Velamen: Canto III

So many thorns underneath, my feet studded like cleats.

Little did I know this would be the smallest feat

That was to come, but it needed to be the first one.

The release of the cursed one precedes any blessing.

The testing, light was dimming, but I was close to winning.

To a finish where my funds always be sufficient.

Where dreams would never be gunned down, 

Instead fed by plenty.

Where the simple could become profound

And right would dictate might.

The meek could inherit the earth

And stand at ease in the light.

And yet the dearth of hope surrounded me, threatening to swallow me whole,

Yet I kept moving. Every one of my senses said no,

But my soul, embracing freedom, said yes.

I can’t see anymore. Yes.

My feet are bleeding. Yes.

The forest pursues me. Yes.

To a fate not worth repeating. Yes.

I’m getting tired. Yes.

I need to rest. Yes.

My entire essence. Yes.

Has come to… d…

Destiny radiated from the horizon, night extinguished by light.

Distinguished soldiers don’t receive such warmth when they return home from a fight.

Anger replaced by solace; solace morphed into contentment.

The pain of a moment ago had no place to become resentment.

It was uprooted, more quickly than the pointed pursuants.

It seemed liberation was to become a language that I’d be fluent.

As I stare at the Hill of Progress, warmed by the light like a child in August,

My countenance preceded me and appeared cautious, 

But my steps steady as they resembled confidence.

As if my past wasn’t honest and this was the true me.

As if the past three decades were simply scenes from a movie.

One might ask, “How did you know the hill was Progress? It could be a trap.”

It’s strange what one can perceive when things don’t fall in your lap.

Discerning authenticity is a gift often given to Blacks.

Generations before received the “blessing” of caution lashed on their backs,

Discrimination, and segregation, and I am an inheritor of their will

So, I can judge something that’s real, 

Anyway, just a few more steps and I can ascend the hill

But my hopes halted as I stare at a form inimical

Bared fangs, saliva dripping, and yellow eyes 

Hell, even remembrance of the description breaks the rhyme scheme

The mission of telling this account, however is critical

The features belonged to what appeared to be the largest of beasts

Black furred, it stood over me, my trepidation increased.

I dared not take my eyes off of it, but I had no choice

Another figure landed behind me which nearly silenced my voice

A vulture would be understatement, a scavenger misleading

This creature’s appetite couldn’t be sated,  its size requiring bellicose breeding

It’s talons were blades, face, blood red

As it alighted from the skies, it could slay me in the wolf’s stead

That is until, I saw the third beast arise, in its eyes was disinterest

As if I was a plebian, who owed it a pauper’s pittance

Which I didn’t have, but it’s claws would certainly take interest

The lion strode effortlessly toward me in the presence of this unholy witness

When the Embers Cool

Our eyes met. 

And, I could remain there

Resting in that moment of embrace.

As those dark pools cradled me,

It was as if you were putting me gently to sleep

When you blinked.

But the war has ended,

And peace ensues.

Displacing stratagems adopted in the time of conflict.

We no longer need each one another

To stay warm from the cold.

Flames lick at my feet

Goading me forward on my path.

But how am I to proceed?

Though the conflict is over,

I don’t fear saying that I need you.

Velamen: Canto II

Though alive again, this resurrected never felt so lost.

No Nazarene alighted before me to bear my Cross.

Alone and afraid, affrighted and benighted,

Under a starless darkness,

Prey in which the wicked father delighted.

What is freedom’s purpose if there is no direction?

An enslaved spirit after all, offers no protection,

And protection was something I needed;

Lest the tangible darkness forever crush the hope of this seedling.

My state was like the Freedmen, and with a single act of emancipation,

I became a glimmer of hope, but like them, their participation

In an unrighteous nation made their dreams go up in smoke.

Could I hope to avoid the inhalation while still being cloaked? 

By the shadow of that which once bound me?

I stay staring at my grave plot, ignorant of that what occurred around me.

But it soon found me, a light, magnificent, and astounding,

The chorus of “Swing Low” overflowed from my heart, 

Booming and resounding.

Calling me to where? Where would this chariot bear me?

Would it take me to a place where things cease to scare me?

To my forefathers, as Odysseus to Laertes?

A place free from the warmongering of Ares,

But just as it arrived, the beam began to shrink.

I tracked the guide taking no time to think,

No time to process this new found freedom.

The only thing on my mind was the luminescent leading.

My heart thumped as blood pumped into legs long atrophied.

One would think the stasis of the years would catch me,

But something buoyed me at each step, bearing me through the land I slept

Feeling like a child who believes all promises made to him are kept,

But the forest was not done yet, the Kingdom had not come yet,

Thorny tendrils and vines vied for me like darkness at sunset.

Like bullets from a gun, yet the artillery was guided,

My only safety and refuge was the fleeting light in which I confided.

Never did I think that one could be found courageous in flight.

Wars are won by might, not by running under cover of night.

Instinct kicked in, giving no mind to the lacerations on my frame.

I’d worry about them when I got free, being united with my name.

Streetcar

My heart weaves 

In and out of the fast lane,

Overshadowed by this overwhelming feeling.

I stay in front, 

Or at least I try to.

But it continually creeps up,

And I can’t shake it.

There’s no way I can maintain this speed

Escaping it.

I wonder where my exit is,

My eyes flitter to a sign,

And I recognize it’s miles away.

My focus wanes,

And I release my foot from the gas.

My heart slows, 

The overwhelming feeling pulls beside me.

It’s you,

And I realize no others are on the road.

Just you and I.

Your beautiful smile changes as you mouth something soundlessly,

But clearly understood:

“Pull over.”

Velamen: Canto I

The space, a dark wood. My face tear-streaked.

Prospective fate, not good. Sharp prison, no release.

My countenance circumscribed by a wooden frame

Without smiles for a while, my body: crippled, lame

Thorny fingers tore into adulterated flesh

Threshed under the wheels and gears 

Of the machine that called me inferior for generations and years

I sat in the silence of the night

Like times I dwelt under dusky Southern skies

Where when the sun went down

The fireflies arise

But unlike the warmth that comes when things blaze to life

This darkness was different, vacuous like distance

Death adhered as close as a man with his mistress

And the infidelity was real

Cold fingers from cold hands gripped my head like steel

Was this bondage self-inflicted? 

Did I ask to be afflicted?

Did I unjustly become the victim?

Another number in the system?

Was My crown of thorns permissive?

And my sacrifice in vain?

Could this treading press of a garden

Be my Gethsemane in name?

“Brandon.” A name? My name? I hadn’t heard for so long

Could it be? It was indeed a strange refrain to that dark song

That was my life. My mother’s sons indeed harsh to me

Feigned hope is a chief lieutenant of all cruelties

“Brandon.” But there it was again. 

My name, Spoken in the same tone, but more definite.

A whisper, but something more, 

An outward breath that struck my core. 

But my eyelids suddenly felt heavy 

Like an infant after feeding 

To rest in the repose of her mother’s arms

And to follow her leading.

Brandon?  I’m not sure if it was my strength or help from the divine.

But the vines and thorns gave way the third time.

It was as if the Great Resurrector called my name from the cave

Pernicious plants had no power, Lazarus had risen from the grave.

Lothlorien

It is said that the leaves of Lorien don’t fall even when it’s winter. The deathless land stands firm even when Jotunheim’s axe cuts others asunder. The green leaves change their gowns to gold on righteous oaks planted from old. As though the leaves balk at the frost and say, “You can touch me, but you will never strike me down.”

Oh, how I wish I changed like Lothlorien and remained beautiful in the snow. Even when the whispering, six-legged neighbors seclude themselves. Even when the rain’s love grows cold. Even when the warm breath of the Father becomes a bite, I wish I could glow and shine like Solomon arrayed in His finest robes. 

The only gold I find is the warmth of the present moment, connecting me to treasures unspeakable. But I often don’t see the value of it. And as a consequence, my leaves fall like trees outside of Eden. They fall because my lack of faith leads to the unsustainable, which gives birth to the unattainable. I remember sunny days when my flowers would emerge in full bloom. I look forward to that time again. But for now, I dream of Lothlorien hoping I can survive the winter.

Velamen Prelude

“I write to you little children because your sins are forgiven you for His name’s sake… I write to you little children because you have known the Father.”

1 John 2:12-13

“Midway upon the journey of life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost.”

Dante Alighieri

How could I fall into a trap so elaborate?

Where freedom like a river droughted into evaporate?

Did I lose a wager? The cost: forfeited manumission

Or did I end up dead? A victim of twisted ammunition

But manumission insinuates I was enslaved

The question is:

From what or whom was I eventually saved?

Whatever it was, whether I was freed or not

My body was left to rot in a spot 

Where thorns and briers knotted the plots 

Of those just like me

Run aground soundlessly 

By a society that prides itself on clear thinking and sobriety

But quietly, it’s drunk on punch that makes lunch of the oppressed

Taking the “best” of our “talent” and discarding the rest

Like the slop for the swine

Treating us as though we don’t reflect the Divine

But the belief of the pork is we’re the descendants of Ham

Should be rounded up, shackled and put in line

From iron fetters to silver bracelets around our wrists

Remind me of ties that bind

The talons of a Fury

Cocytus’s icy breath

Emitted by messengers of a darkened Mercury

Ultimately, I don’t give a shit if your uncle’s a cop. 

They’re no better than this

They can cop their duty to protect and serve to the City of Dis

But, I’ve stepped ahead like a runner before the shot

I need to backtrack to the initial predicament

This first part is just about me

So let me do “due diligence”