FINE TUNE, Carl T

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There’s only one fine tune,

there’s only one like you.

How about money for a life,

how about a kiss in between a fight,

your best dress, that sundress,

your beautiful face, beyond the mirage,

your never tied laces, from the mirage,

your pure face, at dawn, as reflected on the kitchen  faucet,

your splendid gaze at dusk, as seen before the offset,

 

Thoughts of happiness,

a preview of a perfect life,

visions, images of a country cabin in the winter,

In my right hand a rainbow bouquet,

on my chest, your magnificent face,

with my left hand I fondle your breast,

 

That in the midst of this cold and mist,

the heat from our hearts would suffice,

that within all this wars and strife, our love would arise.

Carl T

AS I LAY ROSES

  Carl Tayo           

I lay roses from the tip of the door,

gradually to the end of the staircase,

In my hand a rainbow bouquet,

partially filled with French roses,

prayers, and Love poems.

I wait for you darling,

I wait for that bell ring,
I wait for you,

as I did before I got your attention,

I wait for you that I may stroke your hair,

I wait for you, that even as you tire,

I prepare my harp, flute and lyre,
That I may swing you away,

into the world of your desires.

Emergent

Carl Tayo

Because we are all thinking the same,

we are,

 heroes, emergent,

discoverers of a way of thinking,

a manner of thought,

pacifists, oh! but  we conquer,

residents, proclaimers of peace,

Kings and queens in our own nature,

Studious, but we are mellow,

standing out in all our yellow,

expressing love in all its majesty,

using it to engulf all our travesties,

And so we remain rooted,

declaring our flaws no longer our captors,

casting them asunder,
Gazing not just onto the light of the stars,

but rather fully into the glare of the sun,

for in our eyes, are diamonds,

our sight christened by their light,

uncapped unmeasured ,

merely flattered by its shine.
Yes, we are strange,

for we agree with those that call us peculiar,

for we are not ordinary,

we agree with those who have called us ‘not beautiful’,

for we are beyond beauty
Invincible, existing beyond the human scope,

sympathetic to those who refuse to notice us,

for we are destined for greatness.
For indeed, we are heroes, emergent,

explorers, discoverers of a new way.

Illuded

​Carl Tayo

Culmination of hunger,

the derivation of thirst,

the beginning of sadness,

the future, further into darkness,

in the frame though, brightest,

silence, just colours, soon to be past,

single handedly a mother and a father,

inside the deepest of lovers,

outside the hardest of metals,

aneurysm of desire,

castigation by fear,

socially degraded, mentally sedated,

socially associated, mentally eliminated,

physically annointed, emotionally unattended,

lyrically appointed, sensually unattached,

totally in synch, 

in order with the past,

unavailable to the present, 

ever present in the past,

streamlined, in awe of what I achieved before,

agitated and embroiled by what I have become,
Off balance not ready for the future,

clarity of vision, plenty of resolutions

Elated, and overjoyed by this high notes,

spritually availed, 

uplifted and segregated by this flow,

floating, above and rising,

threatened, in the fear and weakness stirring,

confused, but straightforward in writing,

random rulers, seldom in power,

random beggars, seldom next to the flowers,

No rhyme scheme,

the scheme is my vision.

As we search, Redemption

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And as this songs give us meaning
As this peace we search for gives us prosperity,
As this love, that we so endeavor to acquire, lasts for eternity,
As this honor that we soldiers endeavor to attain, outlasts us,
As this climax that we strive to reach draw nearer,
As this magnificence that we desire, even if we do not declare,
Glare onto us,

For though, we seem to be mere beings,
Creations, of the almighty,
Though we swell in the presence of folly,
Though we appear to be no more flesh and bones,
Though for some reason, we seem to be the weakest of the galaxies,
Restrained and withheld by the magnitude  of our anomalies,
For fallen have we,
Hurt, bruised,
But we are surviors,
Lovers of the struggle,
For we embrace the scars,
Though we love this metallic cars,
We even more appreciate the images,
The pictures of our past,
As we glare onto those dark windows,
From our bright side.

And as we are held back,
Patience our companion,
We endeavour to be mighty,
To scrape the scales,
To render this flaws no more our captors,
That our ugliness may turn into beauty,
That our darkness may be overshadowed by the light,
And that we may find salvation in our redemption.

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By Carl Tayo

Mother to son

By Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

What work is

by Philip Levine

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.

DREAMS

Wisława Szymborska

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Despite the geologists’ knowledge and craft,
mocking magnets, graphs, and maps—
in a split second the dream
piles before us mountains as stony
as real life.

And since mountains, then valleys, plains
with perfect infrastructures.
Without engineers, contractors, workers,
bulldozers, diggers, or supplies—
raging highways, instant bridges,
thickly populated pop-up cities.

Without directors, megaphones, and cameramen—
crowds knowing exactly when to frighten us
and when to vanish.

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Without architects deft in their craft,
without carpenters, bricklayers, concrete pourers—
on the path a sudden house just like a toy,
and in it vast halls that echo with our steps
and walls constructed out of solid air.

Not just the scale, it’s also the precision—
a specific watch, an entire fly,
on the table a cloth with cross-stitched flowers,
a bitten apple with teeth marks.

And we—unlike circus acrobats,
conjurers, wizards, and hypnotists—
can fly unfledged,
we light dark tunnels with our eyes,
we wax eloquent in unknown tongues,
talking not with just anyone, but with the dead.

And as a bonus, despite our own freedom,
the choices of our heart, our tastes,
we’re swept away
by amorous yearnings for—
and the alarm clock rings.

So what can they tell us, the writers of dream books,
the scholars of oneiric signs and omens,
the doctors with couches for analyses—
if anything fits,
it’s accidental,
and for one reason only,
that in our dreamings,
in their shadowings and gleamings,
in their multiplings, inconceivablings,
in their haphazardings and widescatterings
at times even a clear-cut meaning
may slip through.

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