Welcome to my page. This is Mr.Seraphin, better known as the StoryTeller. Most poems shown are my "Show" or "Competition" poems. But occasionally I may post for leisure. Enjoy...
Mr. Seraphin
Give me a suit and a bank account...Il make dreams come true.
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…..
“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?
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.
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)
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.)
