tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11985364341231613782024-03-13T11:30:39.407-07:00The Creation of Image Through PoetryThis is a blog used for my daily observations and thoughts as I move through life Join MeThe Watchershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05663842819417782488noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1198536434123161378.post-25886608284485186822008-06-14T13:58:00.000-07:002008-12-13T02:13:19.903-08:00Me and Her<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TJQ_WM02USQRRmX8gnFuyyUPXIMOcPAhUgRifOVEMCEezLSZzrWgk15Db4lSdXxUDyPJkAu7f0JDXFUy-Ly7z8l7T9y0IBkjuwXSVgIpy9qcXeyObuZbd5SCSgPZkAjgD7dK7DGy24B5/s1600-h/s14229157_34974438_5421.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211846836180956130" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8TJQ_WM02USQRRmX8gnFuyyUPXIMOcPAhUgRifOVEMCEezLSZzrWgk15Db4lSdXxUDyPJkAu7f0JDXFUy-Ly7z8l7T9y0IBkjuwXSVgIpy9qcXeyObuZbd5SCSgPZkAjgD7dK7DGy24B5/s400/s14229157_34974438_5421.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:verdana;">The Gifted</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I could only stare as she traced the skyline and,<br />Pointed out her star and moved another close to it<br />Giving it my name; they moved about each other,<br />In circles, with the no other people about.<br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=34974438&op=2&o=all&view=all&subj=14205138&id=14229157"></a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=34974438&op=2&o=all&view=all&subj=14205138&id=14229157"></a><br />And she would cry, only because of this gift, as<br />She moved the stars closer together, others would<br />Disappear from her scope and she missed them,<br />The nameless and the forgotten,<br /><br />But in me she found all that she had lost, the friend<br />And the lover, the rock and a shoulder to rest on, if<br />Ever she felt weak and wanted a minute to escape, I<br />Could create a shelter for us, and we could be lost<br /><br />Inside a moment, where nothing but us mattered, where<br />We shed our mortal coils and left footprints in the sand,<br />That were untraceable and we are untouchable, to all<br />The three dimensional imaginations the lousy love<br /><br />Perpetrators that chase us until we dress in foreign clothes,<br />And speak in foreign tongues. Suddenly I am Nikolai and<br />She is Anastasia and these screwdrivers separate the common<br />From the extraordinary, the eternity became so much clearer;<br /><br />So we gave one last toast to the gifted on the stone porch, with<br />The plastic chairs, and the ice cream and the Chinese and the<br />Man with the chocolate that watched in the background as<br />She was gifted, I was gifted, and the nameless and the forgotten.<br /><br />-Chester Stoney</div>The Watchershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05663842819417782488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1198536434123161378.post-59059393873277952972008-06-14T11:33:00.001-07:002008-06-14T11:33:58.563-07:00This dream I hadA Midwinter Night’s Dream<br /><br />You have invaded my dream’s state<br />Destroyed the lovers past, present,<br />Conquered the subconscious images,<br />And replaced every thought with your visage.<br /><br />Destroyed the lovers past, present<br />With a single tender kiss and somber touch,<br />And replaced every thought with your visage,<br />As we lay in a sea of red silk and roses.<br /><br />With a single tender kiss and a solemn touch,<br />You have once again taken control of my mind<br />As we lay in a sea of red silk and roses<br />And my pen can write nothing but your praises.<br /><br />Love has once again taken control of my mind<br />With a southern scent this northern flower<br />And my pen can write nothing but your praises<br />Your beauty unbound outshines all in the field<br /><br />You southern scent a northern raised flower<br />Estranged sweet dove that stays a winter’s distance<br />Your beauty unbound outshines all in the field<br />Wayward wanderer, journey to my arms<br /><br />Estranged sweet dove who stays a winter’s distance<br />What are you looking for, where is your nest?<br />Wayward wanderer, journey back to my arms<br />That are mature enough to hold you now<br /><br />What are you looking for, where is your nest?<br />Why do you refuse to embrace old poems<br />That are mature enough to hold you now<br />When “out of reach” is no longer literal<br /><br />Why do you refuse to embrace old poems?<br />Those written in adolescent confusion<br />When “out of reach” is no longer literal and chronicle<br />Back when I would be your diary, of lovers<br /><br /><br /><br />Those written in adolescent confusion<br />The only expression of external consolation<br />Back when I would be your diary of lovers<br />And when I prized my second place ribbon<br /><br />The only expression of external consolation<br />I would stroke your hair, so lightly each strand<br />And when I prized my second place medal<br />Which I shined and wore proudly, to feel close<br /><br />I would stroke your hair so lightly each strand<br />And in your slumber I hoped you smiled<br />And I shined and wore smiles proudly, to feel close<br />Walking slowly with crossed lumber on my back<br /><br />And in solace slumber I hoped you smiled<br />For me maybe not, but truly for him<br />As I walked slowly with crossed lumber on your back<br />All led to streams on soft sunken banks<br /><br />For me maybe not, but for him,<br />Heart beats grew faster, bodies grew fonder<br />But all led to streams on soft sunken banks<br />A bounty on heads without warnings<br /><br />Heart beats grew faster, bodies grew fonder<br />And after left in solitary silence made<br />A bounty on heads without caution<br />Leaving your dowry fragile and empty<br /><br />And after left in solitary silence made<br />Future endeavors hot and clammy<br />Leaving your dowry fragile and empty<br />And amongst all lovers you stand alone<br /><br />Future endeavors hot and clammy<br />As you again cross freedom lines<br />And amongst all loves you stand alone<br />As foreign tides carry your favor to unknown lands<br /><br />As you again cross freedom lines<br />Further than the longest arm could grasp<br />Foreign tides carry your favor to unknown islands<br />Where you shed old skins for newer coats<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Islands further than the longest arm could grasp<br />Hidden between the common grass and dandelions<br />Where you shed old skins for newer coats<br />Where you wore fragility on your cuffs<br /><br />Hide among the common grass and dandelions<br />And hope that no one can find you<br />Where you wore fragility around your neck<br />And continued to wander ignorant of purple mountain passion<br /><br />And hope that no one can find you<br />To escape to the night light waiting on for you<br />Or continue to wander ignorant of purple mountain passion<br />Where I wait willing and wanting in silence<br /><br />Escape to the night light waiting for you<br />As I stare at the moon beams and wonder<br />Where I wait willing and wanting in silence<br />Until the wind guides a lonesome note to my window<br /><br />As I stare at the moon beams and wonder<br />How soft this southern comfort could be<br />Till the wind guides in a lonesome note<br />Slips into intoxication which amplifies it<br /><br />How soft this southern comfort could be<br />The tenderness flows inside and hopes drift<br />Slips into intoxication which amplifies it<br />And create dreams in a bottle<br /><br />The tenderness flows inside and hopes drift<br />Into a midnight’s slumber to comfort<br />And create dreams in a bottle<br />Which are untouchable, only imaginable<br /><br />Into a midnight’s slumber to comfort<br />And delight those subconscious images<br />You are untouchable, only imaginable<br />You have graced my dream state.The Watchershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05663842819417782488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1198536434123161378.post-47620653023194043432008-06-14T10:54:00.000-07:002008-06-14T10:57:13.202-07:00If only I knew himHe walks through Boundaries<br />(-after Etheridge Knight)<br />By Chester Stoney<br /><br />He walks through boundaries<br />of social designation, degradation.<br />He has the ability within<br />mind to escape confines of doubt<br />and reasoning. In house of broken<br />glass and broken dreams he sees<br />skies of milk and honey, over an empty stomach.<br /><br />Bags under his eyes<br />form to carry tears too<br />heavy to stay inside.<br />It rains as he cries.<br /><br />His dreams are not my dreams,<br />but I have seen him<br />in dreams dreamt, now and then<br /><br />he reads to me- young and eager<br />from a book of history, of dreams<br />teaches me how to escape<br />to release from the chains<br />to lead my people<br />to wash my hands of hate<br />instilled in me<br />over years.<br /><br />Now his children rest in toe<br />bright smiles, glare and warm<br />his heart, and dreams<br />load is lightened<br />with each story, and<br />each memory<br />laughter removing worn-<br />out troubles<br />he stares<br />he escapes<br />the world the chains<br />he has the ability of mind<br />he walks through boundaries.The Watchershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05663842819417782488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1198536434123161378.post-39890039254886817852008-06-14T10:42:00.000-07:002008-06-14T10:46:26.112-07:00Sex and AgeSex with a white girl<br />(-after Hayes)<br /><br />If you hide inside the broom closet,<br />You’d be able to walk tall again too:<br />The two week boot-camp with fatigue,<br /><br />the drill sergeants rose tattoo. You<br />can be the only black boy along the<br />brick wall, outside, beyond the drill yard:<br /><br />the cold open showers that fell short of<br />innocence, all our dicks were small, even<br />my own dark dagger was shallow,<br /><br />the game of crash, the smell of blood in<br />barracks, between beds made neat every<br />morning, the trashcan alarm clocks.<br /><br />How they would yell and bang, their spit<br />burned my irises that were forced to be<br />blue. The birds repeated the clap. Clap.<br /><br />Clap. Boyish dreams subsided.<br />I was jerked back into the sick of all<br />The wrong reasons to be in love,<br /><br />and she was the only one who understood,<br />the early teenage writings and angst, in the<br />blue and white composition book.<br /><br />Genie, she would spend the spare afternoons<br />gently thumbing the pages, she kissed the<br />edges after each leaf, her powdery fingers<br /><br />graced my neck, to my chest, to my waist,<br />stop…<br />what would your mother think? If you<br /><br />made friend with a boy in shadow,<br />where the soft beats drew bodies so<br />close together that we would become one.<br /><br />But we needed to be ready with all the<br />protections of Troy, it was decided that<br />tonight was to be our night to transcend,<br /><br />while midnight watch was on leave,<br />the shadows moved quickly on the floor<br />to the door and we met with eyes. Briefly,<br /><br />we must have gazed too long, and the<br />moment had passed and her moment was<br />preserved, I never had sex with a white girl.<br /><br /> -Chester StoneyThe Watchershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05663842819417782488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1198536434123161378.post-85210567715783988862008-03-03T17:55:00.000-08:002008-06-14T10:58:43.079-07:00Outside Looking InLone Swordsman<br />Weary. Battle worn. Blood soaked.<br /><br />He travels the path of solidarity,<br />With no friends. With no guide.<br />Under twin moons that gaze only upon him,<br />As he trudges in old wooden sandals,<br />The worn lumber splitting under toe,<br />With every step drawing him both near<br />And far from home.<br /><br />He is <a href="http://www.mandarintools.com/sounds/hai2.aif">Hái</a> <a href="http://www.mandarintools.com/sounds/xuan2.aif">Xuán</a>, the mysterious black child<br /> Sun of the <a href="http://www.mandarintools.com/sounds/mei3.aif">měi</a> <a href="http://www.mandarintools.com/sounds/zhou1.aif">zhōu</a> <a href="http://www.mandarintools.com/sounds/bao4.aif">bào</a>(panther), son of the <a href="http://www.mandarintools.com/sounds/ge1.aif">gē</a>(dove)<br /><br />He pauses on his journey to write,<br />On stone, on bark, on river, on sky,<br />He takes the overtreaded mud and<br />Produces sculptures that last for a moment.<br /> <br /> His hair does not part the wind, but<br /> Coils cautiously around carefully woven<br /> Bands of red and white braided, grown<br /> Beyond the point of comfort, as cracks<br /> Trace his face from eye to cheek, to<br /> Chin and disappear.<br /><br />(How many this has killed is not certain,<br /> Does anyone count the meals of a lion,<br /> Or for that matter is death really all that bad.)<br /><br />He arrives at this plane of equlibrium<br />To find his face on others, on children<br />In cages with no locks, and he drops<br />To his knees, only to catch his breath,<br />Then he draws his sword.The Watchershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05663842819417782488noreply@blogger.com1