All Literate

I AM Asiatic to Adriatic and on American arrival.  

Adroit with attuned ability for the atmosphere of the 

of arrogant attitudes or Alpine altitudes, my actualization 

was in the attainment of animation and the absence of achievement.

My apprehension and aloof approach altered an apologetic agreement assigned

by another's adaption that alternates in authentications.  I AIM to acquiesce ambiance 

in the articulation of acquaintances, armed in affection, avid affinity, and affable amiability. 

Appease all as if an angel arrived.  
Albeit, it's rather the ignition of intuition, I find, that I am.

Autograph by an Asian Korean American (Also Known As......)

Yell A Wish

If I could paint the world for my mothers and fathers, I'd show that I am home 
in nature's universality and hear its vocality sing, ring music in my ears.

It releases and cleanses my soul into an atmospheric ultramarine sea as skies open like vast oceans, reflecting growth in a world speckled by green. Virtual and visual flowers scattered and open to a garden's ardent planet.

Sun shiney days brightens my eyesight with clarity.  
From the highest treetop to the largest mountaintop, 
I see a rose crested bird standing in its statuesque stance, 
ready to fly like a red balloon floating in the air.  
Hot air rising and evaporating above the stratosphere.  
The culminating clouds guard heaven.

The crystal hues that sparkle in the sun require my amber tinted glasses 
to deflect the brilliance before my small eyes.  I stand in the sun.  
As I flip my eyewear to my rounded face, I see the world with technicolor vision.

Below are vibrant leaves in the grove, like vibrating notes in a groove.   
Compiled into a colorful symphonic rearrangement.  
The flag to my right is waving back at me in harmony to the wind.

These tinted hues meet the yellowish soul inside my sunburned skin.  
Everyone and everywhere is tainted with a tan and born from the flesh of a baby's pale exterior.  We grow in sunlight within nature's composition.

The Earth's brown ground is where I land.  I am still standing.  My footing balanced and bequeathing fertile soil, for rivers run deep and I rest on the embankment.  Dirty sludge wraps around my feet, just a place in life but I still kick it.

I see the world again, in my fellow man's futuristic, flying fashion.  I wait to be telegraphed, telephoned and teleported to the transcontinental thinking of those who see like me. 

I yell to see and say because I fingerpaint in reality.

Reason and Roots of the Rastaman

Rhyme, rhythm and reason require righteous readings 
revealing and relinquishing revolution in Revelations 
retaining redemption….rest Rasta…requesting 
restitution in reformed repatriation.

African actualities attained and applied again 
for all acclaimed Afro aligned associates 
to arise above and acknowledge the Almighty.

Solidify and sanctify Solomon’s seal 
with salvation and salutations…soon seen sight 
surrounded by samplings of sweet sound systems.

Trials and tribulations, troubled by treacherous tyranny 
are trumped by triumphant teachings…tales of truth 
tailored tightly to the Trinity.

Albums alit and alive along airwaves 
attributing and aiming ahead at 
agreement and action already accepted, 
advised and akin to Abyssinia.  

Music mirroring a mystic man manifested in marijuana 
maintains morals and magnitude, marking misguided men… 
manipulators of man-made misgivings and malicious misunderstanding… 
mek mon mash up massive.  

Almshouses allow allusions…. 
although accountable alliances allocate ambassadors 
against ailments in Armageddon.

Negus Nagast notably named Nesta, narrator of Niyabinghi…. 
necessitating noble negations in negative notions….. 
nonetheless natural in Nine mile navigation.   
New nationals and natives now near  NYC, 
neighboring Narragansett Bay to New Orleans to National City 
and nurturing Newcastles in New Delhi, the Netherlands, 
Nicaragua and Namibia crossing back to Nottingham and Nagasaki, 
natty…nice up.

Haunting Home

For me, too much time had passed

as I carved a niche in to

myself and in living,

I only protected my bleated heart.

Maybe, it’s the age of times

or just my lone age in life,

I feel you within a breath.

Close like the surrounding air,

I see your mind ticking,  

carefully watching the world

in which few know.

Always fighting against the current,

rarely looking back

I see the tidal flow eluding me.

It is passing through

and coming back around,

continuous with subsistence,

bringing fire, like an oil slick

in flames.

I have stumbled on your

sweet sincerity and earnest way,

free and born again.

Although, not of doctored

moral standards but

within distinctiveness drawn by life’s

observations and preservation.

In some residential homes,

life is often like a house of cards.  

I have given them up to reside

in wooded shanty shacks,

taking time to give them propriety,

while struggling and pushing forth

to have a kingdom come for me.

During which, I have given all I could 

to the small souls in my care;

I have allowed no others

to see such reasons to feel free.

I have laid myself to rest

in my own comfort.

Yet, you however haunt me

with your intellect.

Staying vigilant throughout the years,

only gathering strength for those close,

I feel you pass through,

leaving me in thought.

I cannot escape the feeling

that I can feel you;

not that I know you

or have claim to your thinking,

but feel your strength ringing

as if it were my own.

In return, I have left my inhibitions

at the door and left

without a jacket made of armor.

Once lost from frailty and strife,

I come across your house,

and your sidewalk,

I stand there dim-witted and distraught.

  

The fog begins to elude me

and I see the house,

covered in shrubs and ivy

with bricks laid adorned.  

A strong foundation sits weathered, 

though liberated by wind,

rain, sleet and snow and

disclosed by the seasons passing.

My mind rests, no longer blue from death 

but filled with blue breath

that frost has bitten too.  

I stand there fragile by just being,

on behalf of dread and terror

that resides within glass houses.

Passing by, your windows were 

illuminated with light,

with one room vividly dark,

eerily empty and taunting.

Then, I felt your reoccurring ghost

contained within my own simplicity.

"I take pleasure in your acquaintance and

your unequivocal ideas and theories

in contemplation and redemption".

The long haunting feeling surrounding me, 

frees me as I become more

visible and apparent in form.

May I haunt you too by sitting down on your stoop?

Silent War

Soldiers

in the art of

listening.

Armed with silence,

the enlisted stand firmly

planted in uprooted lawlessness,

locked and stiff only taking time

to breath in new endeavors.

With freedom ringing,

a cadet does not question

integrity or intelligence

because recognition

is without delay.

Within silent refuge,

a trooper lays down weapons

in the surplus of

a diplomatic state of mind.


A silent soldier is on reconnaissance.  


Embattled in insurgent conscious ideas

a guard stands at attention,

deciphering coded justice

and questioning veracious intentions.

Saluting presidential kisses,

service personnel look on 
with smiling eyes

to the young and old,

while protecting the sick

and innocent in parade

around the world.

Voiced, a militant's opinions are deployed

after the argument has offered defeat,

returning home to contend with

others in repudiated combat. 

A silent soldier takes a sniper's shot with precision truth.

Within politics, commandos 
remain on the battlefields

standing between God's judgment

and verdict being lost

to Man's law and order.

Retreating into silence,

a G.I. is fearless,

obtaining strategy

that separates them

from ranking rudimentary dogma.

Reluctantly surrendering

to three words

that form a thinly lined heart,

beating and pulsing....

I love you, I need you, I have you,
I WANT YOU!

A soldier-at-arms knows 
sacrifice and gain 
and always brave 
to face battle once again.

Asiatic Assumption

Japanese tourists with eyes in the camera recording the sights seen.

Thai folk speak a language sounds like chickens clucking plucked into a sumptuous treat.

North Korea’s lunatic running around with nuclear weapons like guns instead of fists.

China’s congestion swarms with vultures flocking like McD’s one billion serves the list.

South Korea quiet like gentle pandas in the mist home to the Olympics with soldiers left in drift.

Asiatic assessment seen more than this.

Temples with long eared men large bellies sit in bliss.

Cherry blossoms give Zen credence with karma's kiss.

My slanted eyes wide open to this.

Minute Minnow

A minnow in a pool of thought,

surrounded by shallow water,

endangering its own species.

Once swam massive oceans

currently missing an original sea.

A minuscule wish is encompassing.

Baited by a hook, seeking captivity,

a fish leaves a nook that's comforting,

bidding ado to the abyss, gradually swimming upward.

Sailors and ships are dominating

and unequivocally fleeting,

surpassing tide and current.

Taking new breathe and breathing bubbles,

despondently drowning in subsequent timing,

waiting patiently for the catching drift.

Like a salmon withered in his own demise,

eloquently upholding stature upstream,

a minnow closes in on the path to fresh water.

Flapping, moving rapidly through dissension,

climbing and ascending concrete stairs to Heaven,

swimming with one goal in mind.

Resting and dropping eggs, one fish commissions,

rather impasse to other fish in the sea,

and heads off diligently through the cycle of life.

A small minnow sheds its moss infested scaling,

hiding the life and color waiting within,

slowly breathes and scrapes against the shore.

Evidently awashed by the banks,

wishing to join school once again,

time to recycle death into living.