Caleb's Cry

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

Burgundian Pinot Noir

In the end…
None of this will even matter.
The money, the cars;
                   the large house in the vineyard,
the personal jets, the yachts,
the private island near Aruba--
none of this
                 will matter… when I’m gone
I once knew love
until the power took over my soul;
A heartless mobster unrecognizable to those
who once took comfort inside of this  heart.
No more trust
                  lives in my world.
Just ruthless pathways
towards more money, power and control.

Lonely, unhappy but rich and powerful;
life sure can be a bitch.
I thought the money would buy
me the ultimate happiness
and the power would position me
to disguise the ending of my own fate.
But often I dine alone
with a pile of shit on my plate
watching seagulls fly in formation
             in the sky
until sunsets gave way to crescent moons – saddened flames
 only recognized in my own blind eye.

A glorified gangsta I became
all for the riches and territorial gain;
now that it is too late, it has become  my regret
because no one views me the same,
 they can’t find it in their hearts
to forget.
So here...I sit alone
Sipping this wine -- a glass of Burgundian Pinot Noir
Intoxicating my mind
with memories of all that I deserted
for the money and power



Tarringo T Vaughan
©2008

There Is Always Home

The days no longer dance to the music
of sunshine glimmering to the tone of their
presence and the blue sky has disappeared
in the shade of distilled clouds;
even though time has left me wandering
alone, I know there is always home

Yesterday hasn’t forgotten me as I
still sit at the big oval table (five years Old) watching
Nana cooking a pot of beans on a gas stove
lit by hand and mama is laughing
in the other room as the grown folks
drink their liquor and play a hand of cards.
Granddaddy is staggering on the porch
sipping on his wine and singing along
with Billy Blue Band as the night
howls down onto his drunken delight;
his spirit shining brightly in my eyesight.
Today I look back and I watch, listen
and feel the togetherness
blended in with the joys of family
nurturing my youth into these future days
but they are all gone now; faded laughter has become
just an echo vibrating in an old decaying house;
a portrait re-mastered by the palettes
of my heart.
The night sky no longer shifts with the wave
of the moon and the shadows of the stars
have faded behind the quiet storm
of a memory;
even though time has left me wandering
alone, I know there is always home.

© 2009
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Poetry Birthed Me

Poetry birthed me and left me stranded on the stairs
of literary conception. Exposed to the sunlight of inspiration,
my soul was naked, I had no protection from/ this new world’s
affection. I learned how to walk barefoot on extended metaphors
on the heels of emotional strain/writing away hidden pain,
my days of growth experienced much more than life can explain.

I grew up on a two way street with no shelter from poverty’s rain
but I never allowed it to drench me because my strength
always stayed dry even when I heard single mother’s cry.

Their tears where my motivation to survive
because through a certain amount of years, I wasn’t expected
to be alive, but I continued to strive as to my left/every day
I watched dreams die. I watched them break down on street corners
in the daily hustle of exposed crime. I saw youth taken from
this world too soon as tomorrow’s hope faded
inside a neighborhood addicted to dope.
Every time I thought the desperation was too much to cope
I turned to my right and saw the brighter skies.

There were eyes awakened as artists painting new realities
of imagination. Goals were achieved as souls begin to believe
in the craftsmanship of their expression/there was no more
self-denial or depression in a society filled with a new
determination and aggression. So I decided to take those steps
to the right never forgetting what I was leaving behind
to my left because it was all a part of the becoming of a poet/
it was all necessary in the nourishment of my muse

because poetry birthed me and left me standing as a man
overcoming adversity. It showed me the many ways
we are able to embrace diversity despite differences/despite
the different shades of the worlds we all share. It helped
me grow up and walk through obstacles of fear because there
was a whole new air to breathe just by inhaling the emotions,
the pain, the tears, the smiles and everything that blends
life into poetry.

© 2011
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Rewritten History

Dare we challenge tomorrow’s history
by living today/proud
despite yesterday’s misery; shall we heal
the scars of slavery by understanding
and appreciating our ancestors bravery;

shall we recycle the ink dripping from the pages
of hero’s past; an ink that will outlast
the destruction of our streets where hope
is decaying fast or will we allow all the progress
to eventually fade into a blank sheet
of sacrifices made.

The chains have to be lifted off the brain
and allow our knowledge an escape.
We have to take the torch of might
obtained from years of hard fought civil rights
and write a new text
stamped into tomorrow’s manuscript;
a publication of strength, pride and survival,

and from the shackles of freedoms withheld
to the desegregation of equality victory spelled
from a dream that still breathes
to be upheld to the corrupted streets
where crime and poverty has upheld
we must heal past separation and become a new freedom
of integration as together we will be the transcriptionists
translating today into tomorrow’s rewritten history.

© 2009
© 2010 (revised)
Tarringo T. Vaughan