Da Counselor
By Michael Larue Thomas
Forms of warm endearment-blurred
what once would offer teach
resolves to call me its Counselor
Almond eyes that used to slur
da softness within my reach
forms of warm endearment-blurred
Foolish notions of closeness-heard
a mend of what’s been breached
resolves to call me its Counselor
Once a place where desire-churned
remains contained without leak
forms of warm endearment-blurred
No longer a wonder of what’s preferred
best wishes now buried beneath
resolves to call me its Counselor
A love in like- last mix of stir
far distant from its peak
forms of warm endearment-blurred
resolves to call me its Counselor
Ironic
By Michael Larue Thomas
How ironic, da son of Adam
all that he thinks he knows
origins of expansions
guesses stumbled upon
Seen atmospheres, light years from earth
a distance now brought near
for lessons in created worth
likeness of other spheres
This in spit of the harmony
exhibited each day
method in which we breathe
our only means of stay
“Why” I find it-so ironic
da son of Adam’s knowledge
UNIQUE AS FAR AS GIFT’S
By Michael Larue Thomas
I AM MOVEMENT- in surplus, poetry in motion
scintillious, far as structured forms of lifts
I am da refrain in your brain
you see how I come through this thang
gesticulating- conveying meanings with my gift
I AM DA SWEETEST, of what’s been made
da bitterness within a range
of our creation, nothing motivates you more than me
I am da landscape of dreams, da cornerstone of screams
and I am misery, if ever my feelings for you change
I AM TEMPERED BY DECREE, to be polyglot in speech
so that my “calmness” is never misconstrued maudlin
for I have been told that I can reach
“too much” emotion when I speak
so I try not to notice da “broken”, when you begin
I AM UNIQUE- as far as gifts, I am da tone of any pitch
I am Sub Rosa- of current anthropology
I am close in vest and torn of sleeve
from both your Latin and your Greek
a colorless hue, that enervates philology
I AM LOQUACIOUSLY GREGARIOUS
da bottom of higher strength
adroit in speed when in pursuit of what I need
I am esoteric in my ways, so if ever I come to play
Know- I am movement, as far as gifts… I am unique
DA SISTA’S CANDY YAMS
By Michael Larue Thomas
Now this might seem to some degree
da tallness of a tale
what wraps around da outer bounds
of what da mind has held
To think that there exist somewhere
a picture worth its grand
from a created pair of hands so rare
this story hardly stands
But believe it or not, by this I swear
it’s exactly how it went
why I still stare in to open air
each time I see this pic
What all began da other day
through a picture perfect cam
da tail of Ox’s and garlic bread
Broccolis and Candy Yams
Da burnt orange texture, covered in glaze
cut and uniquely wed
to da broccoli greens, Oxen beefs
and da cheesy garlic bread
What lounges around ceramic tile
of a chic and petit style plate
a potato named to self explain
da sweetness of its taste
What whoops me still, to some degree
till I cuss out my eyes
for a stare of glare held long enough
to wake my sleeping giant
Now supposedly she normally
cooks this for Sunday Fam
though I believe, she steals a dream
…and bakes it in a pan
FOUR A.M. IN DA MORN
By Michael Larue Thomas
I’m found four a.m. in da morn
half propped up a back wall
in a eight-by-twelve, two man cell
listening to Chuck Todd
A featured guest on Washington Week
…old money placing blame
where for thirty minutes, bout who did it
begins to molest my brain
Yeah, I’m found four a.m. in da morn
contemplating my strife
for I’ve been gone, long enough for my kids
to give their own kids life
Who only know me as “Da Voice”
and at any given time
some four year old, will drop da phone
based on my push of line
Da places I go, right fore day shows
trying to dry what’s crying
for had my grandchild’s eyes knew mines
dropped phones would not have rights
My grandpa status would not be myth
nor my daughter’s heart torn
so I’m found round, da silence of sound
four a.m. in da morn
I’m found rough around da edges
of ledges…torn apart
what used to style my unique smile
before I broke its heart
Fore naiveties shook my hand
and said, “I’m moving on!”
before it gave me warn of roads
their forms as well as storms
What wakes me early in da morn
how hearts and soul’s get dressed
in garments worn enough to warm
da outside of mindsets
Now that my mind has spot’s to hit
places it needs to go
I’m found round, silence of sound
four a.m. in da morn
WHO WOULD TRADE WITH ME
By Michael Larue Thomas
Who amongst you, would trade with me
da current of my being
who sits in wait, some dreadful place
two decades past my last trial date
for awful deed still taunting me
what warrants no relief
How I do wonder, past da ponder
of my predicament
da way my brain loses its mind
till I know not da hide it finds
condemning me to questions”why”
I feel enough time spent
Who amongst you, would trade with me
to dwell down some dark street
where strength remains, a quiet rain
yet softens not its view of pain
and failure seems to scoff at me
bout winnings never received
How I do wonder past da ponder
of all I think I see
an illusive form of thought process
that swears it has my best interest
in mind each time it presses rewind
bout who would trade with me
On Mama Being “Slow”
By Michael Larue Thomas
I used to blame da crash of things
on mama’s being “slow”
da rest that came, hung out and stayed
were things I wanted shown
How could she know her baby-boy
would blow such northern-wind
no mama wants to see her child
knee-deep inside da trench
But sometimes, circumstances bring
da strangest form of clout
up front where nothing gets discussed
in time to sort it out
How trends begin a life of sin
along with sleeping host
and mama’s roam apartment floors
in search of their son’s ghost
A reminiscent scene of past
why we still say “hello”
when she sees me…she sees her son
even though he is gone
Truth is, what came, hung out and stayed
were things I wanted shown
just easier to blame, crash of things
…on mama’s being “slow”
As If
By Michael Larue Thomas
Man prays out in open space
closed eyes and humbled hands
softly utters from solemn face
as if he understands
Warns of da avoidable
what leads a man to hell
a mischief unaffordable
yet purchased without fail
Was made abreast da purpose of
da large and small of things
its young and old, their come and go
and what defines a being
Who sits within a remnant spent
in care of lesser things
spoken oath of guardianship
that never sets him free
So now he’s out in open space
closed eyes and humbled hands
uttering words from solemn face
…as if he understands
No Comments