The Indigo Night

My awakened sleep now hear the cries of silent winds
knocking upon the window glass
of shattered silence as I begin to listen
to the shadows dancing still
against the moonlit spotlight of my imagination.

Silhouettes of bare branches shiver
as the midnight hour sings its arrival
before my eyes could see the motion of time.
A flashlight darkens the room with a translucent light
dressed with purple haze
 as a door squeaks;
my eyes scurry and I am left standing
in hesitation  unnoticed by the dark.

A phone rings, a glass shatters and a howl
sneaks up from behind shaking me calm
as sweat drips dry upon my palm.
I lose my grip as I float motionless
down upward stairs grasping onto my fall.

I am alone again, eyes wide closed to coherence
as I finally reach the entrance;
an entrance leading out to a long sidewalk
that thirst upon my resistance
but I walk, crawl and walk again hurriedly
to get nowhere fast as the air shifts
me back into reality’s appetite
 as another dream
is swallowed by the indigo night.

© 2009
Tarringo T Vaughan

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

In Dedication: A Poem For Stella

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