Poetry by Michael Larue Thomas

First Time That Day…For Me
By Michael Larue Thomas

Firsts seem like timeless flutters
Have I not thought of you
It is much more than I dare say
For it has happened quite often
Can I not recall my first long glance
What has lasted some forty years
A smile that came and still remains
First seductions
First promised kisses
First childhood follow through
First time being thirteen
First front doors that face bedroom windows
Da nights I hurried off to sleep
In order to face first dawn
How I did love that window ledge
Each day it faced your approach
A fetch of paper from off da porch
My patience for such a wait
How you would adorn its tapestry
Da moment that you showed
Your pretended surprise to see me
Each morning that we would greet
First one to wave…
First mission complete…
First time that day…for me

Recognizing My Familiar
By Michael Larue Thomas

I have not always been able to recognize my familiar! It is a very elusive process, this business of living! It is that which comes with an atmosphere that can exist in absence of its own logic. Countless have been the laps taken around my own growth. The endless refusals to refute my own misunderstandings… so out of reach have they seemed to me.

I must have prematurely grieved a thousand times! Forced to witness the parting of my own simplicity; having been in on its demise. “What hypocrisy!” For a visual can no more return to its blindness than can an intelligence to its ignorance! Willingly or unwillingly once exposed, they both not committed to quest!

“How does one find the wherewithal needed to develop a committed truth?” “How does one find…indeed!” Could it be as laymen as a person staying in their present, for surely, I can achieve such a minimal requirement. But “please,” by all means…judge for yourselves!

I am found where “brightness of hope” still paints the sky; a variation that awaits my visual. It is as if its only existence is centered around my optimism. Streaks of unprecedented goals manifest themselves in front of me. They demand that my imagery, and my sensory record them! I am comfortable in this place; this Here & Now! Recognizing my familiar begins with my Here and Now because right now determines my attitude. It determines my belief system, my way of being.

I am found within the boundaries of human contributions. Where on a good day, servitude is familiar with the needs of its neighbor, and on a bad day it remains helpful because it knows that it is still…alive and well. I dwell where even an inkling of contentment is more than enough to allow a heart its quiet. Where urgencies for tomorrow cease because of today’s possibilities!

It is true, that I have not always been able to recognize my familiar, but it is even truer, that my familiar has always been recognizable! It is as simple as me knowing that I have been smiled upon. That, I have been favored by some unseen force; one insightful enough to ignore my arrogance…my unfounded entitlement. In reality, I am only as far as the places that I have been as far as my last agreed upon disagreements.

I am found where perfection is exposed for who it really is…an illusion! For what is the absence of blemish if not a thing unperceived? What right has creation to determine the worth of its own counterpart; by what scale is this weighed?

I am found where it is enough to admire a difference, ponder the make of its mold, but leave it as I have found it…in its natural state!

I am found where Mannerisms are taught their proper etiquettes. Where they are performed well, and where their benefits are eternalized.

I am found where my opinions matter! Where the space I stand in is safe, and adverse stances do not define me. I have wallowed long enough beneath the weight of self-affliction…always caving to passing fashion. But no more! For I have taken the time to sit with that which ails me; all the competing conversations taking place within my own cognitive. I have heard them in their entirety, both their fact and their fiction, and I have made a distinction between them. No longer am I inquisitive about my own intentions, that which used to hold me through a behavior. “Oh”…what a cynic I was!

However, that was yesterday! Today I say, “Hello to Here!” Here is where I claim to be more attentive instead of generous with my listening; where I am learning to take in what is being said in place of preparing a response. Here I will stay in search of a better understanding of that which I have some understanding of, for what is unapplied knowledge if not merely the gather of information!

I have risen above the billows of my own hopelessness and despair, and I have done it for no other reason than to become subservient by way of pen. I have sat before it as I still sit…as its student! It is teaching me the freedom of my own authenticity. And If that were not enough…it has imparted on me its portion of insight, so that my speech can always leak…in balance!

I am found where the unattended can learn to catch their breath; for I am smack dab in the middle of …RECOGNIZING MY FAMILIAR!

Da Next In Line
By Michael Larue Thomas

I stood at da door on a hospital floor
Adjacent to a man in bed
Who asked if I could and would give listen
While he shared with me all he carried

With a hesitated part of pause
I nodded him my consent
Then I pulled up a chair; bent him an ear
And waited on his gift

Was then his nurses gave him lift
Till we both sat eye to eye
Then he breathed in deep, and began to speak
To that which was on his mind

Said he had lived according to him
In a work hard play hard feast
In an atmosphere of two careers
Worth twenty five years a piece

Traveled da road; owned a few homes
Came close as he could to love
Had countless affairs; but never an heir
So he had not a daughter nor son

It was then that he wept in silent regret
A good thirty seconds or so
And I though I was there; he seemed not to care
That a room full of folks looked on

Said if never I ever took what was given
Let this be not one of those times
For da recipe he was offering me
Would enhance my quality of life

So again I nodded, but faster this time
As I scooted up close to da rails
Where he leaned out da sides till his eyes met mines
And this is what da old-head said

“Many a men have lived as I’ve lived
Did as I’ve did…then died
They were tied to no one except their own fun
…Selfish in how they lived life

a person’s worth lies not in their purse
Nor any to do with a price
It will all boil down to whatever’s found
Being given to da next in line

Was then he gave me two documents
Along with a writing pen
He told me to sign them carefully
Then give one back to him

Once I did; he turned from me
And I was asked to leave
So I gave myself rise; said my goodbyes
And wished da old-head much peace

I stopped at da door on that hospital floor
Grabbed both my mop and my rags
Got back on my route; thought long about
Da paper I held in my hand

there’s just no way around realness found
At da front end of “on your way out”
Must of ran late on cleaning his plate
Cause da next in line got a whole house

Ms. Crain’s Fly-Away-Birds
By Michael Larue Thomas

Deep within a rockless quarry
where picks no longer swing
there sits da beauty of a Crain
In care of injured wings

Each one designed for spend of time
on ground instead of air
where colors can lose their flourish
If nurtured without care

It’s there you’ll find a well poised Crain
who tends with mended word
to broken songs long left alone
attached to fly-away-birds

A patient place-well timed with space
in tune with intimacy
what’s felt and heard-through spoken word
da mend of wounded things

Now one by one they speak in song
enhancing style of word
their beautiful pain-what lights da way
for Ms. Crain’s fly-away-birds

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