Poetry and Artwork by Raymond White

Love Prevails Beyond Hate (For Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.)
By Raymond White

Love prevails beyond hate.
It simmers the flames and abundantly alters
the savage mind of deliberate injustice.
Whether it is justice that serves us,
violence cannot be the answer.
It is the deed of compassion that devotes
our sails to community and understanding.
We must build fences statured in supreme heights
to prohibit mischievous forces away from
our beautifully noble society.
We can only make room for change
by the route of civil obedience.

In another time, it was the order of
civil disobedience that paved the lighted
roads we tread upon.
We are no longer a nation constructed by laws
of racial segregation. Instead, we are a universe
built with tremendous diversity.
Fortuned with unlimited opportunity.
Neither should we allow hate to scar
the tenderness inside our hearts,
but allow love to nourish the forbidden scars.
So shall we prevail from hate’s conception,
which assassinates the morality of character.
A rightful virtue. Today we acknowledge all
the goodness of people upon the pillars of
this beautiful land. We walk among,
as we share blessings of life and the
discipline to use love as a divine armor
that protects us from immoral evils.

We were created by supreme power,
so shall we apply our interpersonal dynamics
to serve a much greater fortune
that increases the value of our legacy
once we leave this world.

Humanity
By Raymond White Jr.

If we are all born from the wombs of our mothers
If we share the same blook, human genealogy
On this beautiful fresh green land on the American’s soil
Carried unto us from our ancestors

Then why do we treat each other as if we were strangers
Or other species. If we are all inhabitants to villages,
towns, cities, across first, second, third, even fourth world
Countries, then aren’t we still relative Samaritans breathing
Experiencing, creating life within the same exact world.

Whether, if we are black, white, jew, gentile, poor, middle class
Rich, living in suburban areas, near Hollywood Hills, portraying
an image fixed with luxury; aren’t we still the same as
“Humans” we cannot separate ourselves by race, cultural groups,
Beliefs, that align to that preference of identity.

We can create these illusions from an alter perception
That we are better or different than others
But the truth is “we are all the same” as human,
And there is nothing more powerful than the
Selfless act of community.

Hope Still Lives
By Raymond White

Hope is the bleak void space inside us
That hangers for life and redemption
Yet, we come to prison broken ourselves
Standing by a hollow window of our own ghost prints
Watching countless drops of rain pour onto
Unfertile grounds of weeded harvest
That may someday grow into rose springs
By a sun we have yet to feel or see

Hope is the wounded warrior
Stranded in a hot desert battlefield
Clinging on to every inch of life he has left
Faintly gasping, as he bandages his deep scars
Hoping that someday, he will be healing and restored

Hope is the pain and suffering I feel
Each day I awake in a cold stone cell
It is every step I take down the hall
Each self-punishing though that tells me
No matter what, you must live and press on

Hope is the everlasting fire of the day star
The blue heaven of moon
Steering from all the mist and gust
Of last dawn’s sorrows
Painted into a gold-silver horizon
A peaceful universe infinity

Hope is the realization that we can still be free
Though we live in the dark,
Sweetly dreaming laboring thoughts
Drawing blueprints across the sky
Over the barbed wire and man-made stone
Looking for a way home.

Hope is the voice of a beautiful brown-eyed angel
Telling me don’t give up, keep fighting Raymond,
You must go on, to prevail into places
Of no prohibition, like city, sky, mountain.

Hope is the thirty-eight-year map of tears
That pour down my face each time I look in the mirror
And know yet, wounded, I still stand firm and strong.

Though our own sea is bittersweet,
I know deeply in my heart,
That I will sail,
And someday make it to shore

Grief Sustains Beauty and Love in the Bleak Falls of Life
By Ramond White Sr.

Grief works in mysterious ways; first, it falls into you, like a “new storm of present”; then it withers back into the dust fields of previous sorrow; then reappears as one relives the childhood trauma on the day his grief was born.

Who would have known that I would still be grieving the past trauma of my loving aunty’s death. It was twenty-eight years ago today in the Desert Fall City of Fresno, California in the beginning of June 1994. “The summer I would always remember.”

At eight years old, I was sitting at my assigned seat at my fourth grade class, where my teacher, who happened to be of caucasian descent, by the name of “Ms Mochette” was teaching a practice session of “cultural history.”

An unidentified beautiful African American woman around the age of twenty five entered through the front door of my class, where I sat at my desk speechless.

Her features possessed a caramel complexion skin, a soft and clear surface of remarkable beauty. Like a golden jewel smoothed into the moon’s surface. I sat confused trying to properly detail and figure out her identity that appeared foreign. She began walking closer towards the area by the center from the front door of where my desk was located.

Though I appeared nervous, she looked so familiar, as she now stood face to face by me, but I couldn’t spot her as “aunty” right away. Until she silently stated: “Hi nephew Boo.” My eyes grew wide in surprise – my face turned a rosy blush. “Boo” was a nickname everyone in my family called me, and by hearing the sweet familiar tone of her voice, and that name, I knew right then. She was relative.

She stated that was just swinging by to see me, my sister, along with her two sons (my cousins), who all attended the same school called: “Turner Elementary”.

As she briefly observed me, she stated: “You look handsome, handsome in your school uniform.”

I wore a short sleeve white collar shirt, with blue-navy silk pants (sometimes shorts during the days it was hot). I would remain nervous, but incredibly happy that she decided to stop by and see me before she paced out the front door of my class, exiting my life and the worlds.

Before he left she told me that, “I’ll be seeing you later,” that later would never come.

“Time passes and life lingers beyond us – it travels in a distance, where not even the soul can reach. Sadly, but beautifully, this is the nature of the human cycle.”

Twenty-eight years ago, seeing her stand like an angel in my class, as if she had been a messenger from God, that stood among me. I relive that day in my head sometimes. I begin belting in tears that will forever carry oceans inside me. Sometimes, I scream for her presence to reappear. I kneel at the knees praying to God for her to return, but know she will never come back. The love she gave me was a love I never received from my own mother. And her life still flows through my veins that claim our souls relative.

When love is unconditional, it never loses its feeling, nor converse paths with oblivion, neither does it wither like bleak fog in winter air, but remains here inside.

During the first couple years after she had passed in the fall of 1997, I would walk into the dusty empty rooms of her house where she once lived. I would brush upon a recollection of childhood savored memories, of her, the traditional Easter egg hunts where she took me and my cousins to the park during the spring break of our school years. Then, I would find myself inhaling the last bit of her potent sweet Victoria Secret perfumes on her clothes that still held her fragrance.

At last, I would return back into the dust of the empty room that now only holds her spirit.

Though the years have flown by, but still felt painfully slow, as if I was in the car with her in late October, the same day of the coldly unexpected horrific car crash that took her life, leaving her in a coma for two weeks in the ICU section at the Saint Agnes Hospital located in Fresno, California, only to die a few weeks later – due to an accumulation of fluid that increased critical pressure to her brain – eliminating any signs of potential life.

Till this day, the conclusion of the last imagery still kills me inside, knowing that I will grow old without the comfort of her presence, feeling the amazing texture of her living heart, most importantly, hearing the same last words she spoke to me before she exited through the door of my class – my life, and the words”:

“Nephew, I’ll always love you.”

Living Air
By Raymond White

What is living air if our lungs become
dry and our years fall into a dam
of stormy nights?

When the magenta sun no longer shines
and blue birds no longer soar above
the once peaceful skies.

What manifesto of light is there if
the harmony moons or constellations
suddenly extinguish their godly light?

Or if seas become thirsty, bitter deserted
fields and mountain become nothing but
fragments of soulless broken bodies?

What living life shall exist if we as
humans no longer live? Weakened by
the increased age and faint breath
that fades away human years.

Where we walk into death valley of darker
age — arriving closer to the doorway
of our graves.

And life becomes a savored moment, cherished
memory leaving us nothing but an imprint
of dry tears, onto barren empty
lands that once lived, breathed and
harnessed our pleasures, sorrows, happiness,
joy and fears.

“What god will there still be if we no longer
possess a mind of belief nor humanity?”

As these rough short years will weather our faces,
challenge our religions, and vanquish away
the life of our precious bodies.

And we become nothing but bone and memory,
crumbled into history of dust,
buried below a dark cellar of earth’s body.

And our memorable names are carved onto the
headstones above the soil of our six foot graves,

— what life will be left then?

What is life if we can no longer share the beautiful
native city or our warm and cozy homes of where
we were born and raised? Savoring moments
with our mothers, fathers, friends, grandparents,
and later on raising our beautiful children.

“What is living air if we can no longer
live to be human?”

Artist
By Raymond While

I exist beyond this world
More the less, that’s how I always
Felt above the heavens soulfully
Connected the moon, sun and thousands
Remote starts.

I exist, live, breathe in a place,
Far, far beyond this earth.

I am an invisible man whose heart
Beats warmth – streaming rivers into
The sun,
And black seas are coated with
Diamond – crystals,
And the nearest moon has always
Been my home.

I exist beyond this foreign world
More the less, that’s how I
Always felt,
In space – an etheric place,
At home.

Humanity Yet Alone As One/But Rather, A Disastrous Whole
By Raymond White

Humanity yet alone has failed to essentially come together as one. I mean when I say, one as whole, one as unification with the righteous ability to congregate as viable collaborative people.
Like when you give your fellow citizen a hand when they are stranded out in the desert without a running motor vehicle. Or like, when the New York Yankees come together to steal home plate and win the series of championship baseball.

But we would rather continuously deliberate harm-danger through a stand of critical-disaster, a manifesto among our livelihoods. Different chapters of ignorance and violence that threatens the future of our cities.
And “one” to the billions of others throughout the foreign homelands around the world that lives as present strangers – mutual foreigners across a living – land field, where we are supposed to be familiars and welcome each other. Didn’t God say precisely that Himself in the Biblical testament that we should love and care for our neighbors? (Luke 10:27-28)

Didn’t He compose those basic instructions as a guidance map to carry with us through different chapters of our lives before leaving Earth? So why do we continuously build fences separating each other’s backyards? Why do we consistently lash out discouraging words at each other accumulated by our own anger amongst ourselves? But we can even escalate it further initiating violent acts among our own, thinking that this will solve our problem, yet, it only adds to it.

Or why do we become mutually intellectually incoherent towards each other thinking whether our own ill-will of producing good conduct of character is intercepted by exposure to character illness? Tell me why we place padding covering the sense of sound from the tunnels of our ears? Why do we fail to hear each other out and progress to stubbornness by picking each other apart either with fists or words? Why do we begin to act with hatred and threaten others that have different beliefs and practices of one’s own religion? Why do we begin to take it further by planting land bombs into the Native lands of each other’s countries, rather than the practiced sense of peace and equality that brother Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. worked hard for persistently for years reaching through ignorant cities holding candles of peace each day and night. Ineffective matters of resistance to succeed in this dream to become evidently true.

Do we now begin to abandon ourselves from which the righteous ability of himself alone gave us dreams to accomplish ourselves never to be a sense of mutual stray or in any manners of illusion.
Tell me my brothers and sisters, why do we choose to plant death – disaster and crumble the earthly plains we walk among? It is the disaster, or ability within oneself, that wrecks more havoc than any thunderstorm, hurricane, earthquake or any wildfire that has obliterated the lands of our living cities, even countries and continents throughout the landscapes of our world.

And trust me, we barely remain clinging to the gravitational balance of its surface because we chose that manifest itself by fault and wickedness of conception, before any deathly manifests by action is carried out. We are at present carrying the breathing fields of civilization into further disaster even before we are long ago deceased.

Can you answer this question for me; Why do we decimate each other and continue to crumble our world before our natural seasoned years have reached us? We are our own plague – our own infestation of any disease that has killed millions upon millions throughout the world.

Why? Not the disease itself, but the will to carry on ill-will by acts of voluntary disaster.
We naturally, as humans, have the deliberate will of misdirected desire. We play tug-of-war with wicked temptation to be anything but of good use, or kind, to each other. Something that not only America suffers from but, as citizens throughout the nation, have struggled with for centuries. This is something that needs to be significantly addressed and taken heed to.

We must learn to carry the insignificant and negative weight within the palms of our hands and clench and crush the disastrous invalidity that stretches vast damages to ourselves and lands around the world. War, corruption, greed, infidelity, and poverty holds a measure of an unspoken powerful evil. For the matters of this note to you, just think of it as a wakeup call not a civilized ultimation, but just the conscious smell of fresh brew in the morning that arouses your senses.

We shall not communicate ourselves with, or even oblige in, any event that derails our sense of focus, or the progression of productivity to replenish our humanity, but to communicate by essential consensus and terminate the senseless and ruthless ways we treat each other. Not just one, but of the people.
We engage in the murder of our own death trials. We enforce dual actions or deliberately mutual hatred killing each other dropping numbers of devastating statistics that by this day remain innumerable.

And trust me, if we continue this art of fault hood, the accumulation becomes devastatingly insurmountable, a severe threat to our own humanity. Like a universal ocean coverage drowning the homebase of our own towns, cities, countries, and continents, we live, breathe and walk among.

Remember, guns don’t kill people, people kill people! Bombs, nuclear warheads, don’t even become activated unless the deliberate hand is triggered. Murders aren’t even premeditated unless the will to kill is dramatically living among the face of innocent presence.

For hundreds of years we have killed, ravaged, and declared – enforced wars, and now in modern days’ sale of drugs killing our own people. But in the end, the question remains the same; Why do we have to engage in such unruly, cruel behavior? And until the land fields of our Earth crumbles back into the rubble of Israel, and we fall back into the dust we had so long ago rose from. Does congregational alleviation become viable in this process? We will fail to find the solution that will eliminate the critical use death, disaster, greed, mutual discouragement along with the mutilated mind of dual complexities that vastly infest our present world today.

Disease, death, disaster is an inevitable phase we as humans are naturally exposed to. But the option to engage in senseless wars remains an invalid option that will continue to not forbid the critical damage caused by mine fields.

The will to change and unification remains a mystery, a banner of wind across our presence! For the likelihood of us as people united as one will never waver or diminish if we begin now or even any future or civilization in the years ahead that stands as “oceans of time between us.”

But if we remain the same our world will continue to progress and really crumble. And trust me, I am beyond a saint of character that stands in the present essential matter of this speaking. And the will to change and unify will remain heavy on our conscience. So why do we prohibit ourselves from the critical use of it?

Beyond This Prison, I Can Dream
By Ray White

Beyond this prison, I find places where I can dream, and dream bigger than what the human eye can see, and much further than what the mind can even imagine.

Places where loss, hurt, run, suffering and defeat no longer consumes me, but a dream of a chain and locked body in fleet, where icy roads are now smooth and clear to pave surface, and people are king.

Into a place where a prisoner’s life no longer excludes me, from a dream of a beautiful sunrise that covers my darkness a bright crimson.

Beyond this prison I find where my dreams are no longer gone and deferred when I had been once left in a weary and anguish, palms scraping against a sea of pavement, where I had been crying, calling out to God.

Beyond this prison, I can dream vivid images and see all the beauty and warmth that I have all lost, sweet, warm cuddles and kisses from significant others, along with the comfort and joy of my beautiful family, now wrapped around my heart and memory, a body of sensation – sweet.

Beyond this prison I can dream of a near plains covered in rocky mounds and pasture, trees and running deer across beautiful mountains distinct.

But above all anything of what my eyes can see.

I feel dreams, miracles, happiness and peace become my own inevitable – reality.

“Beyond this prison, I can dream!”

And You Should Always Know
By Raymond White

When past grief seems to wear on your heart, and old wounds and scars begin to haunt your soul
I just want you to know that I am truly sorry for all the pain I caused you from the start
When old storms and hails of rain tend to bring your body back out into the winter cold
I just want you to know that I show empathy and compassion for you
As long as time passes, and earth grows
I will still be sorry for all the grief and misery that I placed on you at expose
As life continues to drift like black oceans far, far from the distinction of your living eyes
And as earth’s pulse withers away, I just want you to know, I feel your pain
By the recollection of human fault, and as sincerity of blood flows through my veins
I just want you to know
I’m sorry that you were left so cold, out into a world of grief and pain
But as long as the genuine bearings of my beating heart
Shows the pulsing earth my deepest compassion
As you begin to feel the purity blood flow through the riverbanks of my heart beating soul
And you should always know
I am so sorry for leaving you out into a night of grieving cold

Each Time I Think of You (for Chow)
By Raymond White

Sometimes I just can’t help myself,
And it’s so painful to think….when I see

A rustling of barren autumn leaves drop into
The dark stone columns of the city each time I think of you gone,

But so, have you gone after the pain so immense
Festered within the cold-beating of my heart
Or before, do I dare to feel my soul with remedy if I have no other existent -flesh-
Of entity, of a future to hope for –

A love lost forever,

I remember the blue lance flower that sprung
Within my eyes when I first laid sight on
Your creamy-toned Asian-native face
It’s so hard to forget – to replace

Your beauty with some other kind

Do I dare speak in such grave words that
Crumbles me into unknown disastrous places
Where I shall furthermore suffer without you here with me

Shall I walk among the darkest towns where a heaven of twilights are unseen –
I think of you in longing dreams – implacable touches – precipitating passions
A soft body of primal contour, a land of places where birds fly,
And where the golden horizon used to shine.

Moving Mountains
By Raymond White

I’ve seen mountains move for ages — my eyes scanning through the mounded brown and dark green peaks. From a greater distance of places traveled here before — I survey;
Through the still battle creek waters and damp cold shadow of forest — where evergreens are covered in the sweetest pines — and the sky is a golden sunrise of this mountain
That has for centuries towered into the blue banners of wind, where eagles look for no one, but only to conquer
How can I deny this wonderful territory that has been prohibited from me — behind caged pillars I gaze into a place
My mind and only wish to dream —
I am this mountain, can you see me?
Through the calloused palms of my invisible hands clenched into the deserted mounds that have been untouched for so long —
The virgin peaks of thirst, yearning for just the slightest touch — through the body and heart of a longing man who holds an ancient spirit, just … just hoping to see the light of day again!
The human trail becomes nothing but a stressful mystery and I become a long war
Sad palms scratching through the lowering shadows of this landscape that refuses to eradicate my darkness
Can I become more than a man, more than a tall, rocky pillar of flesh and shadow that stands lonelier but prouder than ever before
I am this mountain, can you see me?

I Dream Of You
By Raymond White

When the beautiful bashful crease of your smile
Suddenly vanished into the whispers of
dark thin air, leaving me just a
memory of you to picture – the last photograph
to my longing –

I dream of you.

When the edge of the silver studded night
Begins to disappear and the sunrise
Opens its gold beauty through the morning
Of a blue birded sky.

Feeling the wind of your resting heart
Beating slowly into mine,

I dream of you.

Past the deserted river banks that forgot
To keep streaming yesteryear’s
Lost flower petals, down into the
Spring of a crystal forest.

I dream of you.

Where the seven oceans are just one
Universal shed of tears, drifting,
Waiting for your beautiful
Spirit to port harbour and
Sail back to me

I dream of you.

Above the sky thousands of foreign stars and moon
Are just one universal or silver
Horizon – burning white fires onto the
Sad tragic faces of this world.

Without global warning

I dream of you.

When the tint blue shape of Niagra Mountain
Showers through the empty and dryness
Of plains, cleansing my wounds,
Elevating my Faith.

Powering my worn defeated legs above
Where birds are angels
And I am with God.

I dream of you.

Even after you decided to walk out of
My life, heading down some other
Journey or road, leaving me lying on
My cold bunk,
Sobbing for what seems like a
Night’s eternity

I dream of you.

No matter what shape or form this works becomes,
When it’s all said and done, just know,

“I am dreaming of you”

The Night Bird Dreams
By Raymond White

The night bird soars and dreams as she sings
purest perches of sheer beautiful tune of sound
above where sky at night are blue
and clouds don’t color grey and beauty
of music is eternal

This night bird dreams inside the afterlife
My story that journeys after this world
When she has expanded and arched
Her wings through the gravesite of
Tropical forest. She infinitely soars
Forever beckoning a songbird’s /ambition
Shadow of hill to conquer the virgin
Mountain plains of the highest peak

This night bird dreams of many colors
Of ocean, land and sky, blue, brown, green
Yellow, orange, red, navy, purple haze
She soars through the softest sand
Of beach shore – among longing
Paradises of eternal days.

Then she panes her wings at rest
Into the ancient bark of the nest on
Trees

This night bird dreams to sing many
Angelic or symphony-sounds in places
Where spiritual music rules the
Sky of days, her feathers spread
Wide as the width of universal
Oceans, bursting misty sprays of confetti
To praise a celebrated blessed
And beautiful life, as she soars
Above oceanic waters through the
Heavenly highs

This night bird dreams of a different
World to reside, where winds blow mellow
And warm and suns burn golden
Horizons forever, beyond sparkling gases
Of milky-way stars, as she
Flies in dreams across ora of
Space

This night bird dreams of many
Things impart from her feather finite
Existence

Where she lays at rest into the
Heavenly mountain, as the night bird
Dreams to sing

Elegy to a beautiful soul, “Night Bird” America’s Got Talent Contestent.

Dreams Beyond This Cell
By Raymond White

I have dreams that live content
An inner happiness at peace; beyond the
Captivity of this cell
It’s lonely-painful-existence, becomes
Vacant unintentional no longer a part of me.

The dreams stretch free and deep
Into places of civil existence
Where unknown worlds can be found
And apart from my own dark-diluted
Nature are dreams that travel like soaring
Birds into fortunate worlds, lands where
Opportunity could never not be given
These illusions are an inner-creation of mind
That lives in reality

Under the realization that my heart could be
Compatible to a city that holds no barrier, no chains
Guards of lawful inconvenience are no longer
The reason what I am lonely and miserable
Because that blazing sun has shined its
Free beam upon me once again

I have dreams that a prisoner no longer
Exists inside me soul, is a home where
I can be free again.

Dreamer
By Raymond White Jr.

My grandmother enters into dream – eerie but anxious
For after result, her conscious carries her feet up the
golden stairway, up above a illuminate highway
That guides her soul up to the North star,
Where she dances onto the crescent moon in joyful spirit
That perpetually embraces her,
She is an infinite silver eagle for the time being – wings fluttering
Across the scarred, quiet and lonely orbit,
creating sound by voice, with distilled and lowly character
Her conscious carries imagery from a past life of before
Painful memories of an outcast, touched by an angel
She is a goddess of her own sparkling eternal
And glorious world, evolved from the loneliness, rejection,
grief and shame she felt long ago in ancient years,
inside a city of ruins, no flesh of shadow haunts her spirit
anymore, she is released to the soul of the open sky,
The diamond universe of god greets her by acceptance
Swimming into the dark sea of endless space,
And becomes a companion with the map of a million stars
Now free forever.

When The Winds Blow
By Raymond White Jr.

Each day in prison, my eyes pour repeated patterns
of silent loneliness,
spewing oceans into many years full of pain and sadness.
Behind a captive window, I watch the winds blow north
across the peaks of the hollow mountains,
and then I become a Savage covered by dark rains
of an unearthly inhabitance,
My tears keep falling, creating distress
beyond golden eyes of a lost freedom sky,
and then this world becomes a paralysis of mind.
When the winds breeze south, I feel nothing but cold dreams
of lost civil memories,
until the storm decides to blow further away,
Far away, from the frame of my caged ravished existence,
I am left with no other direction to turn.

Captive Zones
By Raymond White

One bears such forth grief with misery
Once beauty defends to fight with pain
I have dreamed of lost paradises – lonely mystery
Of high skies heavenly night burning flames
Between the daily suffering locked in hours
My body held captive laid on concrete cold
The cell walls fill me with claustrophobia
Has only engraved my soul in stone
I exist amongst complexity of dreadful times
Where chambers cave are my go to home
And sunrise rays beaming free outside
Has no streak way through captive zones
I bear such more grief and misery
No humans perception can viably frame
I have lived life dwelling upon unknown mystery
Where freedom has no name.

A Princess of Passion
By Raymond White Jr.

The sunrise has refracted across the grave lands of earths sadness,
we wear woven fabric on our hearts to cover our grief, rustic as the time of earth occurs
from the beauty of our princess’s shadow,
whose lighted spirit has traveled among sweet mystic airs of afterlife.
While, her presence stood tall, firm, held by courage grace
to affection, to the motherlands of all mothers, children, and men
whose eyes dare to meet the simplicity of her beauty
and enchantment. She had partaken quaint stature,
for idealism so graciously possessed,
she transpired change for many, fair to all,
despite their weakness of wealth, privileged disadvantages
where she became a humanitarian, gave donations for charity,
for those who had very little to receive,
sacraments were given to share her communion
of luxury, to all so well deserving, she stroked the sadness
of tears off poor men, women, and children’s faces.
Her desires became affirmative for histories treasure,
towered over any castle built by human labor,
now the sun greets her daily, by the grace of her immortal beam,
radiant as she were, she seems to have never lost a speck
of shine. She had made beautiful memories with her sons
at Balmoral, the highlands of her beautiful heart have marked
The world landscape in all purity,
she was much more than a teacher for children, but an instructor
for each gender of age. We stand and give our condolences
by the tombstone at her grave,
the world tilted sideways; tillers lost their balance
from the news of her loss humanity went into deep silence,
tears billowed into dark rivers of many ghostly streams
left with no guidance. But bless be her spirit for all the great
deeds of miracles to fulfilled dreams she handed to others,
inevitable gave her life of wealthy inheritance made her
a princess, and at the edge of that valor, the heavenly angels
had gave her a token to a more deserving queen,
for all England’s eternity,

R.I.P P. Diana

Lost Adrift
By Raymond White Jr.

I’ve sailed on a few lone ported ships
I have voyaged in many dreams of exploring
thousands of FREEDOMS open seas,
I have seen two thousand happy sunrises
fall into too many sad sunsets,
and I was left alone drifting among the aching blue horizon.
Til this day the hallow reservoirs washes through me,
in surging waves beckoning me,
for which imbued in me three thousand open secrets
of golden shores not found,
(A teacher of natures drift I have yet to be receptive).

I have seen the glory of the golden horizons
fall into the night of sleeping stars,
where my faith was left alone wandering like a ghost
amid a vacant shore.

And this is where I’ve been all my life
living in fantasy’s of reservoirs reserved for me,
but in reality never fulfilled,
in memory this is where I’ll come back to,
lost adrift a dark ocean of surging waters.

A Soul of Snow
By Raymond White Jr.

How much further shall my strength and will go?
All my life the painful emotions of me
Have been blown away into the winds of
Winters cold snow
Where obscurity is an infinite black temple
So steep! So steep!
Life’s dreadful temple too tall for me to reach
Dear Lord, how much more of air I’ll breath
I can’t keep this cold body of life’s impurities.
Today, I bow be weakened on my fragile knees
Inhaling, exhaling, lungs burning, my heart beating pain.
Feeling like my spirit has left me by fleet
I cannot turn away from life’s inevitable disdain
That has burst my heart out of my chest
Weeping, weaving, I struggle more than the rest.

Tonight, I pray, tomorrow, I praise, you my God,
My faithful, my loyal superior star
Star no matter what, I keep in touch,
To overcome all of life’s
Unearthly odds.

No Longer a Criminal to a Victim
By Raymond White

I mean this sincerely over the Years of unbearable pain
That I sadly inflicted (I am so sorry)
When I covered many innocent civil earths
With violence’s most malicious rage
To these dear people, I am gravely sorry
For the depression and distress I caused you
By Faultered actions display
Thundering across the civil world a menace subtle
I had refuted and was astray
From my own dignified and legitimized self
And criminal justice convicted
I didn’t; realize it til now, as the body of heart grows
Mature (and minds soul consumes life more wise)
I am sorry again for causing you grief, pain and strife
For I wish for your forgiveness
As motion of time wavers the old scars by
Today I revise my heart!
From all self-perplexity’s long term pain
That has severed the past traits of my character
I was entrapped in austerity of night’s coldest rain
I would like to dry your teats to nurture you
To remedy all the revolted actions that left my civility in vain
Dear Victim, as I am writing you this poem
Inside a four sided stone wall cell
I contrite for your acceptance, no longer a criminal
As positive character prevails
We shall cross paths someday
And by genuine embrace I hope your spirit yields

Bullets Penetrated Through Childhood
By Raymond White

Little does the civil mind know and understand the (heinous nature that breaks into a menace’s childhood.)

During my youth around the year of 2001, when I was at fourteen years of age, born and raised in the central part of Fresno, California, I was introduced into the hood, but rejected its gang criminal like standards. But, through unsanitary living conditions, low income housing, bad influence and the use of heavy drug consumption that polluted the city’s air in humane revolt.

For some reason, I still see myself as a gangster, based on the unruly and unabiding actions that I displayed: Such as beating people up for senseless reasons, robbing liquor stores to prevent my pockets from getting too low in cash. These actions I demonstrated were vastly immoral.

A lot of childhood gangsters, unlike me, decided to engage in criminal conduct, that harshly initiated detrimental and chaotic events. Such as, drive-by shootings down peaceful and civil neighbourhoods of houses that rival gang members’ families were stored in.

These innocent people, who ask for nothing such as what brutal effect from nature’s tragedy, for which they had sadly received the inward effect of a hot stray bullet, specified with a particular name and body, but sadly entered into the flesh of innocence.

I’ve seen loved ones, (people I grew up with) die from all these “All out” gang bangers.

I have attended various funerals, because of the detrimental after-effect caused by the casualty of war.

But as for me, I might as well been a gang member, because I lived a life of crime, that stretched its way into life’s painful majority. But though I was not affiliated, I’ve done heinous things, just as bad as them, but can they say that “I NEVER FIRED A GUN”?

That I am proud of.

These gangsters who grew up without fathers, that should have teached them the irony of moral values, had very little men that could guide them into the value of virtue.

Though I had, and still do have, a terrific father, whose heart expands further than the gifted hand and soul, I had consistently avoided his beneficial wisdom and care during my teenage years. I was more focused on my selfish needs and criminal acts and not receptive towards his knowledgeable desires.

So, again, I was not a gang member, I used to duck and dodge these unintentional hot lead bullets from killing me. Due to altered minds from gang banging, corruptive politics, I was not a thug officially, but lived within its toxic environmental system, that evidently guided me into the criminal justice system (prison). But the accumulation of pain and trauma stored inside the childhood soul of misguidance has shed more tears and bullets than a soldier’s gun at Vietnam War. At least, many soldiers carried the option to withdraw from this chaos.

While others were born into it.