE WORDS ON THE WILL
The words on the will
Are a portrait of a man:
One third for the artist,
A quarter for the sergeant,
A cut for his attorney,
All the rest to Prince Charming.
WATERWATER SYMPHONY
Ugly puppy void like winter.
Beneath music is language.
How may purple please time?
Drive goddess chant petals.
BLACK BUTTE FLYING SAUCER TRANSMISSION
I TELL YA GOOD BUDDY WE GOT BRIGHT LIGHTS BEAMING DOWN IN ALL DIRECTIONS AND HEADLINES ABOUT FLYING SAUCERS IN PHOTOSHOP CLASS I’M PERFECTLY WILLING TO BELIEVE IN FLYING SAUCERS BECAUSE I HEAR THEM RAVE AT THE CLUB WITH SHORT SKIRTS AND GREEN TIGHTS THEY ARE BECOMING PSYCHEDELIC POSTERS WE DONT KNOW THE FUTURE WE KNOW THE FUTURE HEAVY CLOUDS BUILDING A STRETCH OF RAIN LATER HE SAID IN AN ENGLISH ACCENT BLOODY HELL A TIGHT GAME SHE ONLY CONCEDED TWO POINTS ALL AFTERNOON IT REALLY CARRIED MUCH TO CLOSE SHE REALLY GOT A HOLD OF THAT ONE THE RUNWAY SIX AND OVER BIRDS CHIRPING IN THE BACKGROUND GIVEN IT WASN’T A CLEAN BREAK IN THE END THE BOUGHS HAD COME OFF STILL WELL DOWN THE PITCH AND LOOKING DOWN THE HEATHER LOVELY SHOT AGAIN WE HAVE TO MAKE ROOM FOR IT YES THAT WAS A REAL CROWD PLEASER THE POWER WENT OUT IN AGREEMENT.
THE IRISH CASTLE
The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are not the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for anything.
The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for the darkness.
The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are not the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for anything.
The Poetry of Brian Hardie
Mel BrakE Press is honored to publish the poetry of Brian Hardie.
Brian Hardie Bio:
I am 25 years old and I have been writing passionately since the age of seven. I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. I now reside in southeast Portland. I have been published in over 50 small press journals/E-zines including The Pebble Lake Review(Houston, TX), Conceit Magazine(San Fransisco, CA), AMULET, Hudson View(NYC/South Africa), Decanto(UK), Ditchpoetry.com(Canada), SALiT Magazine(International), DaveJarecki.com, WordSlaw.com, CynicMagazineOnline.com, VAZ!NE, Down In The Dirt Magazine, Expressions Online Literary Journal, Theinquisitionpoetry.com(Nevada), Lone Stars Magazine, Pure Francis, BLAZE VOX, and Angel Exhaust(UK). I read annually at the 3 day Unregulated Word Poetry Festival in Kansas City alongside S.A. Griffin, and Scott Wannberg, among others. I will be starting a year long study with poet Mathew Dickman at the Independent Publishing Resource Center in September. I have been a musician for 16 years, recorded and released 4 records, one noise/spoken word album, and tour the States playing music. You can listen to my band Fair Stand The Fields Of France at http://www.myspace.com/farestandthefieldsoffrance. My favorite color is red, I guess.
The Poetry of Brian Hardie
BRAINS IN ALABAMA
ya know, provided I dont say something I would be safe from all stumptown eyes blinking twice, rather to leave it soft sizzling in a skillet amongst summer sex I will not have hence to where I will be longing. The crunch of buttered bread burnt to our crisp retrosexual romances, sliding poison lips down the curves of our lazy libidos, forgetting the transfer to walk back through the freedom captive in a capsule in a bottle on my dusted bedroom floor. Breathe, you.
cause you let the blahs set the groove as a mind stain, you will catch those tears in rain buckets while you bob with hands tied trying to remedy the riddle of the rotten apple brooding at the bottom. your last cigarette will burn with numb forgiveness, your withdrawal of substance will shake you sick in an unwelcome home, guilt will set the stage with barrels of booze, fear will be invoked in the thorns of our devils.
WEST COAST ROCK TOURS
at the existent withhold, drowning
Columbia carp, smiling in memory in
smelly high school scent, and withhold,
to leave it and me a sake taken to leave alone,
gypsy love lost on the mind flowing a rapid
end to a long fight not won.
exhausted interviews seen to the channels
thought to provide a comfort, not even
on the edge, forgotten in the ring of
a text message vibration. Scandalous
strings strum covers of cliche sounds
heard so often. My machine gun trigger
invites me to blast happy tension into the
eyes and ears for conventional speakers to
later mention when addressing a non-pleased
audience, attending only for the will to
be seen in the eyes of any name announced.
Back to the triggers... no, never mind. I am
done now with you here. The only
reason I continue aloof is because it feels
good to do so with this one pen I found. The
art gods to be fooled not, I am not
bowing down to any of your cunt blood
feet. My scribbles look of a font anorexic.
A little matter for observation
to keep the sun from rising today. There
are more worthless awakenings in my
internet screen than a
more reflected truth in a mirror shattering
before eyes, complete.
WINK, WINK
gravestones- what a great job you do building up before i,
so vow before i lose it that you will be waiting. i lie in bed after i
over forwards in regret for weeks on end, oh well...an exaggeration to that long enough plead to see my dead grandfathers eyes frowning down upon. left my bike in the tunnels where
suppose the lover i shared it with shares
the
of me with the ghosts of old town. where did i miss my
chance given conditionally? i feel i need to hault and suffer again, this
time not to leave others feeling so
guilty, or even holding thoughts that i point the finger. i
see i have damaged my own doing, forgot somewhere that
me eternally. i need the world to forget me and forgive what they
grandma snag me
up
and bring me
up
above with you
CURVES OF A SERPENT
I carried you through like a trophy
Amongst southeast strips of scenic eyes,
Smelling flowers before standing delivered,
Possibly their smell could be of thought
Gone rotten, breasts all to me like
Goddesses of night, the hidden voice
Of pleasure speaking in the night,
In sheets soiled with tears, pillows
Penetrated for lusting ghosts, drinking
The water boiled to sanitize, sore pelvises
Thrusting to cum pain struck and more, to wit
On subject matter blurred by beginners luck,
Transforming my limbs into arms stroking the
Curves of a serpent, alluring hair I stroke, barbed wire
Fences surrounding her wall. Sidewalks talk of
Degrees increased with yards burning away, out
To the river flushing excrement exceeding decay, like
Memory clutches that weaken the present mind,
A different position for every episode
My future promises, an activity risen on ashtray
Dwellings, beaches of no sand or ocean, needles with
No prick, love without the L, the trots of no-legged
Fragile men. What varies is that scent descent
Into aroma therapy, nostalgic oils of
Innocent eyes, narcissistic neck stained
By an angels perfume.
Brian Hardie Bio:
I am 25 years old and I have been writing passionately since the age of seven. I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. I now reside in southeast Portland. I have been published in over 50 small press journals/E-zines including The Pebble Lake Review(Houston, TX), Conceit Magazine(San Fransisco, CA), AMULET, Hudson View(NYC/South Africa), Decanto(UK), Ditchpoetry.com(Canada), SALiT Magazine(International), DaveJarecki.com, WordSlaw.com, CynicMagazineOnline.com, VAZ!NE, Down In The Dirt Magazine, Expressions Online Literary Journal, Theinquisitionpoetry.com(Nevada), Lone Stars Magazine, Pure Francis, BLAZE VOX, and Angel Exhaust(UK). I read annually at the 3 day Unregulated Word Poetry Festival in Kansas City alongside S.A. Griffin, and Scott Wannberg, among others. I will be starting a year long study with poet Mathew Dickman at the Independent Publishing Resource Center in September. I have been a musician for 16 years, recorded and released 4 records, one noise/spoken word album, and tour the States playing music. You can listen to my band Fair Stand The Fields Of France at http://www.myspace.com/farestandthefieldsoffrance. My favorite color is red, I guess.
The Poetry of Brian Hardie
BRAINS IN ALABAMA
ya know, provided I dont say something I would be safe from all stumptown eyes blinking twice, rather to leave it soft sizzling in a skillet amongst summer sex I will not have hence to where I will be longing. The crunch of buttered bread burnt to our crisp retrosexual romances, sliding poison lips down the curves of our lazy libidos, forgetting the transfer to walk back through the freedom captive in a capsule in a bottle on my dusted bedroom floor. Breathe, you.
cause you let the blahs set the groove as a mind stain, you will catch those tears in rain buckets while you bob with hands tied trying to remedy the riddle of the rotten apple brooding at the bottom. your last cigarette will burn with numb forgiveness, your withdrawal of substance will shake you sick in an unwelcome home, guilt will set the stage with barrels of booze, fear will be invoked in the thorns of our devils.
WEST COAST ROCK TOURS
at the existent withhold, drowning
Columbia carp, smiling in memory in
smelly high school scent, and withhold,
to leave it and me a sake taken to leave alone,
gypsy love lost on the mind flowing a rapid
end to a long fight not won.
exhausted interviews seen to the channels
thought to provide a comfort, not even
on the edge, forgotten in the ring of
a text message vibration. Scandalous
strings strum covers of cliche sounds
heard so often. My machine gun trigger
invites me to blast happy tension into the
eyes and ears for conventional speakers to
later mention when addressing a non-pleased
audience, attending only for the will to
be seen in the eyes of any name announced.
Back to the triggers... no, never mind. I am
done now with you here. The only
reason I continue aloof is because it feels
good to do so with this one pen I found. The
art gods to be fooled not, I am not
bowing down to any of your cunt blood
feet. My scribbles look of a font anorexic.
A little matter for observation
to keep the sun from rising today. There
are more worthless awakenings in my
internet screen than a
more reflected truth in a mirror shattering
before eyes, complete.
WINK, WINK
gravestones- what a great job you do building up before i,
so vow before i lose it that you will be waiting. i lie in bed after i
over forwards in regret for weeks on end, oh well...an exaggeration to that long enough plead to see my dead grandfathers eyes frowning down upon. left my bike in the tunnels where
suppose the lover i shared it with shares
the
of me with the ghosts of old town. where did i miss my
chance given conditionally? i feel i need to hault and suffer again, this
time not to leave others feeling so
guilty, or even holding thoughts that i point the finger. i
see i have damaged my own doing, forgot somewhere that
me eternally. i need the world to forget me and forgive what they
grandma snag me
up
and bring me
up
above with you
CURVES OF A SERPENT
I carried you through like a trophy
Amongst southeast strips of scenic eyes,
Smelling flowers before standing delivered,
Possibly their smell could be of thought
Gone rotten, breasts all to me like
Goddesses of night, the hidden voice
Of pleasure speaking in the night,
In sheets soiled with tears, pillows
Penetrated for lusting ghosts, drinking
The water boiled to sanitize, sore pelvises
Thrusting to cum pain struck and more, to wit
On subject matter blurred by beginners luck,
Transforming my limbs into arms stroking the
Curves of a serpent, alluring hair I stroke, barbed wire
Fences surrounding her wall. Sidewalks talk of
Degrees increased with yards burning away, out
To the river flushing excrement exceeding decay, like
Memory clutches that weaken the present mind,
A different position for every episode
My future promises, an activity risen on ashtray
Dwellings, beaches of no sand or ocean, needles with
No prick, love without the L, the trots of no-legged
Fragile men. What varies is that scent descent
Into aroma therapy, nostalgic oils of
Innocent eyes, narcissistic neck stained
By an angels perfume.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Poetry of Jerome Brooke
Mel BrakE Press announces the publication, the poetry of Jerome Brooke.
Jerome Brooke lives in Thailand. He has written
Our Lady of Silk and many other books, available
from Amazon Books.
The Poetry of Jerome Brooke
High Priestess
Goddess of Jade, Lee Sun, cruel messenger of death,
Behold your servant.
Your maiden sings the pleas, promises of your city,
Offerings, she brings.
Bali, Isle of the Lost, fair land of the Lady,
Remembers the Goddess.
Bali, of the sea of storms, dark with gales,
Sends your priestess.
Angel of Death, the High Priestess dances,
Turning in her silk;
Servant of the Temple, covered in black robes,
Black cloth of Bali.
Prince of Mindanao
Prince of Mindanao, splendid in bronze,
Marching, so young, so pure.
Vassals bow before your horse, the warband,
Does salute you, bright in azure.
Gold and silver, robes of silk, gleaming bronze,
Vassals before you bow.
Girls beg for mere copper coins, peasants mutter,
Reap as you sow.
Bring the fire, young and immortal, dear one,
Prince of the lie.
Your arms will surely weaken, false friends,
You too will die.
Prince of Shades, see your lady, at your feet,
Captive of seeming.
Beauty she sees, a god among us, love gazes,
Love pure, fleeting.
Love below you, eyes of a peasant,
Girl in rags, low of the land.
Hate, envy, pity, all weave the web,
Pass on with your band.
War Leader
Through the waste marched the warriors,
Silent was the band.
In the swift, hot wind, were seen the men,
Quiet in the sand.
Gold, red gold, at their feet, gems,
Cast far, far away.
Swords no longer shone, as on parade,
Dull this fearful day.
My prince looked, saw this lost line,
Lost, dead on this dark day.
Men of the Queen, lost by fate,
Found where they fell, and lay.
The Barren Waste
Mount, ride my Prince, son of our Queen,
Lead us to Gold.
Pale is the horse, the dim white horse,
That I now do hold.
Our Queen sent us here, to Cebu,
Most cruel land.
Here we stand, awaiting her command,
Take my hand.
Now you will be lost, silent and pale,
Son of the Queen.
Lead us to Cebu, Land of Gold,
Never to be seen.
Sea
Ador, Lady with the dark, fatal eyes,
Sing now of the swift, troubled seas.
Weep no longer for the black river,
Flowing down to the distant waves.
Sail through the distant mist,
Mist of time, mist of dying souls.
c 2010 Jerome Brooke
Jerome Brooke lives in Thailand. He has written
Our Lady of Silk and many other books, available
from Amazon Books.
The Poetry of Jerome Brooke
High Priestess
Goddess of Jade, Lee Sun, cruel messenger of death,
Behold your servant.
Your maiden sings the pleas, promises of your city,
Offerings, she brings.
Bali, Isle of the Lost, fair land of the Lady,
Remembers the Goddess.
Bali, of the sea of storms, dark with gales,
Sends your priestess.
Angel of Death, the High Priestess dances,
Turning in her silk;
Servant of the Temple, covered in black robes,
Black cloth of Bali.
Prince of Mindanao
Prince of Mindanao, splendid in bronze,
Marching, so young, so pure.
Vassals bow before your horse, the warband,
Does salute you, bright in azure.
Gold and silver, robes of silk, gleaming bronze,
Vassals before you bow.
Girls beg for mere copper coins, peasants mutter,
Reap as you sow.
Bring the fire, young and immortal, dear one,
Prince of the lie.
Your arms will surely weaken, false friends,
You too will die.
Prince of Shades, see your lady, at your feet,
Captive of seeming.
Beauty she sees, a god among us, love gazes,
Love pure, fleeting.
Love below you, eyes of a peasant,
Girl in rags, low of the land.
Hate, envy, pity, all weave the web,
Pass on with your band.
War Leader
Through the waste marched the warriors,
Silent was the band.
In the swift, hot wind, were seen the men,
Quiet in the sand.
Gold, red gold, at their feet, gems,
Cast far, far away.
Swords no longer shone, as on parade,
Dull this fearful day.
My prince looked, saw this lost line,
Lost, dead on this dark day.
Men of the Queen, lost by fate,
Found where they fell, and lay.
The Barren Waste
Mount, ride my Prince, son of our Queen,
Lead us to Gold.
Pale is the horse, the dim white horse,
That I now do hold.
Our Queen sent us here, to Cebu,
Most cruel land.
Here we stand, awaiting her command,
Take my hand.
Now you will be lost, silent and pale,
Son of the Queen.
Lead us to Cebu, Land of Gold,
Never to be seen.
Sea
Ador, Lady with the dark, fatal eyes,
Sing now of the swift, troubled seas.
Weep no longer for the black river,
Flowing down to the distant waves.
Sail through the distant mist,
Mist of time, mist of dying souls.
c 2010 Jerome Brooke
The Poetry of G. David Schwartz
Mel BrakE Press is very pleased to published the poetry of G. David Schwartz.
G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue, and coauthor, with Jacqueline Winston, of Parables In Black and White. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered.
Check out my book on Midrash:
www.amazon.com/gp/product/1418489565/104-8454011-6722310?n=28315
The Poetry of G. David Schwartz
Every Time I See A Blond
Every time I see a blond
I recall that you are gone
And each time I think of you
I am wondering what you do
Helen Hunt just to name
A single pretty one who I knew the name
She was in a T V show
Which I hoped would continue on
But exactly like that show
Things just cease to be
And as the elephant toppled down
Things will always turn green
Please Release My Wife
The evening news
Calls out blues
As my teeth chatter
Asking what’s’ the matter
I’ll cut the dawn
Release the song
And sing the blurs
With Sonny Albacores
Then as I realize
I do not see your eyes
The most delicious part of you
I’ll just shout out
Loud as I do pout
I Remember The Day
I remember the day
That you went away
When you went over the wall
I remember the look
With which you threw out
Witch seemed to make my heart stall
It was I recall
A sunny day and all
But my tears fell freely and dark
I remember the day
That you went away
A day which pieced at my heart
I recall there was a very tall tree
With bark and branch and all
I remember quite clear
As you were out here
And I was so deep in love with you
I never forgot it
I remember it all
Out along the back yard wall
I peered over the fence
And then as a coincidence
You were staring out at me
And I’m sorry to say
That on that day
I felt my heart fall away
And up until now
I didn’t know anyhow
How I’d get you to play
You know none of this is true
But I just had to tell you
Because as love is a charm
I really wish to be in your arms
G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue, and coauthor, with Jacqueline Winston, of Parables In Black and White. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered.
Check out my book on Midrash:
www.amazon.com/gp/product/1418489565/104-8454011-6722310?n=28315
The Poetry of G. David Schwartz
Every Time I See A Blond
Every time I see a blond
I recall that you are gone
And each time I think of you
I am wondering what you do
Helen Hunt just to name
A single pretty one who I knew the name
She was in a T V show
Which I hoped would continue on
But exactly like that show
Things just cease to be
And as the elephant toppled down
Things will always turn green
Please Release My Wife
The evening news
Calls out blues
As my teeth chatter
Asking what’s’ the matter
I’ll cut the dawn
Release the song
And sing the blurs
With Sonny Albacores
Then as I realize
I do not see your eyes
The most delicious part of you
I’ll just shout out
Loud as I do pout
I Remember The Day
I remember the day
That you went away
When you went over the wall
I remember the look
With which you threw out
Witch seemed to make my heart stall
It was I recall
A sunny day and all
But my tears fell freely and dark
I remember the day
That you went away
A day which pieced at my heart
I recall there was a very tall tree
With bark and branch and all
I remember quite clear
As you were out here
And I was so deep in love with you
I never forgot it
I remember it all
Out along the back yard wall
I peered over the fence
And then as a coincidence
You were staring out at me
And I’m sorry to say
That on that day
I felt my heart fall away
And up until now
I didn’t know anyhow
How I’d get you to play
You know none of this is true
But I just had to tell you
Because as love is a charm
I really wish to be in your arms
Thursday, April 29, 2010
TERRANCE AT 15
Mel BrakeE Press is very pleased to announce the on-line publication of Terrance Jones first chapbook, "Terrance AT 15". Terrance Jones is from Philadelphia, PA and he has been encouraged to write poetry. He is a bright and intelligent 15 year old young man, and his writing is very advanced for someone his age. Others have told this publication that the torched was passed to Terrance Jones and the world should be on the lookout for this fine and outstanding young man, poet and rap artist.
Terrance AT 15
By Terrance Jones
Dedication:
I would like to give a dedication to Mel Brake for leading me on the right path with both my outside life and my inside world of poetry.
I would also like to thank my Mom and sisters for giving me the reasons to write and reasons why I should and do believe and love my God.
Lastly, I would like to dedicate “Terrance At 15” to everyone who reads my poetry.
Thanks to “Mel Brake Family Band and “Teen Ink” for allowing me the opportunity to share my poetry.
Acknowledgment:
I would like to acknowledge the following people who made a difference in my life:
Mom (Tayana Lindsey), Shaqia Jones, Kalia Lindsey,
Kayanna Lindsey, Mel Brake, Ms. Dot, Ms. Hazel, Tank
and Kari-my loving stepfather.
Forward:
My Only Son
It’s just a matter of time
Before you let your light shine
For all the world to see
That you’re an image of me
You were born a winner
We all make mistakes as a beginner
We fall, we get up, we learn to do what’s right
Sooner than later we hope all will be all right
You are a charm
Don’t be alarmed
Life is not easy it can be tough
You have potential to make it, even if it’s rough
You are my child, my only son
I love you unconditionally you are the one
Make me proud
Make me smile
You are my only son
You are my child
It’s just a matter of time
Before you let your light shine
For all the world to see
That you are an image of me
Love Mommy
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
SECTION ONE:
MY STORY, MY SELF
Me and More Me
I woke up this morning.
Still worn out from hiding from me.
So as I sat on the edge of my bed, I said.
“There is more to Terrance than clothes and money”.
I am more than smart and brown skin than tan.
If you glance behind these eyes you will discover the poet within my dark brown eyes.
Don’t call me fly guy or money man.
My name is Terrance, the protégé in his poet disguise.
IF
If
I stood on one leg and
Told you the ABC’s backwards
Would you laugh out loud at me?
If
I planted dead roses in your garden
Would you laugh then?
If
I went skinny dipping in the lake
Would you laugh then?
If
I wore bo-bo’s that cost a dollar at the dollar store
Would you laugh then?
If
I needed bifocals
Would you laugh?
If
I liked and wore the color pink
Would you laugh?
I just wonder
Would you laugh at me?
All Jokes Aside
All jokes aside
I got something on my mind
But that’s only when I look into your eyes
To me you look mighty fine
I can change your life
Girl
I can change your world
Girl
Image how far you and me can fly
I will gather you under my wings
Baby girl we can glide
How far let’s give it a try
I can change your life
Baby Girl
I can change your world
Baby Girl
Cause every time you go looking for me
You will find
All jokes aside
Baby girl you staying on my mind
UPS AND DOWNS
We all have our ups and downs.
But me, I have more downs than ups.
Well I ‘m only 15 and I think about big dreams.
But I think there’s something in this world that is trying to stop me.
I tried playing chess to bring my downfalls up, becoming the best.
But the pawns on the board kept pulling me in check.
When I got out of check, I castled and captured the pawns.
I then had a bowl of downfalls in my palm.
So I put that bowl in checkmate and went for the crown.
My feelings went from feeling down to feeling……….uplifting.
Knowing that I now held the crown.
We all have our ups and downs.
So I want to lift my spirit and have more ups than downs……….
IMAGINE
I walked by a mirror
It then caught my eyes
Then I wondered at the world
Behind this mirror I then saw a flash appear
It was my Lord
Holding a file based upon my life
Within my Lord’s reflection I saw
A little tinkle in his eyes
My God then said so many years have gone by
He brought me back to when I was 5
Shouting in the sanctuary, praising him faithfully every Sunday
To this day
I am now 15 having a blast with my life
My Lord has brought something upon me
I then shed tears while I look into his holy world within this mirror
I tried sorting out all these wonderful blessings
But my Lord in the mirror told me to move on
Take your life day by day that’s what my lord said
My God told me one last thing
Don’t be afraid of change and enjoy the day that the Lord shall bring
As I walked away from the mirror
I closed my eyes and said
I have been there and done that
As I opened my eyes I said
I am going to walk away a new man with a bigger imagination
I will leave this magical mirror within my heart and soul
So I can explore more adventures when I enter a New World
I walked by a mirror
It then caught my eyes
As I left the magical world
I told my God I will always
Be a child with an imagination
And a child of God’s
IMAGINE PART 2
Those up in the sky that I love
We will meet in the 2-way mirror
Our images will touch one another’s soul
For 7 split seconds
If you are ready or not
I will grasp your soul and hold on tight
I will feel the pain that you felt before God
Took you out of my life
As we look through this mirror
Feel and taste the salty tears roll down our cheeks
I will pray for the pain that is deep within
This mirror
Then I will tell you
It sucks to be me
Our 7 seconds is up
So I will break this mirror and feel another source of pain
Our souls will touch for 7 split seconds
7 is the only lucky number to enter my Lord’s Heaven
SELF-PORTRAIT
I told you this so many times.
Before but I guess I haven’t told you enough.
Love is not me being who you want me to be.
Your definition of love is you
wanting me to follow the same path as your,
me being in the system and doing things that gangsters do.
Can’t you see?
Do you listen?
I can’t see my life behind bars or on drug corners like you.
I wish you cared about my life.
I wish you cared about what matters to me.
But you don’t care.
So I can’t stress,
I just have to move on and do my best.
Either way Dad I will pull myself free
from your mind, body, and soul.
It’s come to that point you
can’t tell me who to be or how to live.
This is my self-portrait.
So I will be who I want to be.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
SECTION TWO:
MY SELF, MY GOD
MY GOD
My God is the God of all Gods
My God is the One who wakes me every day
I rise and praise My God
My God is the God of all Gods
My God is the God who helps my family and me
Through all the pain and rough times
My God is the God of all Gods
My God brought me into the world
I am his angel
My God is the God of all Gods
My God sewed the patch on my heart
My God
My Holy God
Will never leave me
‘Til death do us part
My God is the God of all Gods
My God
My Lord
My Savior
My God is the God of all Gods
THE LAW OF ATTRACTION
Law of Attraction can mean lots of things
In my mind
I can think of only one thing
I am attracted to money and fame.
But I am scared of success
Because I hear it brings pain.
But Mel Brake and me
Are about to jump on a one-way express train
To the fast moving poetry lane.
My God My Lord
O Mighty
My God My Lord
O Mighty
Thank you for shining down
On Mel and me.
We have founded the keys to success
Taking things one a time
Step by step
And on to the very next.
Law of Attraction brings recognition to our names
I guess that’s when we start to get that Tri-state fame.
Law of Attraction can mean lots of things
But when you do what you love money will come
That’s one of God’s Rules, called the Law of Attraction
And it will bring us everything.
WHO ARE YOU
Who are you?
Be yourself
If you were wise
And follow the Guide
Of your God inside
You would have
Survived
Just
By being yourself....
Once again
Who are you?
GOD, DREAMS, MY FEELINGS
I was 15 when I first looked up to the heavens.
My mind was in a dazed as I looked up into the sky.
I thought about taking a trip to the moon in my mind.
Until my Holy Spirit came and changed my mood,
I was feeling mellow now but I was still caught up in my dreams.
So I closed my eyes
and then my soul and mind was traveling back
into the heavens where the Lord’s power
kept my soul with him.
And there he took my empty body
or grounded me and there I saw
my dreams lay before me.
When I saw my future dreams lay before me
I prayed to God and eventually,
this bird came back to my soul,
and helped me dream about a new and improved dreams.
I kneeled down and started to pray to my Lord
about the choices that I will make,
when leaving this nasty place.
My prayers seemed good and honest but I had a weird
feeling that with the sins I have made,
it would be best to pray to myself.
And keep it hidden, to confide in no one, absolutely no one.
While praying and dreaming,
I learned to have the last laugh and push pass it,
and to be myself, and have an open mind about what I dream.
“Dear God. Thank you for helping me
to push pass my bad sins
like you said I will not look back, I will ask for forgiveness and move on.”
I was 15 when I first looked up to the heavens.
My mind was dazed into the skies, I thought about taking a trip to the moon with God.
ABOUT AUTHOR/Bio:
Terrance Jones A.K.A. Boo-Boo is a 15-year-old poet who comes from the West Side of Philadelphia, PA. He has a loving family who cares for him very much. He lives with his mom, his three sisters and a loving stepfather. He also has a black cat that loves to eat tuna fish and stands on two legs.
Terrance Jones attends residential school in Audubon, PA. He currently is studying culinary arts. He loves science, and writing is his favorite subject. Terrance Jones loves playing football, playing on the computer, text messaging and meeting new females.
Terrance Jones would like to further his studies in culinary arts, and he would like to work with troubled youth so they can make the best of themselves. He was encouraged to write when he learned that by putting his feelings on paper, writing helped him to release stress and pain. He also writes because he likes to make people understand that writing can have a positive impact on one’s life. He feels uplifted, aggressive and some pain when he writes his poems or work. In addition, he thinks that writing can be touching and he wants his work to touch everyone who reads his poems. He hopes people will get the message that he is trying to get across. He would love to learn how poems change the mindset of young kids out there in this century.
When he writes poems he feels closer to his God. He also loves sharing his work with others. His publishing credits include publication in “Teen Ink” and “Blogtalkradio.com”. Also, one of his poems was publicly displayed at a famous Philadelphia downtown bakery, “Brown Betty’s”. Other credits include,”PoetrySoup.com which will publish his work as well. In addition, he is in the “Mel Brake Family Band” where he plays instruments and reads poetry.
Besides poetry, Terrance Jones also ghostwrites raps songs for friends.
He is interested in becoming a worldwide poet in the future.
Terrance Jones has a bright future ahead of him, thanks to Mel Brake, the poet.
For comments or to learn more about Terrance Jones or his appearances, please contact him at: Littleteeboy@aol.com
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Obama Poetry Project
Mel BrakE Press is very pleased to publish its first and one of many poetry chapbooks from both noted and emerging writers from across the globe.
We hope that you enjoy reading, "The Obama Poetry Project".
The Obama Poetry Project
Written by Mel Brake
FIRST STAGE
The Awakening
Rise Up Young Black Boy
New Morning
Hope
SECOND STAGE
The Tribulation
Speck of Brown
Vote for me
America
Milky White
Time for change
Terrance Becoming
THIRD STAGE
The Second Coming
Obama Obama
Dreaming
Black is
First Lady Black American Style
FOURTH STAGE
Revelation
Sun Brother
Dark Child
Black Love
I am Obama
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
DEDICATIONS
For my mother who we affectionately call Dot and Dot Dot by her grandchildren
She has supported me through the years when I was afraid to just be me.
For my sisters Hazel and Betty with whom I shared almost all of my secrets.
For my big brothers Joe, William and Harold who fought for me because
I am a lover and not a fighter.
And for my father who helped bring me into this world.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
I would like to thank the editors who previously published
poetry works of mine which appear in the following publications.
Fox Chase Review 2008, “First Lady Black American Style”
Adoration of the Sol CD/Chapbook, “Rise Up Young Black Boy”
Adoration of the Sol: Deuce, The Musical, “Hope”
I would also like to send a special thanks to Saniyyah Tyler for her
supportive friendship and editing acumen of this book and previous works.
As well as, thanking my family ancestors who have offered wisdom and guidance.
And last but not least, Terrance Jones who I hope for all the best in life and may this book be an inspiration to his life’s journey.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
My reason for writing The Obama Poetry Project is my attempt as an American poet
to capture through poetry what I was thinking and feeling in the aftermath of Barack Obama’s election as the first Black President of the United States of America on
November 04, 2008.
I was at a recent poetry reading when a black woman remarked that she was hoping that someone would read poetry about Obama’s election. I just happen to have been that poet.
In addition, I wanted to share a black perspective of what his election could mean for the future of people from all walks of life. In the selection process of which poems would be the best indicator of capturing this viewpoint, I selected some poems that were written prior to his election, but they make a bold enough statement and made enough sense to be included in this collection.
Obama’s election is a major and dramatic watershed event and will have reverberations that will be felt around the world for the present and future generations to come. I pray that this body of work act as a unifying and healing agent for all Americans and all people who should lay their eyes upon it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The First Stage
The Awakening
RISE UP YOUNG BLACK BOY
Rise up
Young black boy
I’ll give you
The strength
That you need
Rise up
Young black boy
I‘ll give you
The strength
That you need
Just call my name
You can depend
On me
I will be there
In your need
I will be
Your strength
Just believe
Rise up
Young black boy
I’ll give you
The fight
For you to be
Rise up
Young black boy
I’ll give you
The fight
Yes indeed
Just call my name
You can depend
On me
You are the one
We need to lead
Open your heart
And let go
All that you grieve
Rise up
Young black boy
Rise up
Rise up
Rise up
Young
Black
Boy
NEW MORNING
It’s a new morning
The sun rise up
Again
To say
Hello
Like
A good
Friend
It’s a new dawning
So raise your
Head up on high
The blue sky
Limitless
And very neigh
It’s a new morning
The chill
That was in
Air
Has
Scattered
Like cats
Here and there
It’s a new dawning
People come out
Because you
Are free
Break off
Your shackles
And worries
And be happy
Cause it’s a new morning
The sun rise up
Again
To say hello
Like a good friend
It’s a new dawning
So raise your
Head up on high
The blue sky
Limitless
And very neigh
It’s a new morning
Blue children
Do understand
That there
Be peace
Throughout
The land
It’s a new dawning
White light
Is here again
For hope and
Love for every
Woman child and man
It’s a new morning
HOPE
Dedicate to Jamar Brake
Hope
Lives within
Me
And it will
Show
Like a
Flower
With
Sunlight
She will
Grow
Hope
Lives within
Me
This much
I know
Like
River
She rampant
And will flow
But I am
The one
Whose caught
In despair
I need to
Climb
The mountain top
To breathe
Fresh air
I need to
Climb
The mountain top
To breathe
Fresh air
Hope
Lives in
Within
Me
I want to
Believe
Like
The new
Child
Clings
To her mother
Knees
But I am
The one
Stuck in
A wheel
Chair
I need to climb
The mountain top
To breathe
Fresh air
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Second Stage
The Tribulation
SPECK OF BROWN
Specks
Of brown
In a sea
Of white
Cotton
Since
The early
20th century
My people
Have serviced
Your people
As indenture
Servants
We have cleaned
Your homes
We have cared
For little Johnnie
We have fought
Off your husbands
But
Have gone
Unnoticed
Like the borrowers
We don’t ask for
Much
And need
Much less
To make
Our way
In your
Convoluted world
We have lived in
The richest of neighborhoods
But are counted among the poorest
We are specks of brown
In a sea of white cotton
Since the election
Of Obama
We have been spotted
For a change
Words of Victory
Headlines our local newspapers
But what has changed for
Specks of brown
VOTE FOR ME
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote for me
Time for a change
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote for my
Black son
Time for a revolution
Is a vote
For Obama
A repudiation
Of racist policies
Time for reparation
The day after
The election
Brown and Black
People
Shared
A sense of disbelief
And a smile that
Was sent to us by
Our ancestors
400 light years
Away
Time for a celebration
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote
For symbolism
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote for real change for me
AMERICA
I am dying
And I have
A Child
I am giving
Up my last
Breath
But
I am not giving
Up my last
Hope
I may not
Live to see
Her
Grow
And mature
Into a woman
I may not
Walk her
Down
The aisle
At her wedding
I may not
Wipe her
Tears away
As she experiences
Life without a father
I may not
Do a lot
Of things
With her
But
I will see
That she is
Left with everything
That she needs
Who shall
I leave my
Precious child
With
Who shall
Be her
Voice
On a cold
Winter that
Lays ahead for her
Who shall
Care for my
Child
America
MILKY WHITE
I am taking
My maiden’s
Name
Obama
As a man
Who has
Never been
Married
Into the Obama
Family
I can still
Appreciate
The benefits
Of the Obama
Brand
He spent
Millions
On a marketing
Campaign
To sell Americans
On such a funny name
He took some
Lessons from
The “O” Lady
In Chicago
Saturated the
Market until
Your product
Becomes a household
Word
Like Oreos
Cookies
That goes
Good with
Carnation Evaporated Milk
Time FOR A CHANGE
Inspired by “A Change Is Gonna Come”
Written by singer songwriter Sam Cooke
“But I know A change
Is gonna come
Oh yes it will”
Change
Like the
Chains
That bind
Our ankles
And feet
Change
Like the
Ships
That carried
Us away
From our
Homelands
Change
Like the
Hard times
That we
Suffered
Generation
After
Generation
After
Generation
After
Generation
Change
That was
Promised
That was made
To us
And nothing
Changed
“But I know
A change
Is gonna come
Oh yes it will”
Change
Like a
Descendant
Of an African father
Running for
The White House
Change
Like the
The American
People
Saying
No
To unconstitutional
Laws passed
By Congress
Change
Like the
First contact
From
Lightships
Change
What
Do we
Want
Change
When
Do we want
It
Change
Now
Change
Forever
All we need
Is Change
“But I know
A change
Is gonna
Come
Oh yes it will”
TERRANCE BECOMING
Terrance
Sits
On the sofa
With a blank
Stare
For a young
Man of 14
He has adult
Problems
Is he concerned
About his court
Hearing
A new girl friend or
How to get a
New leather jacket
I want to ask
Him what is the
Matter
What is his
Problem
Why is he so
Quiet
For a child
Who always
Has a lot to say
When he is on
His cell
I brought
Him over
To clean my home
And make
A little bit
Of cash
For himself
After he
Cleans out
The dirt and grime
He asks to
Take a shower
And takes
The phone
In for a bath too
I sit him
Down and
Try to explain
Why Obama’s
Election
Is so important
To black people
Who were told
During the modern
Era that their
Children can
Be anything
They want to believe
But our parents and grandparents
Who told us
Did not believe
It
Terrance sits
On my sofa
And I tell him
To look at me
While I speak
To him
That he can
Really be anything
That he wants to be
Really
I want to take
Him to the inauguration
But I wonder
What type of
Choices will he
Make for himself
To better his life
Or not
What’s to become
Of him
What will become
Of him
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stage Three
The Second Coming
OBAMA OBAMA
This man
Is like no
Other man
Obama
Obama
This man
Has a name
Like
No other man’s
Name
Obama
Obama
Except
For his father
He is like
The brother
Who has
Come
Very
Far
Twinkle
Twinkle
Little star
Come and
Light the
World on fire
Things were
Pretty
Dim
Before
Obama came
In
1961
He lived
And traveled
Many parts
Of the world
Like
The Christ child
This man
Is like no
Other man
It’s been
A long time
Coming
But I know
A change
Is going
To come
Obama
Obama
This man
Is like no
Other man
He has an
Unusual plan
To set the
World right
For those
Who placed
Him on a pedestal
To do their bidding
Beware
This man
Is like no
Other man
It’s been
A long time
Coming
But I know
A change
Is going
To come
Obama
Obama
Dreaming
In August
In the 6o’s
Dr Martin Luther King
Stood up to racial
Injustice
In Washington DC
At
The US
Mall
And
Said
To a divided nation
“I have
A dream”
In August
40 years
Later
Another
Soon to be
Famous
Black man
Spoke to
The world
From a soon
To be united
Nation
And said
I am hope
I am the promise
I am the dream
BLACK IS
Black
Is in
And its
Not a trend
Like a circle
As it was
In the beginning
To times
When God
Said
Let there be light
Black
Is back
Unlike
The baby Jesus
Who could not find
Room in the inn
Black
Is accepted
Black
Is in
And its
Fashionable
Like the
Dresses wore
By Michelle Obama
To the two little
Blacks girls
Playhouse in the White House
To their black daddy
Ruler of the free world
Black is definitely
IN
FIRST LADY BLACK AMERICAN STYLE
She is
Black and
Beautiful
She is hip
To what’s
In style
And has
A style
Of her own
She is
Breadwinner and
Head of
Household
She raises
Her children and
Her husband
If she chooses
To have one
She is out
Spoken
Out in front
And
In the middle
Of every situation
That matters to her
She is strong and
Powerful
She carries
The burden of
The world
Within her legs
And birth
To maturity
Boy-man from
Her belly
She is reserve and
Demure
She prefers to spend
Her time
Alone
When she
Is in pain
Because
She has
The power to
Heal herself
She is
Michelle Obama
Dorothy
Hazel
Betty
And Saniyyah
She charts her
Own course
And
Writes her
Own chart
Like many
Heroic
Black women
Before her
She stands
On their shoulders
Like the French
Statue of Liberty
She sets
Her aim
High
From
The poor
House
To
The White House
With
Black American
Style
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fourth Stage
Revelation
SUN BROTHER
He comes
From the east
Not the dark side
Of the moon
He comes
From the east
Not Eden
He comes
From the east
From the stars
Not Bethlehem
When the sun
Shines
Itself
White
Bright
Light
Not our
Sun
But the sun
From
Whence
He comes
Our time is now
He is not
The first
Or the last
That shall
Come
To our
World
He comes
From the
East
Sirian
Brother of
Light
DARK CHILD
We are
The dark
Children
We are
The children
Of the black moon
We are
Dirty like
Mud from
The bottom
Of world
We are black
Like inner space
We are
The dark
Children
We are
Children
Of The Black Madonna
We are
In the shadows
Of the Fire Star
But we are
Light
And the absence
Of
We are
The children
Of African
We are
The dark seeds of
Man and woman
We are
Multiple and
Originators
Of the Cosmos
When our father
Said let there be
Light
We the
Children of
The Night
Scattered
Ourselves
Across
The Invisible
Universe
BLACK LOVE
Black love
Is back
Like a romantic
Renaissance movie
Romeo
And Juliet
Barack
And Michelle
A black man
Professes to love
A black woman
For the whole
World to witness
The way
He looks at her
Could melt
All the ice in
Antarctica
The way
He looks at her
Could build a
Foot bridge
From Africa to
America
Black love
Has reemerged
From the days
When it was taboo
Like the
Faith and beliefs
That a black man and
Black woman
Practiced
In days
When if a black
Man loved a black
Women
Both of them
Were beaten
Punished
And shunned
When in black
Communities
They are married
In secret
When in black
Communities
Their black babies
Were taken away
And never seen again
But it was
Not always
That way
Because before
These dark ages
Black love
Was the love
That mighty
African
Nations
Rested its
Feet upon
And build
Powerful
Civilizations
That was
When a
Black man
Loved a
Black women
Black love
Is back
Like a romantic scene
On a Sunday Lifetime
Movie
But this
Time
It’s real
and poppin'
I AM OBAMA
I am Obama
And I have come
I have come
To bring you
Enough bread to eat
Ample clothing to wear
Plenty of sheltering from the elements
I have come
To foster peace among nations
And to end all strife among men
I am Obama
And I have come
I have come
To bring you
The love of the Mother Goddess
The love between man and women
The love of Peace and The Earth
I am Obama
And I have come
I have come
From the wildness
Of 40 days and 40 nights
I have to come
To tell you
That I am He
Who was prophesied
By Enoch
Like King Arthur
The Second
I have come
To regain
What was lost
I have come
To reclaim
What was truth
I have come
To reaffirm
Heaven on Earth
That the end of
Times is near
That the war
Of Armageddon
Has been fought
That the times
Of milk and honey
Is neigh
I am Obama
And I have come
I am the revelation
I am the truth
I am the Light
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
About the Author
Mel Brake is a Philadelphia based poet who was born with a gift for writing. He has been writing poetry for a number of years, but in the past few years decided to showcase his work publicly. His first readings were at funerals when he was asked to write a piece for family members and friends.
After receiving requests for copies of his works at funerals, he signed up for a poetry writing work shop and showed up at open mic’s where he learned how to be come an effective writer from such Philadelphia poets and luminaries as Kristin Glow, Rosemary Cappello and many others.
He prefers to write free verse and it has been said that although his writing style is simple and complex because he uses few choice words, he takes up plenty of space in poetry journals because his form of writing is long handed. He writes about different subject matters from the mystical/spiritual to the social/political and whatever is in between.
His work has appeared on TV, radio, print and the internet outlets and his work can be found at www.blogtalkradio.com/Mel-Brake or www.melbrakEpress.webs.com
For comments about this publication, please write to:
Mbrake1@msn.com
We hope that you enjoy reading, "The Obama Poetry Project".
The Obama Poetry Project
Written by Mel Brake
FIRST STAGE
The Awakening
Rise Up Young Black Boy
New Morning
Hope
SECOND STAGE
The Tribulation
Speck of Brown
Vote for me
America
Milky White
Time for change
Terrance Becoming
THIRD STAGE
The Second Coming
Obama Obama
Dreaming
Black is
First Lady Black American Style
FOURTH STAGE
Revelation
Sun Brother
Dark Child
Black Love
I am Obama
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
DEDICATIONS
For my mother who we affectionately call Dot and Dot Dot by her grandchildren
She has supported me through the years when I was afraid to just be me.
For my sisters Hazel and Betty with whom I shared almost all of my secrets.
For my big brothers Joe, William and Harold who fought for me because
I am a lover and not a fighter.
And for my father who helped bring me into this world.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
I would like to thank the editors who previously published
poetry works of mine which appear in the following publications.
Fox Chase Review 2008, “First Lady Black American Style”
Adoration of the Sol CD/Chapbook, “Rise Up Young Black Boy”
Adoration of the Sol: Deuce, The Musical, “Hope”
I would also like to send a special thanks to Saniyyah Tyler for her
supportive friendship and editing acumen of this book and previous works.
As well as, thanking my family ancestors who have offered wisdom and guidance.
And last but not least, Terrance Jones who I hope for all the best in life and may this book be an inspiration to his life’s journey.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
My reason for writing The Obama Poetry Project is my attempt as an American poet
to capture through poetry what I was thinking and feeling in the aftermath of Barack Obama’s election as the first Black President of the United States of America on
November 04, 2008.
I was at a recent poetry reading when a black woman remarked that she was hoping that someone would read poetry about Obama’s election. I just happen to have been that poet.
In addition, I wanted to share a black perspective of what his election could mean for the future of people from all walks of life. In the selection process of which poems would be the best indicator of capturing this viewpoint, I selected some poems that were written prior to his election, but they make a bold enough statement and made enough sense to be included in this collection.
Obama’s election is a major and dramatic watershed event and will have reverberations that will be felt around the world for the present and future generations to come. I pray that this body of work act as a unifying and healing agent for all Americans and all people who should lay their eyes upon it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The First Stage
The Awakening
RISE UP YOUNG BLACK BOY
Rise up
Young black boy
I’ll give you
The strength
That you need
Rise up
Young black boy
I‘ll give you
The strength
That you need
Just call my name
You can depend
On me
I will be there
In your need
I will be
Your strength
Just believe
Rise up
Young black boy
I’ll give you
The fight
For you to be
Rise up
Young black boy
I’ll give you
The fight
Yes indeed
Just call my name
You can depend
On me
You are the one
We need to lead
Open your heart
And let go
All that you grieve
Rise up
Young black boy
Rise up
Rise up
Rise up
Young
Black
Boy
NEW MORNING
It’s a new morning
The sun rise up
Again
To say
Hello
Like
A good
Friend
It’s a new dawning
So raise your
Head up on high
The blue sky
Limitless
And very neigh
It’s a new morning
The chill
That was in
Air
Has
Scattered
Like cats
Here and there
It’s a new dawning
People come out
Because you
Are free
Break off
Your shackles
And worries
And be happy
Cause it’s a new morning
The sun rise up
Again
To say hello
Like a good friend
It’s a new dawning
So raise your
Head up on high
The blue sky
Limitless
And very neigh
It’s a new morning
Blue children
Do understand
That there
Be peace
Throughout
The land
It’s a new dawning
White light
Is here again
For hope and
Love for every
Woman child and man
It’s a new morning
HOPE
Dedicate to Jamar Brake
Hope
Lives within
Me
And it will
Show
Like a
Flower
With
Sunlight
She will
Grow
Hope
Lives within
Me
This much
I know
Like
River
She rampant
And will flow
But I am
The one
Whose caught
In despair
I need to
Climb
The mountain top
To breathe
Fresh air
I need to
Climb
The mountain top
To breathe
Fresh air
Hope
Lives in
Within
Me
I want to
Believe
Like
The new
Child
Clings
To her mother
Knees
But I am
The one
Stuck in
A wheel
Chair
I need to climb
The mountain top
To breathe
Fresh air
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Second Stage
The Tribulation
SPECK OF BROWN
Specks
Of brown
In a sea
Of white
Cotton
Since
The early
20th century
My people
Have serviced
Your people
As indenture
Servants
We have cleaned
Your homes
We have cared
For little Johnnie
We have fought
Off your husbands
But
Have gone
Unnoticed
Like the borrowers
We don’t ask for
Much
And need
Much less
To make
Our way
In your
Convoluted world
We have lived in
The richest of neighborhoods
But are counted among the poorest
We are specks of brown
In a sea of white cotton
Since the election
Of Obama
We have been spotted
For a change
Words of Victory
Headlines our local newspapers
But what has changed for
Specks of brown
VOTE FOR ME
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote for me
Time for a change
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote for my
Black son
Time for a revolution
Is a vote
For Obama
A repudiation
Of racist policies
Time for reparation
The day after
The election
Brown and Black
People
Shared
A sense of disbelief
And a smile that
Was sent to us by
Our ancestors
400 light years
Away
Time for a celebration
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote
For symbolism
Is a vote
For Obama
A vote for real change for me
AMERICA
I am dying
And I have
A Child
I am giving
Up my last
Breath
But
I am not giving
Up my last
Hope
I may not
Live to see
Her
Grow
And mature
Into a woman
I may not
Walk her
Down
The aisle
At her wedding
I may not
Wipe her
Tears away
As she experiences
Life without a father
I may not
Do a lot
Of things
With her
But
I will see
That she is
Left with everything
That she needs
Who shall
I leave my
Precious child
With
Who shall
Be her
Voice
On a cold
Winter that
Lays ahead for her
Who shall
Care for my
Child
America
MILKY WHITE
I am taking
My maiden’s
Name
Obama
As a man
Who has
Never been
Married
Into the Obama
Family
I can still
Appreciate
The benefits
Of the Obama
Brand
He spent
Millions
On a marketing
Campaign
To sell Americans
On such a funny name
He took some
Lessons from
The “O” Lady
In Chicago
Saturated the
Market until
Your product
Becomes a household
Word
Like Oreos
Cookies
That goes
Good with
Carnation Evaporated Milk
Time FOR A CHANGE
Inspired by “A Change Is Gonna Come”
Written by singer songwriter Sam Cooke
“But I know A change
Is gonna come
Oh yes it will”
Change
Like the
Chains
That bind
Our ankles
And feet
Change
Like the
Ships
That carried
Us away
From our
Homelands
Change
Like the
Hard times
That we
Suffered
Generation
After
Generation
After
Generation
After
Generation
Change
That was
Promised
That was made
To us
And nothing
Changed
“But I know
A change
Is gonna come
Oh yes it will”
Change
Like a
Descendant
Of an African father
Running for
The White House
Change
Like the
The American
People
Saying
No
To unconstitutional
Laws passed
By Congress
Change
Like the
First contact
From
Lightships
Change
What
Do we
Want
Change
When
Do we want
It
Change
Now
Change
Forever
All we need
Is Change
“But I know
A change
Is gonna
Come
Oh yes it will”
TERRANCE BECOMING
Terrance
Sits
On the sofa
With a blank
Stare
For a young
Man of 14
He has adult
Problems
Is he concerned
About his court
Hearing
A new girl friend or
How to get a
New leather jacket
I want to ask
Him what is the
Matter
What is his
Problem
Why is he so
Quiet
For a child
Who always
Has a lot to say
When he is on
His cell
I brought
Him over
To clean my home
And make
A little bit
Of cash
For himself
After he
Cleans out
The dirt and grime
He asks to
Take a shower
And takes
The phone
In for a bath too
I sit him
Down and
Try to explain
Why Obama’s
Election
Is so important
To black people
Who were told
During the modern
Era that their
Children can
Be anything
They want to believe
But our parents and grandparents
Who told us
Did not believe
It
Terrance sits
On my sofa
And I tell him
To look at me
While I speak
To him
That he can
Really be anything
That he wants to be
Really
I want to take
Him to the inauguration
But I wonder
What type of
Choices will he
Make for himself
To better his life
Or not
What’s to become
Of him
What will become
Of him
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stage Three
The Second Coming
OBAMA OBAMA
This man
Is like no
Other man
Obama
Obama
This man
Has a name
Like
No other man’s
Name
Obama
Obama
Except
For his father
He is like
The brother
Who has
Come
Very
Far
Twinkle
Twinkle
Little star
Come and
Light the
World on fire
Things were
Pretty
Dim
Before
Obama came
In
1961
He lived
And traveled
Many parts
Of the world
Like
The Christ child
This man
Is like no
Other man
It’s been
A long time
Coming
But I know
A change
Is going
To come
Obama
Obama
This man
Is like no
Other man
He has an
Unusual plan
To set the
World right
For those
Who placed
Him on a pedestal
To do their bidding
Beware
This man
Is like no
Other man
It’s been
A long time
Coming
But I know
A change
Is going
To come
Obama
Obama
Dreaming
In August
In the 6o’s
Dr Martin Luther King
Stood up to racial
Injustice
In Washington DC
At
The US
Mall
And
Said
To a divided nation
“I have
A dream”
In August
40 years
Later
Another
Soon to be
Famous
Black man
Spoke to
The world
From a soon
To be united
Nation
And said
I am hope
I am the promise
I am the dream
BLACK IS
Black
Is in
And its
Not a trend
Like a circle
As it was
In the beginning
To times
When God
Said
Let there be light
Black
Is back
Unlike
The baby Jesus
Who could not find
Room in the inn
Black
Is accepted
Black
Is in
And its
Fashionable
Like the
Dresses wore
By Michelle Obama
To the two little
Blacks girls
Playhouse in the White House
To their black daddy
Ruler of the free world
Black is definitely
IN
FIRST LADY BLACK AMERICAN STYLE
She is
Black and
Beautiful
She is hip
To what’s
In style
And has
A style
Of her own
She is
Breadwinner and
Head of
Household
She raises
Her children and
Her husband
If she chooses
To have one
She is out
Spoken
Out in front
And
In the middle
Of every situation
That matters to her
She is strong and
Powerful
She carries
The burden of
The world
Within her legs
And birth
To maturity
Boy-man from
Her belly
She is reserve and
Demure
She prefers to spend
Her time
Alone
When she
Is in pain
Because
She has
The power to
Heal herself
She is
Michelle Obama
Dorothy
Hazel
Betty
And Saniyyah
She charts her
Own course
And
Writes her
Own chart
Like many
Heroic
Black women
Before her
She stands
On their shoulders
Like the French
Statue of Liberty
She sets
Her aim
High
From
The poor
House
To
The White House
With
Black American
Style
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fourth Stage
Revelation
SUN BROTHER
He comes
From the east
Not the dark side
Of the moon
He comes
From the east
Not Eden
He comes
From the east
From the stars
Not Bethlehem
When the sun
Shines
Itself
White
Bright
Light
Not our
Sun
But the sun
From
Whence
He comes
Our time is now
He is not
The first
Or the last
That shall
Come
To our
World
He comes
From the
East
Sirian
Brother of
Light
DARK CHILD
We are
The dark
Children
We are
The children
Of the black moon
We are
Dirty like
Mud from
The bottom
Of world
We are black
Like inner space
We are
The dark
Children
We are
Children
Of The Black Madonna
We are
In the shadows
Of the Fire Star
But we are
Light
And the absence
Of
We are
The children
Of African
We are
The dark seeds of
Man and woman
We are
Multiple and
Originators
Of the Cosmos
When our father
Said let there be
Light
We the
Children of
The Night
Scattered
Ourselves
Across
The Invisible
Universe
BLACK LOVE
Black love
Is back
Like a romantic
Renaissance movie
Romeo
And Juliet
Barack
And Michelle
A black man
Professes to love
A black woman
For the whole
World to witness
The way
He looks at her
Could melt
All the ice in
Antarctica
The way
He looks at her
Could build a
Foot bridge
From Africa to
America
Black love
Has reemerged
From the days
When it was taboo
Like the
Faith and beliefs
That a black man and
Black woman
Practiced
In days
When if a black
Man loved a black
Women
Both of them
Were beaten
Punished
And shunned
When in black
Communities
They are married
In secret
When in black
Communities
Their black babies
Were taken away
And never seen again
But it was
Not always
That way
Because before
These dark ages
Black love
Was the love
That mighty
African
Nations
Rested its
Feet upon
And build
Powerful
Civilizations
That was
When a
Black man
Loved a
Black women
Black love
Is back
Like a romantic scene
On a Sunday Lifetime
Movie
But this
Time
It’s real
and poppin'
I AM OBAMA
I am Obama
And I have come
I have come
To bring you
Enough bread to eat
Ample clothing to wear
Plenty of sheltering from the elements
I have come
To foster peace among nations
And to end all strife among men
I am Obama
And I have come
I have come
To bring you
The love of the Mother Goddess
The love between man and women
The love of Peace and The Earth
I am Obama
And I have come
I have come
From the wildness
Of 40 days and 40 nights
I have to come
To tell you
That I am He
Who was prophesied
By Enoch
Like King Arthur
The Second
I have come
To regain
What was lost
I have come
To reclaim
What was truth
I have come
To reaffirm
Heaven on Earth
That the end of
Times is near
That the war
Of Armageddon
Has been fought
That the times
Of milk and honey
Is neigh
I am Obama
And I have come
I am the revelation
I am the truth
I am the Light
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About the Author
Mel Brake is a Philadelphia based poet who was born with a gift for writing. He has been writing poetry for a number of years, but in the past few years decided to showcase his work publicly. His first readings were at funerals when he was asked to write a piece for family members and friends.
After receiving requests for copies of his works at funerals, he signed up for a poetry writing work shop and showed up at open mic’s where he learned how to be come an effective writer from such Philadelphia poets and luminaries as Kristin Glow, Rosemary Cappello and many others.
He prefers to write free verse and it has been said that although his writing style is simple and complex because he uses few choice words, he takes up plenty of space in poetry journals because his form of writing is long handed. He writes about different subject matters from the mystical/spiritual to the social/political and whatever is in between.
His work has appeared on TV, radio, print and the internet outlets and his work can be found at www.blogtalkradio.com/Mel-Brake or www.melbrakEpress.webs.com
For comments about this publication, please write to:
Mbrake1@msn.com
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