I came up with potential responses to this prompt. Either would have been fine. However, I spent most of the night and a good part of the wee hours working. As a multi-genre artist, work could mean anything. Well, last night, I worked on character descriptions for my fiction. It’s nothing to conjure up a person and make them do stuff. However, sometimes I don’t have a clear picture of their appearance. If I don’t have a clear idea of how I can expect the reader to have one, so I worked on my descriptions.
I fed these descriptions into AI to see what it would render. First, I had to find an image generator that provided realistic renderings. I wasn’t looking for photo quality or anything, just potential mock-ups of the characters. After hours of tweaking, I don’t care how good your chair is; your body will tell you enough is enough. So, I called it quits and went to bed.
I realized something this morning while I had coffee. I truly enjoyed myself last night, but my realization didn’t stop there. It occurred to me that creating art is my jam. It’s the one simple thing that brings me joy.
Here are a few examples of the concepts I worked on last night
Leroy Grime
Female Private Investigator
Surrogate Daughter (take 1)
Surrogate Daughter (take 2)
None of these renderings are final, but they provide direction as I continue to develop the appearance of these characters.
Sometimes, it seems like we addicts are trying to duplicate the euphoria from the first fix. It may not last more than a moment, but you never forget how it felt and desperately try to regain that feeling. Yet, we become lost in searching for something we were only supposed to experience once. Perhaps we meant to simply capture these moments and stitch them into a quilt of sanctuary our mothers used to make. Each square represents a euphoric memory.
However, it never seems to work out that way. We waste so much time chasing the dragon we eventually feel cheated. We wind up facing ultimatums concerning the things we have unintentionally neglected. We try to rally but end up a headline below the fold or caption scrolling across the bottom screen with the volume on mute.
Is this what has become my life?
Is this the madness I’ve created?
I have faith that my brothers will hold me up until I can stand on my own. The battle against my demons is real. I sit here in the churn of madness, thinking of everything I was supposed to be—a stranger to myself, a shadow of yesterday. On my soul is a tattoo of the ghost of who I used to be. Memories of yesterday fill the present with fear, and a map to nowhere will be upon my face.
Is this what become of my life?
In the madness I created …
I pray to God to help me find my strength within. I pray to God for the patience that day to begin. I pray to God to help me find myself again.
Peering out from under the crevasses of my splintered psyche, Still riding a euphoric high from about That Night, Collaborative expressions have put my hypothalamus into overdrive. My serotonin overflowing
Yeah… swaying to that lyrical grove, high on 1000cc of that poetic shit…
Leaning back in my chair Pulling up my sleeve, Applying the tourniquet Tap, tap, tap, and then rub
My vein is ready…
Opening my works, a quill and a hypodermic I pull back the plunger slowly. Their ink seeps in
Tap…Tap…tap… No bubbles …
Just a quick push to fill in the gaps A squirt, then a single drop oozes… My mouth salivates in anticipation So close; it won’t be long now
I feel the cold metal against my skin A quick prick and a sharp pain, Slowly, I push the plunger part of the way The ink is warm as it travels through my bloodstream.
Shadows surround me As my head spins, A single drop of drool falls from my shuddering lips Yes…I feel it in my leg now…
I shake from the chill. The bathroom floor tile is so cold. It is as if life is spilling out of me, but the floor is dry My body feels empty and hollow, like my heart
If I am to live in loneliness There is no need to live anymore
I push the plunger in a little further…
I am warmth from the sight of the glistening sweat that painted her body I mimic her labored breathing The rigidness of her bosom tells the tale Her crossed legs and popping toes echo the sentiment.
Her body trembles though she cannot see me But her quivering whimpers Her flow of nectar Confirms that I am near
She swallows hard and then gasps. As I whisper the words she needs,
I push the plunger to the hilt…
Standing in front of a mirror I wonder who it is before me Baffled, for I am submerged in silence Closing my eyes for a moment
Only to open to an image that hasn’t changed A single tear falls from my swollen eyes Realizing I didn’t recognize myself, Knowing I have stripped away my identity,
The single tear is now a stream. Through my sadness, I find the courage to breathe my name.
She Was a Phantom of Delight BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours, Fair Venus’ train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo’s note, The untaught harmony of spring: While whisp’ring pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky Their gather’d fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade; Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech O’er-canopies the glade, Beside some water’s rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin’d in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care: The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o’er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye Such is the race of man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter thro’ life’s little day, In fortune’s varying colours drest: Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill’d by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic, while ’tis May.
these hips are big hips they need space to move around in. they don’t fit into little petty places. these hips are free hips. they don’t like to be held back. these hips have never been enslaved, they go where they want to go they do what they want to do. these hips are mighty hips. these hips are magic hips. i have known them to put a spell on a man and spin him like a top!
Personal Reflection:
When I first heard this poem, it was on audio. It was so different from What I thought poetry was supposed to be. While in school, we had Frost, Whitman, and others shoved down our throats. Though I had grown to appreciate the classics, I definitely had a bad taste in my mouth when it came to poetry. I discovered the beauty and complexity of poetry. Thank you, Lucille Clifton and the many other poets in my library.
I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart For the joys of the multitude. And I would not have the tears that sadness makes To flow from my every part turn into laughter.
I would that my life remain a tear and a smile.
A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding Of life’s secrets and hidden things. A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods.
A tear to unite me with those of broken heart; A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.
I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live weary and despairing.
I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are Satisfied the most wretched of people. I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody.
With evening’s coming the flower folds her petals And sleeps, embracing her longing. At morning’s approach she opens her lips to meet The sun’s kiss.
The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment. A tear and a smile.
The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come Together and are a cloud.
And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to return to the sea, its home.
The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting. A tear and a smile.
And so does the spirit become separated from The greater spirit to move in the world of matter And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death And return whence it came.
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.
“Fade In, Fade Out” by Nothing More is a deeply emotional and introspective song that explores the universal themes of time, legacy, and the cyclical nature of life. Released as part of their album “The Stories We Tell Ourselves” (2017), the song delves into the relationship between generations, specifically focusing on the bond between a parent and child. Through its poignant lyrics, “Fade In, Fade Out” reflects on the inevitable passage of time, the experience of watching one’s parents age, and the desire to make the most of the moments shared with loved ones.
The song begins with a perspective that captures the essence of watching one’s child grow up, imparting wisdom, and hoping they find their way in life without losing themselves. As it progresses, the narrative shifts to express the child’s perspective—acknowledging the sacrifices made by the parents, the realization of their mortality, and the deep wish to carry forward their legacy. With its haunting refrain, the chorus emphasizes the transient nature of life, urging listeners to cherish their time with loved ones before it’s too late.
Musically, “Fade In, Fade Out” is marked by its dynamic shifts, moving from softer, reflective verses to powerful, emotionally charged choruses, mirroring the emotional depth and complexity of the subject matter. The song is a testament to Nothing More’s ability to weave intricate narratives through their music, offering listeners not just a song, but a profound emotional experience that resonates with the universal human condition of love, loss, and the hope of legacy. To hear this song preformed live adds another layer to it.
LYRICS:
Just the other day I looked at my father It was the first time I saw he’d grown old Canyons through his skin and the rivers that made them Carve the stories I was told
He said “Son, I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart”
Just the other day I stared at the ocean With every new wave another must go One day you’ll remember us laughing One day you’ll remember my passion One day you’ll have one of your own
And I say “Son, I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your Mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart, follow your heart, follow your heart”
We all get lost sometimes Trying to find what we’re looking for We all get lost sometimes Trying to find what we’re looking for I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your Mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart, follow your heart”
When the morning comes and takes me I promise I have taught you everything that you need In the night you’ll dream of so many things But find the ones that bring you life and you’ll find me
Thanks to Jim Adams for hosting and another excellent suggestion by Nancy, aka The Sicilian Storyteller
You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, car, or bike?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
I’ve more time behind the wheel than any other mode of transportation. Driving has always relaxed me. I prefer driving alone to think in peace, but I’m not opposed to traveling with someone else. I’ve developed some of my best storylines driving. There’s nothing like working out a difficult scene while gliding across the asphalt sea. The only problem is that I never seem to have a device to capture my thoughts as they come. Yes, yes, I’ve tried the microcassette recorder thing, but I never seem to remember to bring spare tapes. When the digital ones hit the market, the problem is solved, right? Nope, I forget to download to my computer, and when I do, I forget where the hell I put them.
The essentials for a proper road trip: This list varies based on your individual needs, but here are a few suggestions to help you consider what you might need.
Two coolers – one for beverages and the other for food. Truck stop or gas station food is not kind to your digestive system. This may not affect you now, but you will understand what I mean as you age. Not to mention, the prices are ridiculous.
Thermos – coffee or tea. Most thermos can hold up to 10 -12 cups.
A go bag—the contents are at your discretion. However, I suggest a complete change of clothes and a spare pill box for current medications if you take any. Have enough undergarments for at least a week. Also, having somecash and a burner may be a good idea. The cash is handy; not every place is set up for debit or credit cards. I discovered this on my last road trip. The burner; cellphones break all the time.
Emergency Kit – Standard items include flares, first-aid kit, reflective triangles, and blankets. However, emergency food may come in handy. Examples include tuna or chicken pouches, bottles of water, and mayonnaise packets; these items keep pretty well. Also, I almost forgot that you need a good flashlight. Preferably, a rechargeable one; alkaline batteries tend to leak or are dead when you needed.
A small toolkit—Even if you aren’t mechanically inclined, you’d be surprised at what you can fix with a pair of pliers or a screwdriver.
A road atlas – I know I risk sounding like a weirdo, but GPS is NOT the truth. That shit be wonky. Just saying.
The most important thing
Whether you listen to music, podcasts, audiobooks, or talk radio, some items are saved locally on your device for times when you don’t have cell coverage.
If not, you may be forced to listen to stuff like this:
Some of you may enjoy these tracks, so you look at me strangely. However, on one of my road trips, before streaming services were a thing, I found myself listening to a Juice Newton marathon. Now, I ask you, how is this even a thing? It was that day. Some DJ, apparently a huge Juice Newton fan, played all her music. To make matters worse, he had a booming radio station that blasted for miles.
However, you get lucky and get some fun songs like these:
Play that shit Norman
An Anthem for every frustrated worker
This was my jam
By answering this post when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I’m subject to say anything. I couldn’t resist!
Despite the title, the rain is my favorite type of weather. I never understood why people ran from the rain but spent hours in the shower over a lifetime. They swim laps, surf, and waterski, yet the first raindrops they beat feet for shelter. Trust me, I’m not making fun of anyone. I was just like everyone else until I joined the military.
If it ain’t raining, we ain’t training
If it ain’t raining, ain’t, training became our mantra after just a few weeks in service. At my first duty station in Korea, I survived the monsoon season. Trust me, you will stop worrying about the rain after surviving monsoon season. We are soaked to the epidermis, which was wrinkled by the time you were able to put on dry clothes. I can’t remember the last time I ran from the rain.
At any rate, I love the rain. Its something about it I never could put my finger on. Here are some of my favorite songs with rain in the title. I know, it’s Eddie Rabbit’s fault.
In the heart of a bustling city park, where children’s laughter mingled with the melodious chirping of birds, sat a man named Julian. He was a solitary figure amidst the vibrant chaos, a contemplative soul who found peace in the art of people-watching. Julian was particularly drawn to the nuances of human interaction, the subtle play of expressions, and the eloquence of body language.
On this sun-drenched afternoon, his attention was captured by a woman practicing yoga on the lush, green grass. She embodied grace, her movements fluid and effortless, a visual symphony that mesmerized Julian. He noted how the word “lithe” seemed to be crafted for her, the very definition of her elegance and strength. She moved with an almost ethereal poise, her limbs stretching and coiling with a feline agility that left Julian in awe.
For days, Julian returned to the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lithe woman. She became a muse to him, a living embodiment of art and beauty he dared only admire from afar. Her presence stirred something within him, a longing to reach out and connect, to transcend the boundaries of his solitary existence.
Finally, mustering every ounce of courage, Julian decided it was time to step out of the shadows of his observation and into the light of interaction. He approached her on a day painted with the perfect azure of the sky. His heart thundered in his chest, a tumultuous symphony of nerves and excitement.
“Hello,” he said, his voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the park’s life.
She turned toward him, her expression mildly surprised. Her eyes reflected the tranquility of the world she embraced. “Hello,” she replied, her voice as soft and melodious as he had imagined.
Julian stumbled through his introduction, words tangled with admiration and awe. He spoke of his observations, his fascination with how she moved, how she seemed to personify the word “lithe.” He expected bemusement, perhaps even annoyance. Instead, she smiled, a warm, genuine curvature of her lips that reached her eyes and ignited a spark of connection.
Her name was Elara, and she listened earnestly attentively, making Julian’s words flow more freely. They talked beneath the canopy of verdant leaves, their conversation meandering through the trivial to the profound, just as the park’s myriad pathways did.
In time, their meetings became a cherished ritual, two once-strangers finding solace and joy in shared moments. Julian, who had once been content to observe life from a distance, actively participated in its menagerie, woven with threads of companionship, understanding, and the unexpected beauty of a chance encounter.
And so, in a park where the world seemed to converge, Julian discovered the courage to connect, inspired by a woman who danced with the wind, her lithe form a reminder of life’s boundless grace.
If I’m being honest, there are far too many I would hate to give up. I guess I’ve got soft over the years. However, if I absolutely had these three items I couldn’t live without.
2. iPad Pro 12.9 – This is such a versatile tool. I can read books, Listen to audiobooks, write, and take and edit photos. I’ve been using an iPad model for over a decade. It’s hard to imagine working without one. I even tried out several versions of the Samsung tablets and compared them. Though Samsung makes a solid product, I prefer the iPad.
As a writer, I often reflect on my inspirations or, more precisely, why I chose to become a writer. I ask myself, was there a thing more than the others that influenced this decision? I never come up with a definitive answer, but I feel compelled to discuss the impact of the Harlem Renaissance.
The Harlem Renaissance is one of American history’s most significant cultural movements, representing a period of profound artistic and intellectual awakening among African Americans in the 1920s and 1930s. Centered in the vibrant neighborhood of Harlem in New York City, this period witnessed an unprecedented surge of creativity and innovation across various artistic disciplines, including literature, music, visual arts, and theater. The Harlem Renaissance not only transformed the cultural landscape of America but also challenged prevailing racial stereotypes and paved the way for greater recognition of African American contributions to society. This essay aims to provide a comprehensive overview of the Harlem Renaissance, exploring its historical context, key figures, artistic achievements, and lasting impact on American culture.
Historical Context:
The Harlem Renaissance emerged against the backdrop of widespread racial discrimination, segregation, and socio-economic inequality faced by African Americans in the early 20th century. The Great Migration, a mass movement of African Americans from the rural South to urban centers in the North, including Harlem, during and after World War I, was pivotal in shaping the period’s cultural milieu. In Harlem, a vibrant community of artists, writers, musicians, intellectuals, and activists converged, seeking refuge from racial oppression and striving to create a space for artistic expression and cultural affirmation.
Key Figures and Literary Contributions:
Central to the Harlem Renaissance were the writers and intellectuals who articulated African Americans’ experiences, aspirations, and struggles through their literary works. Among the most prominent figures of the movement were:
1. Langston Hughes: Renowned for his poetry, fiction, and essays, Hughes captured the rhythms and vernacular of African American life in his works, addressing themes of identity, heritage, and social justice. His seminal poem “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” and his collection “The Weary Blues” are enduring classics of the Harlem Renaissance. Hughes moved so much as a young poet. His work was instrumental in assisting me to develop my style as a writer.
2. Zora Neale Hurston: A pioneering novelist, folklorist, and anthropologist, Hurston celebrated the culture and traditions of the rural South in her writing, challenging stereotypes and portraying the complexity of African American life. Her masterpiece “Their Eyes Were Watching God” remains a cornerstone of African American literature. Before discovering her, I had such a limited glimpse of the power of the period.
3. Claude McKay: Known for his poetry and novels, McKay explored themes of race, oppression, and resistance in his works, blending elements of traditional English poetry with African American vernacular. His poem “If We Must Die” became a rallying cry against racial violence and injustice. Mckay’s work taught me that I could include hope amidst the verses of pain and despair. He fundamentally affected how I constructed a verse.
4. Nella Larsen: A gifted novelist, Larsen depicted the complexities of racial identity and social mobility among African Americans in her novels “Quicksand” and “Passing,” shedding light on the psychological and emotional challenges faced by individuals navigating between racial boundaries. Passing took me to a world I seldom acknowledged. She introduced me to the struggles my adoptive grandmother faced. I often wondered about some of Mimi’s beliefs; what were their origins? Passing provided possible answers to my numerous queries.
5. Jean Toomer: Influenced by his experiences in the rural South and Harlem, Toomer’s experimental novel “Cane” defied conventional literary genres, blending poetry, prose, and drama to explore the lives of African Americans in the post-Reconstruction era. Often, I experimented with the combination of prose and poetry. For example, I was often ridiculed for my attempts. I knew it could be done. Not only done, but done well. I was introduced to Toomer and his Cane. I ceased doubting myself and continued writing. When I read Jason Reynolds, I am reminded of Toomer.
These writers and many others challenged prevailing literary conventions and redefined the African American literary tradition, enriching American literature with their diverse voices and perspectives. Here are a few more of the notable writers of the period.
Countee Cullen
Jessie Redmon Fauset
James Weldon Johnson
Alain Locke
Wallace Thurman
Arna Bontemps
Rudolph Fisher
Angelina Weld Grimké
Georgia Douglas Johnson
Helene Johnson
Alice Dunbar-Nelson
Anne Spencer
Gwendolyn Bennett
Marita Bonner
Dorothy West
Artistic Achievements and Cultural Impact:
Beyond literature, the Harlem Renaissance encompassed a rich tapestry of artistic expressions, including music, visual arts, theater, and dance. Jazz, with its improvisational style and syncopated rhythms, became the quintessential sound of the era, symbolizing the spirit of cultural innovation and liberation. Musicians such as Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and Bessie Smith rose to prominence, captivating audiences with their electrifying performances and reshaping the landscape of American music.
In the visual arts, African American artists such as Aaron Douglas, Jacob Lawrence, and Romare Bearden explored themes of identity, history, and social justice through their paintings, murals, and collages, contributing to the flourishing of African American artistry and aesthetics.
The Harlem Renaissance also witnessed a resurgence of African American theater, with playwrights such as Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Eugene O’Neill staging productions that reflected the experiences and aspirations of African Americans. The New Negro Movement, as articulated by Alain Locke in his seminal anthology “The New Negro,” sought to challenge racial stereotypes and promote a positive image of African American culture and identity.
The legacy of the Harlem Renaissance extends far beyond its immediate historical context, influencing subsequent generations of artists, writers, and activists and contributing to the ongoing struggle for racial equality and social justice. By reclaiming their cultural heritage and asserting their creative agency, the participants of the Harlem Renaissance paved the way for greater recognition and appreciation of African American contributions to American culture and society.
Conclusion:
The Harlem Renaissance is a testament to the African American community’s resilience, creativity, and cultural vitality in adversity. Through their artistic achievements and intellectual pursuits, the participants of the Harlem Renaissance challenged prevailing racial stereotypes, celebrated the richness of African American culture, and laid the groundwork for a more inclusive and equitable society. As we commemorate the legacy of the Harlem Renaissance, remind us of the enduring power of art and culture to inspire, uplift, and transform lives, transcending barriers of race, ethnicity, and nationality.
This is one of the easiest questions I’ve answered in a while. The answer is YES. I love it. However, it feels odd to say so when that hasn’t been the case. For decades, I had this thing where I wanted to be older than my age. Almost like I was born during the wrong era or something. The problem I could never settle on a period I really wanted to be from.
Then was the whole “you’re just a kid. You’ll understand when you get older.” I hated being treated like a kid. I refused to believe that age possessed this fountain of wisdom that eluded my entire youth. Often, I wondered what age or day I was going to understand the mysteries of the world suddenly. Would it be on a weekday? Or on the weekends? I hoped for sometime during the week because, let’s face it, on the weekends, there was beer and women to be ignored by. Disgusted or disapproving looks from members of the opposite sex while standing obnoxious with the fellas is a rite of passage.
However, I would like to be on a Monday if it was during the week. Many complain about Monday’s, but I don’t mind so much. Over the years, I found several to be rather pleasant. Tuesdays would be alright, too, yet it doesn’t pop off on Mondays. Any day after is a negative ghost rider. There to much preparation from the pending weekend. You can’t be bogged down with a complex thought. I can see it now, sitting there tugging on your peach fuzz chins, saying, “Hmm.” For those fellas who could grow full beards in high school, I am jealous.
I enjoy my age now because all I have to do is sit around looking at people like they’re crazy. Who needs cable? Have you ever looked at the younger folks when you get older? They are hilarious, aren’t they? It’s alright. You can admit it. The only drawback is the random, unprovoked ailments that surface periodically. Yes, I said unprovoked. This is my story, and I’m sticking with it. I can speak my mind. I’m old enough to know better but too old to give a shit. After all this crap of wishing I was older, I’m finally in the winter of life. It gets a little chilly at times, but hey. Excuse me while I slip on a sweater.
While serving in the military, I never heard of these guys. Once I got out, I started researching military units during wartime. I came across this picture, and it just intrigued me. I have hours of data about this unit and others like it. I thought I would share a very quick overview of this amazing collection of men.
The Harlem Hellfighters, officially known as the 369th Infantry Regiment, were a remarkable group of African American soldiers who served with distinction during World War I. Despite facing racism and segregation in the United States, these courageous men showcased exceptional bravery and resilience on the battlefield, earning respect and admiration from both allies and enemies.
Formed in 1913, the 369th Infantry Regiment was originally a New York National Guard unit. When the United States entered World War I in 1917, the Harlem Hellfighters were among the first African American units to be sent to Europe. However, due to racial prejudices prevailing at the time, they were assigned to the French Army under the command of General Philippe Petain.
The Harlem Hellfighters served on the front lines for 191 days, more time in continuous combat than any other American unit during World War I. They faced intense fighting in the trenches, enduring not only the perils of war but also racism from their fellow citizens. Despite the challenges, they demonstrated exceptional courage in battles such as the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, where they fought tirelessly to overcome the enemy.
One of the most remarkable aspects of the Harlem Hellfighters’ legacy is their introduction of jazz music to Europe. The regiment’s band, led by Lieutenant James Reese Europe, played a significant role in popularizing this uniquely American art form abroad. Their performances entertained both troops and civilians, breaking down cultural barriers and contributing to the global recognition of jazz as a vibrant and influential genre.
The Harlem Hellfighters returned home as heroes, but their fight for equality did not end on the battlefield. Their experiences in World War I played a pivotal role in the broader struggle for civil rights in the United States. The recognition of their sacrifices and achievements contributed to the eventual desegregation of the military and laid the groundwork for the African American soldiers who would follow in their footsteps.
In 2019, a century after their heroic service, the Harlem Hellfighters were posthumously awarded the Congressional Gold Medal, further acknowledging their contributions and sacrifices. Their legacy remains an integral part of American history, serving as a testament to the strength, resilience, and courage of those who fought for justice and equality, both on and off the battlefield.
Here is my response to today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt – Time
POETRY
Time
Sitting within the wondering of unknown destiny. Riding the waves of the abyss of sorrow. Like the sands of the hourglass, the moments of a promiseless tomorrow slip away
But…
Have you heard the news today?
Our kinsmen…
Our brethren…
Has passed away
Not of blood, but of spirit
What is felt goes by many names yet the pain remains the same
Remember…
He has been called home to sit alongside our Master and his golden throne
Boundfull dutiful we are to acknowledge his words of passion and grace
for they have
Lifted us… Caressed us… Consoled us…
I wish to thank all those who have taken the time to read the ranting of a feeble mind.
From my stoop, on my soapbox, I stare into the abyss, then begin reading my list.
Life is short…
So kiss it… taste it.. Close your eyes and Savor it…
But most of all
LIVE IT !!!
One minute at a time
I wrote this piece years ago after the writing community had lost one of its brethren. To me, he was gentle, but wise soul with so much to offer. The writing community took a blow that day.
It doesn’t matter about the existence of time, moments we spend with one another count. Make the moments we spend even with strangers matter. Humanity’s most precious gift to one another is their time.
A spry little man named Barkan lived in the serpentine alleys of the ancient city of Khazan, notorious for its labyrinthine streets and enigmatic inhabitants. Barkan was not your average resident. He was a trickster, a master of bamboozles, and his clever ruses were the talk of the city.
Barkan was not always this cunning. Once upon a time, he was an innocent and naive boy. However, life in Khazan was tough, and the city’s harsh realities turned him into the wily person he had become. Yet, Barkan’s bamboozles were never harmful or malicious. They were light-hearted pranks aimed at teaching lessons to the arrogant and the pompous.
One day, a haughty nobleman named Lord Faizan visited Khazan. Rumors of Barkan’s bamboozles had reached him, and he was determined to outwit the trickster. Lord Faizan was known far and wide for his pride and arrogance, qualities that made him the perfect target for Barkan. Upon his arrival, Lord Faizan announced a reward for anyone who could outsmart him. The city excitedly buzzed, and Barkan saw the perfect opportunity for his most significant bamboozle yet. He accepted the challenge, and the city held its breath, waiting for the grand showdown.
The next day, Barkan invited Lord Faizan to a feast at his humble abode. As the nobleman arrived, he was surprised by the simplicity of Barkan’s home. Little did he know, the grand bamboozle had already begun.
What I’ve learned over the years in regards to clutter is you never know how much crap you have accumulated until you get ready to move. Also, I discovered the things in the basement, the storage unit, and the garage. You probably don’t need it. I’m aware that somehow we find justification to keep these forgotten treasures or the unknown items contained inside labeled “Misc.” So do your best to load the unnecessary items and take them to your local charity or consignment store.
Let’s change direction for a minute. We are still discussing the reduction of clutter but in a different way.
“The unexamined life is not worth living” ― Socrates
I’ve come to realize that the area with the greatest need for decluttering is one’s self. I’ve been ill these last few months, and it doesn’t seem I’m going to get any relief in the near future. However, I’ve had an opportunity for self-reflection. Let me tell you, some wickedness has been passing through my mind. Despite this, I’ve had moments of clarity.
I’ve taken the time to really look at what I need to live my best life. I need to take the time to let go of my preconceptions about myself and the world around me. This isn’t as easy as it sounds. I find self-examination to be the most challenging endeavor I ever embarked on. It’s going to be a work in progress. Yet, it is a task worth doing.
Once you let go of your internal baggage, I believe you can tackle the basement, storage unit, or garage with a clear mind and spirit. You just might be able to get something done.
The morning chill creeps through my layers as I sit on my porch, twirling my finger playfully in my whiskers. I swallow a sip of coffee while tugging at them, lost in the depths of my thoughts. The amber glow of the collision between night and dawn illuminates the horizon. Today, a man was born that brought so much light to the world. His presence hurled us out of a darkness that had engulfed us for nearly a hundred years—a man whose vision, courage, and devotion to humanity will never be forgotten.
Sipping coffee, I watch the lights turn on one by one as the neighborhood awakens. A community in which I could have never lived if it wasn’t for this man’s efforts. Not because where I live now is better than where I grew up. Society’s attitude is better. I remember the speech of this brave man as a child being replayed every year during my youth: a vision of hope, love, determination, and courage. His speech or vision served as a beacon representing one of hell of a dream.
Now a seasoned man, I wonder if my efforts in life have helped fulfill that dream. We fought for God, Country, and the ideal of freedom. We spent countless hours away from home in pursuit of the vision on the mountaintop. The endless miles walked for the dream of the Promised Land. No mile did I walk alone. Each mile walked and every hour spent away was in the faith that a moment of hatred was erased. I hoped they would ring the bell of freedom. A sound heard in the souls of each man and woman in the land. A faith I held on to with all my might, even though it was sometimes fleeting.
Each time I heard the word Jew, it took away a little bit of hope. Whenever I heard the word cracker, freedom’s bell rang a little softer. Every time I heard the word spick or chili pepper, humanity’s love got a little weaker. Each time I heard the nigger humanity’s dignity lessen. However, each time I heard these, we fought harder to fulfill the dream of a man we had never known. We risked our lives to fulfill a dream our forefathers wrote nearly two hundred years before my birth.
I look upon my granddaughter, who shifts under her blanket of freedom provided by the fulfillment of this dream, a granddaughter who turns a year older today. She is allowed to live in a world and taste the crispness of a freedom that wouldn’t have been without his dream. A smile comes across my face as I finish my coffee. I smack my lips because I, too, taste the crispness of freedom in the fresh morning air.
Now, I’m a great-grandfather. I still taste the crispness of freedom in the morning air. It’s rather tasty!
Questions like these make me roll my eyes and shake my head. It seems like the next thing they will be asking is,
“What does it all mean?”
What’s my place in the world?”
And more nonsense questions. I have this attitude because it is the decisions we make that cause us to become who we are.
Sure, we have situations in life we would like to do-over or take back. It’s just the nature of life. However, neither of those things are possible. So, when someone asks questions like these. I respond with the following question:
“You’ve had your entire life to prepare for this moment … why aren’t you ready?”
Every decision we have made in life has led to where we are … the good, the bad, and the ugly. Do we really want to change anything?
I’ve been fortunate to have received some amazing gifts throughout my life. However, that depends on how the word “gift” is defined. Most of the time, when talking to others, I find gifts to be defined as something tangible. Something one can display on a desk or show someone. I would define these sorts of gifts as awesome, wonderful, or cool; maybe? Yet, neither rise up to the occasion of the “greatest.” I think if you take a moment and think about it, you may agree with me or not.
However, the greatest gift to me is when someone gives you their time. Time is a precious commodity, something you can’t get back. Well, at least not right now; give me another ten years; the machine I’m building should be thoroughly tested and ready for the public. Until then, I view the time people choose to spend with us as special and intimate. I know I may be a little bent on this point, but it seems to be working.
The past is the past for a reason. That is where it is supposed to stay, But some cannot let it go. In their heads it eats away
Until all their focus becomes The person they used to be, The mistakes they made in their life. Oh, if only they could see
That you cannot change what happened, No matter how hard you try, No matter how much you think about it, No matter how much you cry.
What happens in your lifetime Happens for reasons unknown, So you have to let the cards unfold. Let your story be shown.
Don’t get wrapped up in the negative. Be happy with what you have been given. Live for today not tomorrow. Get up, get out, and start living,
Because the past is the past for a reason. It’s been, and now it is gone, So stop trying to think of ways to fix it. It’s done, it’s unchangeable; move on.
This is a daily reminder To relax, To not get angry over small things, To stay calm.
This is a daily reminder To be yourself, To not care what people think, To know you can be anything.
This is a daily reminder To love yourself, To not hurt yourself, To not work yourself up.
This is a daily reminder That you are beautiful, That you are amazing, That you will succeed.
This is a daily reminder To always have hope, To have faith, To know everything will be okay.
This is a daily reminder That you have made it so far already, That you haven’t given up, That whatever you’re doing is right, And that you are going to be amazing.
My body is healing, so I’ve been sleeping a lot. It’s strange how remarkable the body can be if you allow it to do its thing. I haven’t been able to get much done in these past weeks, but I’ve had the strength to create. This is a blessing in itself. I may never return to being the man I was before all this happened, but honestly, they may not be such a bad thing. In part, it’s because of him; I’m in this situation, and it’s also because of him; I know I can survive it. Who or what will I be after it is all said and done? Who knows? But it’s gonna be fun figuring things out.
Image Credit:
I took this photo a week before my health took a nose dive. I remember feeling horrible that day. However, I pushed through because I’m a tough guy and all that.
I watched so many cartoons as a child I can’t remember them all. Of course, the classics like Scrooby-Do and Bugs Bunny. However, there was one cartoon that appeared later. GI-Joe ended up being my jam. It might have sparked from having the action figure GI Joe with the kung-fu grip. Whatever the reason, I enjoyed every episode I was able to catch. What’s cool is that YouTube has all the episodes.
One of my favorite forms of writing is poetry. For years I have been trying to figure why? Perhaps, in it’s many forms it represents the truth of us. The truth that is only told within the lines we write. There’s something majestic about poetry that can’t be explained in words no matter how hard we try. But at least we can do is highlight one of its many forms.
Acrostic Poems
Acrostic poems are a unique and creative expression used for centuries to captivate readers and convey profound messages. In this article, we will delve into the format of acrostic poems, exploring their structure, techniques, and the power they hold in making meaning come alive.
What is an Acrostic Poem?
An acrostic poem is a type of poetry where the first letter of each line when read vertically, spell out a word, phrase, or name. This format adds depth and meaning to the poem, as the chosen word or phrase often serves as a theme or central idea.
The Structure of Acrostic Poems:
Acrostic poems typically consist of multiple stanzas, with each line beginning with a letter that contributes to the hidden word or phrase. The number of lines in each stanza can vary, depending on the poet’s preference and the length of the word or phrase used.
Techniques for Crafting Acrostic Poems:
Choosing the central word or phrase: The first and most crucial step in creating an acrostic poem is selecting the word or phrase that will be spelled out vertically. This choice sets the tone and theme of the poem. Brainstorming: Once the central word or phrase is chosen, the poet can brainstorm words, phrases, or ideas associated with each letter. This helps in constructing meaningful and coherent lines for the poem. Wordplay and creativity: Acrostic poems allow for wordplay and creativity, as poets can experiment with different ways to express their thoughts and emotions within the constraints of the format.
The Power of Acrostic Poems:
Expressing hidden meanings: Acrostic poems provide an opportunity to subtly convey hidden meanings or messages within the poem. This adds an element of intrigue and depth to the reading experience. Engaging the reader: The format of acrostic poems engages the reader’s curiosity and encourages them to actively participate in deciphering the hidden word or phrase. It creates a sense of interaction between the poet and the reader. Enhancing memorability: Acrostic poems have a unique quality that makes them memorable. The deliberate arrangement of letters and the challenge of uncovering the hidden word or phrase leaves a lasting impression on the reader.
The message couldn’t have been clearer it was like a strobeing neon sign… or looped playback of an unwanted message
The sulfur fills your nostrils and you’re mesmerized by the dancing flame
Why did you foolishly believe in this? why where so easily taken in by its lure? why did you allow yourself to breath life into boyish fantasy?
The amber light severed the darkness for a moment as you took a drag
Shaking your head, you exhale…bathing in the realism of the moment You step back into the shadows…..step back into the known step back before you become a victim of the voracious nature of life
You thump the ashes from your cigar in the darkness ….safe and free
There is a silence in the room No words spoken, emotions so thick one could smother Fighting back the tears, as you look back at her face. She’s sitting on the steps, glowing in the sun.
Your bag is packed, yet you search for a reason not to leave. Standing the final stance before departure…knowing too well it is time Feeling the tenderness of her touch Followed by the warmth of her lips.
Exhaling in the moment, the next is unknown
Walking out the door, never turning around Not wanting your tears to show. The ride to post was longer today than any others Your brothers and sisters in arms have the same upon their faces
Equipment and manifest checks … moments away from destiny Chatter fills the room, but no one speaks of why we are here As if you speak its name, you give it power. To speak its name, the illusion would be over
We muster on the flight line, trying to stay strong We look through the crowd, watching your brethren summoning the courage Moments away from fighting an unknown cause Fighting with undying zeal and without pause
The plane is loaded, and slumber takes over Getting all we can get while we can Waken by the plane’s descent, our nerves on fire Knowing that the illusion is over and dues need to be paid
We flick the switch ….
Boom boom….boom boom ….boom boom Can you hear it?
Boom boom…boom boom ….boom boom War drums sound off
Desperately searching for the next thing that is keeping you away Through bloodshot eyes, we see all the enemies have vanished No one else to fight … no more orphans caused At least no more today
We flick off the switch ….
Leaning in the doorway, standing there looking Looking at the most breathtaking thing that these eyes have seen In what seems to be a lifetime
Here, in the chambers of my madness, I am showered by my decadence. The weight of my arrogance bears heavily on my soul, dropping me to my knees, beaten and shallow. The eyes of my damnation have opened. From its lips, a howl is released that cringes the wicked.
In a fleeting moment….
I believed someone wanted to hear what I had to say. Believing I had something worthy of saying.
For a moment….
I believed my words could inspire and ignite, Yet they are daunt and douse. I believed my words could teleport you from drab and mundane, to the majestic and climatic
For a moment….
I believed I was good enough to defend the faith, which gives us breath I believed I was that breath, filling the lungs of the passionate.
For a moment… I believed the faces of the slain would fade, Yet I drift deeper into a sea of their weeping souls. Believing I was strong enough to let go of the things that bind me. Though I await sadness to draw life that remains….leaving me hollow.
Bound by lunacy’s chains, I am danging in its web, screaming… Liberating my sanity as I stare into the fright and pain. Knowing I can’t let go of the hope … of grace.
For my fortitude must be unwavering. If I’m lucky, my courage will be limitless
Yet, I must be careful, for I hope for…. For it might destroy it all.
Yes, I must be careful … For it might destroy me.
In the twilight of this revelation, I slump, weakened… for I am dying. From my lifeless lips, I speak Passion’s name Breaking the chains, I rise untouched by the flames of Madness.
holding on to the dream that I’m powerful enough Powerful enough to scribe in lines of the destined. Wise enough to scribe the words that will bring us home. Strong enough to wield the words that will bind our drifting souls.
Bringing us to a place we all belong, united and strong A place where our words cast out the darkness that sometimes fills our hearts.
Yet, I must be careful about what I long for…. Careful for what I yearn for …. I might get things I don’t want
Yet, I pray hear you my plea
Just before the dawn of this … Epiphany of Madness
Along the coast of the isle, I await I’m awaiting the one who is heard but rarely seen. His guidance, his vision, is what soothes me.
Thundering huffs of his steed surround me Through the mist, I catch a glimpse of his armor My heart pounds in anticipation of asking the question
Opening my eyes, I am within the halls of my study An empty room with barren shelves, once full No remnants of its former purpose
Except…
An inkwell on my table Whispering … You’re the one I belong to…
My soul began to shiver As it transformed into a mesmerizing beauty With enchanting eyes that spoke to me.
I could barely take it My head was spinning around and around I didn’t know what to do As those eyes kept asking me Can you be the writer? That writes too silly to the profound Are you that writer? It is just a question to answer.
The inkwell on my table… Was the caressing wind Of the blossoming trees Everything between hell and heaven
Now I’m back along the coast In the presence of the rider As I looked at the face behind the visor
I realized the answers
I am the writer of the silly, perhaps the profound Yes, I have my answer I am the Muse
It’s foggy outside, but I’ve never been clearer I’ve failed you in the worst possible way I became something other than what I needed to be I felt I needed to be something other than who I am If the failure to you isn’t bad enough, the greatest failure of all is to myself .
Will you remember me when your famous? It is so lovely for you to say so, but I know that you wont. To be honest, I would probably forget me too. So experience, conquer, and live shamelessly.
You see I know that I am nothing more than…. A whisper of a stranger A smile from a fond memory We all know that memories wither and fade
So I add another log onto the fire of life Every so often I poke it To see the spark, hear the pop, and feel the warmth While I sit in admiration and silence …
Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.
PROSE – REFLECTION
I wish I had a wonderful, delightful tale about this title, but I don’t. Unfortunately, I’m unable to offer the sorted adventure due to one fact. I don’t remember a thing from that night. I went so far as to ask friends for their account of the evening’s activity. Nothing!
The overall opinion of the everyone involved that night is the following:
“Man, I can’t tell you,” one said, as he shook head with I can only describe as look of shame on his face. I immediately thought the worst.
“Man, tell me.” I exhaled deeply squaring myself, “I can take it.” I assured him. He shook me off.
He sat there quietly for several minutes as if he were trying to decide if he was ready to be the herald of bad news. Then, slowly, he began his tale. Quickly, I realized what he was holding back had nothing to do with me.
As I talked to the rest of my buddies their tales were similar. One work up in a tree. Another in a ditch with a woman.
“Really, dude?” I asked. He just nodded
“Name?” I asked, he shrugged.
“Japan, huh?” he asked, I nodded
“Cool, you made out better than we did,” he said, looking up towards the sky as if it had some universal truth waiting to be discovered behind the clouds. I also found myself looking up, searching for what I imagined to be the same thing or some truth completely different. Neither, I can be certain about. Then I heard his voice bringing me back.
“You can’t remember anything, brother…blessing…no shame” he said.
Why do I bother to post in other groups? When my words are barely read at their home Perhaps it is an evolving disillusion of a boyhood dream To do something in life that makes a difference
To touch someone’s soul with a glance To inspire a dream with a whisper When did the purity of an ideal dissolve into an institution Perhaps, the day you uttered another name, replacing your own
Why do I read my work aloud? When it is obvious no one is moved The only thing mentioned is its length Nevermind anything about its strength
Were you listening?
There’s no need to lie to me. Perhaps it’s because my words lack the standard rhyme or mitre. Perhaps I have yet to say something that possesses some depth.
One thing is clear. Their silence speaks louder than any word could
Last night I dreamt of the innocence of writing before the hoopla, deadlines, word counts, etc., when we hurriedly crafted sentences in chalk on sidewalks before they got washed away in the rain. Good luck today; write clean, true, & honest ….it’s 5 am
Snowball fights and Snow Angels playing for hours, we never seemed to get tired. Never seemed to get cold. Our mothers told us to come inside and warm up.
There’s something about the winter
There’s a stillness that comes in the winter night the sir is crisp, it’s chill prickly Yet, there’s a peacefulness in the hush though we not know what lurks in the dark.
Like most of us here, we’ve had plenty of jobs before finding the one that stuck. I cringe, thinking about some of the things I did to make money.
However, there is one job I think of fondly. I was a paperboy. If it’s hard to imagine me being a paperboy, let me provide a visual; think of the paperboy in the John Cusack classic “Better Off Dead.”
Let’s take a look, shall we?
Sighs … Me and the gang chasing down deadbeats. The things you remember … The good times…sighs
The perfect opening line seldom comes at the perfect time, You’re anything other than being prepared to write Hang on a second … Hang on! You’re ready now. Then just like that
Poof
Get back here! I’m not done with you, you shout!
It’s a game we play; between them & us Such a cruel game
But when it’s good; it’s damn good
There we are, writing the words are flowing They fly above your head each one chirping like birds
Each chirp a note in the unwritten symphony, and we are the composers
Ladies and gentleman I’d like to thank you for coming
In the next few moments, we will return to 40 years ago. Then I will speak in a language that hopefully everyone can easily understand
From my ice cream castle I stared into the purple rain While I had starfish and coffee I saw a bird caught in an oak tree
Prince said he was so confused. However, I sat chuckling, only slightly amused He was just another owner of a lonely heart That’s right; gigolos get lonely too
From that ice cream castle I saw Judas Priest screaming for vengeance The death of Orion, some thought was a disposable hero Yet, Iron Maidens search for a piece of mind, while chanting the call to Ktulu
Benatar chronicles the crimes of passion. Preparing us for that next anthem Billie Jean was on the scene and swore she was a thriller It turns out all she wanted was a little paradise by the dashboard lights
Red leather jacket, a new edition It got me ready for the world Man..I was cool, I mean C-O-O-L! I know I could definitely stand the rain.
I started wondering about that candy girl What’s her name? What’s her number? 777-9311??? Jenny or 867-5309 ….Roxanne Oh!! That’s right, that’s right …Sheila.
I left my ice cream castle in the summertime To meet a concrete blonde in the cold part of town She started spinning me right round like record And all I wanted was to find myself a brand new lover
Sh-Sh –Shaking, I fell into a wall of voodoo Then woke up in Tijuana wanting some barbecue iguana The next thing I knew, there was a cheap trick Talking bout if you want my love, you got it
I shook my head. NO!! Knowing she wasn’t ready for this jungle love So instead, we drank some brass monkey Listening to some Mexican radio
Now, back in my ice cream castle Listening to watermelon man and sipping bitches brew Thinking they call it Stormy Monday And Tuesday is just as bad
As it stands right now, I can’t be with you. I think too much of myself. I have too much pride in who worked to become
In order to be with you, I must cease to be the man I am. I must allow myself to be disrespected. I must forget all that I know about; what it is to be a man I must forget all that I know about love; how it makes me feel
I must cease to care about my well-being; for I no longer matter I must be willing to surrender my will to another; without question I will do all these things to prove my love. Willingly change who I am; because I love you that much.
Hmm… You aren’t even willing to change a dress for me. So how much did you really love me?
I shudder from the warmth of my soul’s smile The image of your beauty, permanently etched upon my mantle, The collision of your beauty (Inner & outer) emits a glow A glow with the radiance that will melt a Himalayan snow
A sight:
never forgotten …
truly majestic…
I sigh from the comfort and security of your embrace A cleansing exhale with the contentment of knowing that I’m home
In this moment, I know what it is like to be held In this moment, I know what it is like to be loved
My soul screams these words Yet, my lips remain still Nay tremor, nor whisper
I remain in the comfort of the way things are Instead of braving what could be I remain comfortable in the warmth of my fear.