Flooded by the scars he
cries a little boy drowns
in a sea of pain all alone. The innocence
of
his youth reaches out,
but no one is there
to grab his hand; there are
no open ears
listening to understand and no one hears the drumbeats
of a
heart thumping and desperately calling
for just one person to stop the
tears
from falling.
Silenced by abandonment he
orchestrates
the song of a little boy lost—somewhere
out there
he is
on his own trying to find himself a home
where the lacerations of his mind
can heal
and the numbness of love can once
again feel.
Abused and emotionally used
he shields
himself from the horror behind a life filled with rage
and
wonders why he was brought
into this world. Tight to the night he
holds
a prayer to be saved;
he wishes to be
seen
inside his own dream where a child
can escape the wild and just be a
child. He wishes for a place
where his growth no long bleeds from verbal
whippings
and the heavy handed slap of neglect. His loneliness
whispers
for someone to find his voice
for the internal sadness is
not his choice.
Ten years of age suffers in silence
because as the world
sleeps
a little boy weeps.
© 2012
Tarringo T.
Vaughan
When I think of her, skin a
golden bronze
like the ancient shine of an African treasure, I see
the
perfect illustration of a woman; a chiseled face
of courageousness with a
strength in her heart
no one else could measure.
She was a portrait of hope;
gray hair like sparkling silver
glowing in the early August sunlight’s
glare
still reminds me of a woman with so much flare. Her eyes
always
told the story of a woman fueled with passion
as every tear she ever shed
filtered through many
years of compassion as she taught everyone around
her
how to heal through failure and how to dream
through darkness.
She was the foundation of
our creation; hands like a fine
structure of a rough gentleness gave birth to
each of our
souls. Every time she held each child there was a pleasure
in
her heart beat which still reminisces as the perfect
lullaby that keeps us
brave and standing tall
on our own two feet.
She was the victory of human
condition; a soul fine
like the fragrance of an aged wine who
demonstrated
balance despite the many hardships
of struggle and lived each day as a
challenge
to continue singing lyrics written through her heart
and
translated through the memories of each of us
who she had left behind.
She was the bond that held a
family; she was the beauty
of forgiveness and growth and she was the
genetics
of generosity and prosperity –
she was everything defined
through the spirit
of greatness. She was a wife, mother, grandmother,
sister
and hero. She is the fabric
of inspiration; an angel
named Stella.
© 2012
Tarringo T.
Vaughan
