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

On Barbury Lane

The tender nakedness of love’s escape still remained
on the very pathway where the eyes of two lonely hearts
erupted in passion’s flame. And although the moment
could never be the same, the presence of her kiss
still fragrances his name.
They were two well versed souls
bonded by the exploration of connection
as two separated paths on the same road
of reflection discovering an emptiness instantly

                         filled
by the common touch of emotional surrender.
and now that she’s gone all he can do is
remember
how the temper of her smile acquiesced
the embrace of the poplar trees
and how her golden locks of hair breezed the air
causing him to blanket the ground
with the romance of his knees.
Oh how he use to adore the way her eyes
brought out the glow in sunset skies;
that poetic inheritance of heaven’s surprise
which made her twice an angel
and always there within him at their place
of invention.

A place where he has learned
to walk alone again and a place where
her memory still holds his hand
and as his tears began to rain
he knew they would be forever together
on Barbury Lane.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

One Of Many

I am just one of many experiments who stand alone
in rehearsed crowds lost in a maze
of widowed daydreams
trying to find tomorrow
with transient eyes shut to the reality of yesterday.

It is when I open my mind that I – not only see – but recognize
that I am just one of many questions
who camouflage as the answer trying to find a way out
of the curiosities and possibilities locked and chained
inside the cages of isolated thought
with mental freedom being held hostage by the knowledge

that I am just one of many poets
trying to stand strong against the inertia of time
held back only by fear and the protection
of my own escape - desperate to rise
but sinking in my own environment of unreached
dreams that dangle out of reach but right there
for the taking,

but until I realize
that I am just one of many aspects
in an abstract world, I can only be recognized by literary progression
and the ability to aspirate through the suffocation
of a crowded maze of imitation as one of many
trying to find the correct path towards translation
of the mind and find the focus

to stand tall upon the concrete stairs
of creativity,
because without creative innovation,
a destination to stand apart only justifies
the paths leading to dead ends where possible dreams
remain uninspired.

And without distinction I am one of many poets
translating words into nothing
but just words
sculptured from meaningless expression;
an expression that can only defined
when I find that way towards transcendence
and step away from being one of many
into the spotlight where I am one in many
unlocking the chains of my voice
to become one me

© 2009
Rewritten 2011
Tarringo T Vaughan

Miss Jackee

She believed in miracles because she lived/a miracle
    and in a dimmed room filled with unfamiliar faces,
the inspiration in her heart glowed and lit up the room
as the bronze of her skin shined brightly within the ambiance
                   of laughter and playful chatter.

There wasn’t a moment her mind didn’t smile;
there wasn’t a moment I didn’t hear her voice
rejoicing in a soulful dialect that had everyone/around her
enthralled in her words. Her cheeks were rosebuds
              blossoming into brownish red every time her
face laughed; a color perfectly matching
the technique of the shawl she wore strategically placed
                around shoulders that once cried.

She was a woman wise with grandeur; a woman
my eyes told me was in her late thirties and life
            placed in her fifties but the spirit of her heart
gave off the magnificence of a woman/ageless.

As she spoke I heard within her tone the voices
               of bravery, sadness, fear, strength, defeat
and hope. She talked about a little boy she was guided/
lost temporary on the wrong path she reached him
and turned him back into the dream he had to be
for in his self believing he would find the structure
                  of achieving.

She talked and laughed about her days in the projects
and how togetherness was formed despite
not having much. Everyone knew other’s name
          and held each other’s hands in the times of need
when the angers of poverty sought to be freed.

I found myself at her table finally introduced. Her soft hands
shook mine as she asked me if I was also a teacher.
I responded with a nod that I wasn’t but she stared at me
never letting go of that warm smile that was still fresh
                   with tears.

It was then I recognized she lost a son too soon. The pain
guided her to the appreciation of the small things in life
we start to believe are meaningless. She talked and shared
of meeting her son’s childhood hero. A man she recognized
                one day at a charity event; a man she only knew
as a football card hanging on her son’s wall.

Her eyes glimmered as she told me how she believed
             the moment to be a miracle. She was given
the chance to meet someone her son worshipped
and it was a little thing like a football card/something
she always looked at as meaningless that connected her
             to the aspects of her life that helped her grow
and it was this little something meaningless
that turned into a meaningful friendship keeping
                       her son alive

and I believed in miracles because she was a miracle.
She taught me that night how to live and enjoy the moment;
how to appreciate the little things and that we all are a value
to someone even when we think we have no one.

That night I realized that I was indeed a teacher—
and she educated me as she danced into the night
               showcasing the rhythm of all her experiences
in a graceful pattern of life’s choreography.

She was a woman, a mother, a daughter and a believer,
                 her name was Miss Jackee.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

A Street With No Exit

Heartbreak has had me afraid to travel
down side streets where the possibilities of love
were parked close to the curbs of my heart

I was afraid of another flat tire
leaving me stranded on the roads of loneliness
with no one ever stopping to give me that lift
I needed to refuel the engine of my passion

             But one day I took a turn

on a street with no exit

Where

There was no end of a road
but a beginning to a natural

                            feeling of connection

that served as the spark plugs reigniting
my broken down emotions with the renewed
energy of romantic discovery.

© 2009
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Something Said The Wind

The day was a golden smile as my mind sunbathed

underneath the gaze of the tender skies
as shades of blue eavesdropped through the clouds
of blanketed eyes. I sat in moistened sand
looking out into the distance/a distance
cluttered by the fascination of time. There was nothing
but me and nature gathered on this textured land;
a land of escape and a place that pleasured my thoughts
and tickled the sensitivity of my admiration.
I was alone as the air dimmed into an azure fragrance
of dusk decorating my vision with a dark orangey
kind of blue as the ocean waves massaged my footprints
into the perfect sequence of relaxation.
My journey was a stillness steadily drifting
with a slight breeze that whistled nature’s music;
a soft sound of enrichment that made my heart dance
and remember the dreams of my soul.
It was always my goal just to be; just to exist
in moments of serenity allowing myself to listen
to what life was whispering through the air
and that day became a portrait of clarity
as the wind blew into my pain the many measures
of healing—a same wind that answered my reluctance
of all that was revealing. Something said the wind
that day; something told me to survive.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Sometimes The Rain

There are times I walk through pouring rain
with no umbrella to shield me from all that grieves the pain.
The world watches me as I tremble through muddied
cemented fields where sadness remains and scurry past landmarks
studied through a mind of loneliness as I remember
tears I never allowed to sweat as my hearts perspiration
                                     and this is my quiet inspiration.

There are moments I stand still drenched in reality
looking up at a sky that stares back at me without blinking
as time drizzles into the distance of the recurring memories
I have sheltered deep within as my strength towards progression;
a progression that has led me to a temporary regression
as I filter through anger to find that dry place I feel I belong
and this is my search to be strong

                 because sometimes the rain
washes away the emotional stains
of all the heart gains; sometimes the rain
is the healing dark clouds release
in order for me to shine again; sometimes the rain
reveals all that has emptied/
all that has escaped down an never ending drain

         and sometimes the rain
is just all that remains.

© 2010
Tarringo T. Vaughan