Dreams (Forever...Today)

Grand Canyon, AZ 1/2/16

I always dreamed of being someone great. Someone remembered. A man with great accomplishments, achievements, accolades, awards, trophies, notoriety, and fame.

I always dreamed of crowds screaming my name. Of having everything I could ever imagine. But as I got older there was… this resonance in my dreams. This void that could never be filled with the materialistic objects of this world.

My dream of riches, luxury and notoriety began to end with trying to drink my way to the bottom of every bottle; into trying to work my way through materialistic goals. Or sleeping my way through the depth of infinite loneliness.

I envisioned having everything in the world, with memories I couldn’t ever share. Because with everything I had, in every dream, it ended with me aging in tears, not just years and receiving care from people who just do it for a check and not out of love. It ended with me as an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die alone. With everything I could ever want but praying for death long before it ever greeted me. Sore, bitter and alone. With no one left to spill my regrets to. Just an old man who likes to sleep on the couch because beds are made for two not one. My dream became my nightmare and I prayed my dream to never come true.

But I met you. No, not like you remember. I met you long before I ever saw your face. I fantasized about you in classes when I was young. I saw you in college textbooks when my vision blurred from lack of sleep. I saw pieces of you in my mistakes of past thinking they would be my present but ultimately coming to the realization they would never be you. I saw you every time I closed my eyes in visions, no not day-dreams, because a dream never felt this real or kissed the way you kissed. I held hands with yours and our son who I can close my eyes and see now. The difference is when I open my eyes, I now see you. But when I close them again, I see us and our seeds to come.

Success to me is more than just legacy, its family. Everything I make in this world will eventually wither away, but I want what my dad has. A strong god fearing and loving family. I want amazing memories. I want stories that most will probably forget, some might never see, but that we will remember. I want to grow with you, mentally, physically and spiritually. I want my vision to become my reality. You now and forever more.

Will you love me? Even when I get on your nerves. Will you travel with me? Even if I wanted to go to the end of the world. Will you pray with me? So god can provide or give us peace through our every needs. Will you take care of me? When I am too sick or too old to take care of myself. Will you grow with me? Mentally, spiritually and physically. Will you marry me? Not for now but til death do us part. Not for just the years because the one guarantee we have in this life is that troubles will arise. Not for my hot looks because those too will fade but as my father I will age like wine not milk. Not for my charm and whit because those too will change as I age into wisdom and wise words. Will you marry me for me? For all that I am to be? For all that I am? The good and bad.

Will you marry me?


by: Moises Seraphin

SeeThruVision Spotlight Series

The book is still in the works. Trying to stop being lazy and keep writing. But so far....its good.

-M.Seraphin

My Jazz

(Press Play Before Reading)

"An ode to this music I love..."

I like my jazz…served with a cold side of blues brewed to perfection, drizzled with soul and pain; I like my jazz maimed. Cut in 32s of staccato and lip tongue action.

I like my jazz…allegro.

But you know what, as a matter of fact I like my jazz…slow. The kind of slow that requires you to hold someone close and dance toe in toe. I like my jazz to be cool and calm. To set the ambiance and tone for a suspenseful eve of crescendos  and a climax  to rival no other.

I like my jazz smooth. Entwined in the emotions one feels after a long day of pulling rhythmic bass stings or playing whole notes. Smooth like a brew of honey jack on the top of a piano. And it’s hard to explain how after hours of playing and drinking I can feel every single key. I feel the vibrance of every single note. Pure legato.

I like my jazz featured on the sexo… I mean the saxophone. The machine of the articulate tongue that works wonders in the right hands; alto only though because if I whip out a baritone it might be too deep. 

I like my jazz…nasty. Funked out of its frame just disgusting jazz jizz on sheet music. Full of Skeedits, DooBops, Beedeps Deedits, fat notes and dissonance.

I like my jazz to swing. I like my jazz fast, making me have to move my a** and double step to the beat.

I like my jazz to touch my soul and love me unconditionally. I like my jazz to mambo with a taste of Latina suction I mean the seduction of conversing with the gods.

I like my jazz Dixie and Ditsy. Or to give me a chant and cannon over and over again.

I like my jazz on trumpet. Because when lips touch brass it’s to only plays strong. And if you can’t handle the range there is a mute to soften the roar. The Weeees and Woaawoaaws bellowing from the cup.

I like my jazz to be manufactured my Mingus, Davis, Ellington, Parker, Marsalis, Coltrane, Gillespie and every other bad mama-jamma to ever touch an instrument and mastered the art of this music I love.

This is where you da capo.  (repeat)

The coda of this dedication to jazz is me allowing Mingus to finish writing this poem and keep on Moanin’.

You let the track play to the end and DJ, don’t dare touch the volume, stop or pause. You let this one RIIIiiiide out…..

-Moises Seraphin

Capacity to Love

“You”, “Her” or “She” can be anyone; any women deserving this kind of love. And if it is you...your seconds have turned into minutes and I pray the minutes turn into a lifetime.

My capacity; the maximum amount of energy required for me to love you. I once thought I had lost the ability to love. Yet soon I came to the realization my capacity just changed; my maximum just spiked to a prodigious amount. For a long time the energy required exceeded that of even the longest of lives. But as I matured my capacity changed once again; it decreased to a…modest amount. If quantified one could reflect it in the form of seconds… less than 300 to be exact. And my heart is the metronome and counter.

In less than 5 minutes I can tell if I have the capacity to love you. It’s always less than 5 minutes. It doesn’t have to be 5 minutes of observation all at once. Most of the time it’s cumulative. Its 6 seconds of me watching her briefly as I turn my head to pass her on the highway. Its 12 seconds at a stop light when I look over, only for 3 seconds at a time.  Its 2 minutes and 15 seconds when I am on stage at an open mic pretending not to be staring at her and focusing on her side of the room using my peripherals to keep her in my gaze. It’s the 20 second conversation we have once a week in passing.

And the irony is, there are many if not hundreds out there with the capacity for me to love them. But to date I have only met less than 30 of the few and proud.

I used to think there was a “one” true love. But I’ve come to learn there are far more anomalies on this earth; souls worth sharing the world with. And maybe I can’t give her the world but sharing mine with her should be enough.

There are hundreds of you, constantly adding seconds on a daily basis. The 4 seconds I can still smell your perfume after you leave a room. Even the second or two from imagining the silhouette of your body in my peripheral view. The seconds spent dreaming about…her. Damn…I wish I could show her my dreams.

And there are even songs that remind me of you. The figment of my fantasies and nightmares; the torturer of my imagination. The one that causes my heart to beat faster to cheat the clock in the rarest of forms; heart racing and chasing after…her. The imaginary girl of my dreams whose spirit lives in a few hundred girls; but only 2 by my skin and fingers count.

And the worst part is when she has been shown to be worthy of my love… Miss 300 with my chronometer for her now in the hundreds of thousands; but she is in love with someone else. Someone who never counted the seconds. Someone who uses another 4 letter word starting with “L”.

But who can blame him for using and abusing a goddess knowing he has her bound and can drag her by her aorta and pulmonary artery. And who are we to tell her she fell in love with the wrong one. And she…is afraid to admit, she has made another mistake. And yet my heart still ticks for her, praying for her release from his grip. And as much as I try my timekeeper cannot tick in reverse.

Enticed by curiosity at times I count foolishly with the watch on my wrist and not my heart thinking I can force myself to fall for something that was never meant to be. Trying hopelessly to tell my heart the clock is at 3 minutes and not 3 seconds only later realizing my attempts at forced love are futile. And that she, just as thousands of others will never pass 10 seconds. And my heart never lies. Because for every 10 second stare, 3 minute conversation and 1 hour dinner it accumulates a fair amount of wasted dollars, wasted energy and most importantly wasted time. So my heart does not play… even if I do.

It doesn’t play because of what is at stake. Langston described it in what he would do “To Artina” saying, “I will take your heart, I will take your soul”. And my heart is its key. The key to unlocking immeasurable wonders and joy, trust and interdependence, and maybe we can’t change the world but we can change the world around us. Maybe I can’t give you the moon, but I can take you to the stars. I can heal and soothe your battle scars and touch the inner you. We can have a covenant and begin a new chapter in history starting with our seeds. Hmm yes indeed.

But the question is… do I have the capacity to love you?

Am I counting your seconds?

Or just wasting your time.

-Moises Seraphin

Written while listening to:

Man I Am

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"Happy Fathers Day"

I don’t call my dad as much as I should. Occasionally I pick up the phone and think about giving him a ring but end up calling mom instead; and I’ve come to understand where my hesitation comes from.

Most don’t know but I used to be afraid of my father. Not scared like one is of odd insects or monsters; but afraid like the fear of God. Not just fear of judgment either, but the fear of disappointment.

For a long time I could never recall seeing my father smile when thinking of my youth. I only remembered the instruction, the discipline, the lessons, the arguments, the work and his stern face.  I remember spending hours learning scripture after scripture. Spending what seemed like my entire weekend cutting the grass, pulling weeds, cutting trees, plumbing, painting, fixing a car, or performing any other task that typically kept me from what I believed to be a world of fun. I remember playing football in the street with my friends and them stopping to look in the distance at a stern dark man with a machete waving and them asking, “Who is that”…and me answering them by saying, “I have to go home”. And for a long time… that was all I could think about when it came to my dad.

It took 21 years for me to have my moment of clarity. It was Junior year and by far and to date the hardest time in my life. I remember sitting at my desk, eyes bloodshot from going so long without sleep, emotions torn from another failed relationship,  mind drained staring at nearly 60+ pages of Matlab code and stomach growling from hunger. Never in my life had I ever felt so broken. And I already knew what my mom would say if I called. So uncustomarily I called my dad. He asked how I was doing and I said, “I’m alright, trying to make it” (Or something of that sort) and he abruptly stopped me and said, “No, you are blessed and highly favored” and asked me to repeat it. The rest of the conversation wasn’t long and I can’t remember anything else from it but those 7 words…were all I needed to hear.

I think now of what my mom would have said, and imagine it taking a thousand or so words before she made me feel better. For my dad…it took 7.

And I think back now to the instruction; my dad sitting at a board with me even before Pre-K showing me how to do math.  I remember the scriptures, him making me recite hundreds of passages, but always starting with Romans 8:16 “I am a child of God”.  I remember the yard work but him stopping the progress holding two mangos, or two coconuts and telling me I was doing a good job and showing me the essence of hard work.  I remember my dad and only my dad being at almost every Band Concert, every Track Meet, every school function, and even taking me to college.

It’s now through our conversations I realize the troubles I face in life have already been overcome. And his wisdom resolving those issues surpasses my understanding.

I don’t call my dad as much as I should. Occasionally I pick up the phone and think about giving him a ring but end up calling mom instead.  And I’ve come to understand that it is because when we stand next to each other he sees a mirror image of what he used to be, and I see the man I will one day become. And I am afraid of falling short and not being even half the man he is. My pride often forgets I can see into the future and answer any “what if” question by asking my father.

He is the man I pray to be.
He created the boy I was.
He molded me into the man I am. 

-Moises Seraphin

The Senses of an Untold Story

(Video from 2013 Nikki Giovanni Poetry Slam)

Shh, can you hear me? Hear me swinging? Like a child in the park on a warm spring day.

Shh… Listen… Can you hear the water below me; with my feet dangling above the Pear River?

Can you feel the slight summer breeze? Or that swinging…swinging …swinging; or what about my fear?

 From them accusing me of an unforgivable crime… Can you feel the cold cuffs slapping my wrists; Followed by fists and those hard batons? And my momma screaming…

Momma, she didn’t even know my name, build, hair type, height or weight; only that I was a black male. Pulled me out of the line-up …and said I raped her.

Shh, can you hear the grand jury? “One count Rape, Two Counts Kidnapping”.

And now I can taste what’s to come. That bitter taste… And It’s been 4 years and I aint goin’ out like Bobo. They aint gunna do me like young Bobo. That young Till boy didn’t deserve to be done like that. So I will fight. I am 23 years old and strong. I will go out on my feet and not my knees I will fight something fierce in this injustice….

Can you hear them, calling my name; Mack Charles Parker, Mack Charles Parker, Mack Charles Parker.

Those hooded white men are now at my cell and I tried to escape, I swear I tried, but I couldn’t and my punches landed nowhere in vain and now they’re beating me with their clubs.

Can you smell the blood streaked across the courthouse floor to the door?

Can you see them, dragging me into that car?

Shhh, listen close….and you will hear the gunshots into my body off the side of that cold road.

Shhhh, be quiet and listen. Listen to me swinging. Something like Strange Fruit; out of place and hanging off a bridge and not a poplar tree. (1959)

-Moises Lee Seraphin 

Breathing Life (Years Young)

Before you Read, Press Play above. 

Part of what inspired this poem...

Breathing life. One breath at a time. 

He was only…..He was only…years young. Because he was far too young to be any number of years old.

Dad always told us not to be wild. He said, “Don’t ever let anyone toy with your emotions. Because they will play with them until you are used and abused and eventually every toy breaks”. Dad said, “Don’t be stupid. Or go calling yourself or thinking yourself to be Crazy because eventually you will meet a girl named Deranged.” Dad said, “Don’t be wild.”

But he couldn’t help it. He was like Simba in his prime and he loved to roar. You see, the secret to his sanity was noise; Always consumed with being taken out of the world’s boxes. He stood out when surrounded by a crowd of millions…because he was the only one with a mic. And even if he didn’t have one, his voice would echo to reach every ear. He was a teacher. I mean, he could teach you how to love a rock. So what makes you think you couldn’t be taught how to love him. His words would resonate to touch every soul. And if he couldn’t touch yours he would take it, as if his name was Langston and you were Artina. And don’t think yourself clever enough to escape his grasp. His infatuation with the abstraction of a woman’s body surpassed all understanding. Because he would be that guy holding the sign for free mammograms with hands always ready.

And he was only….He was only…years young.

Momma always said, “Don’t bark at cops. She said shut your damn mouth. Turn that music down. Speak only when spoken to.”

“Because if they kill you…we will scream. If they kill you we will wage war on them, until the system changes. We will riot, and burn everything resembling injustice to the ground. We will march. We will fill the street with thousands of black men that look just like you. If they kill you we will change the laws to let this never happen again. If they kill you we will build monuments in your name. If they kill you we will fill churches with your friends, family members, and anyone who thinks you might have been a distant cousin. If they kill you will we cry; we will cry because you died. But if they kill you….you won’t be alive…to see any of it; any of what we have done in your name so shut your damn mouth, turn that music down and speak only if he doesn’t have a gun, my son.”

And he was only….He was only…years young.

Who would’ve thought you would no longer be breathing life. The victim of a premeditated murder; conceived long before being pierced with hollow point to belly button, nipple, nose, shoulder and leg shots. And silly of us to think we feel you; because we can’t. We cannot feel you. We cannot feel your pain. We cannot heal you; because we are not numb. And the pain we feel right now is unbearable. We are broken. And our soul hurts, because you were a part of us that’s no longer here. And no we can’t feel your pain. And you can’t feel mine because you are cold in post-mortem. And I stand here soul broken… enraged…hurt…building monuments and filling churches…

Because he was only…..he was only….years young. Breathing life. Only to never breathe again. 

-M.Seraphin

(Still about 3 more poems I havent put to paper. Losing my ipod I lost a many of notes. But I still have a few new things to post. Stay Tuned. Or catch me at an Open Mic.)