Throwing Stones, Skipping Stones [Pt 1]

This is the first part of (possibly) many parts of this spoken word project.

I am not sure what people are going to think of Throwing Stones, Skipping Stones, but it is my hope that at least a few of you can appreciate these poems for something or another. I was considering explaining what these poems meant, but then I realized that what I would really be saying is what these poems meant to me, which is entirely unimportant. I really hope that you can find meaning, find yourself being moved, and find yourself thinking and over-thinking...in some of my mess of words and voice.

Part 1: click here to download Throwing Stones, Skipping Stones [Pt1]

To the Man that Sent His Son to War

If this is just a thought

Don’t mean it, do not take another breath

This is your son’s war in a situation that you unabashfully created

He will follow the path of (you) the phantom for his whole life

This is your son’s battle cry in this war that you volunteered him for

No one in their right mind knowingly wants to run head first into a firing squad

But you cannot navigate in an ocean with a thousand starless nights

So, from land to water to land and back again until the barrels are empty and the rashins gone

If this mutiny is just a thought

Do not touch her.

Do not take another breath.

Do not try to pry the captain’s hands from this ship.

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To the Reckless

Safety was not his first thought

“This shell is uncomfortable, I will break through to get what I want from you”

God forbid you disappoint him

“It isn’t the same with this plastic cocoon”

“I know what you want baby, and I respect it too, but I need you to do this for me to know that I want you. I love you.”

Word vomit, letters that do not make sense

But the phrasing and pacing of assurance…so much so that it doesn’t even make Peter sink.

(He does not care)

And this will be his seventh Grammy alone this year.

Congratulations are the wedding dresses to a consolation prize in her eyes of an action like a black man in the 1960’s- free and dreaming and alive.

She used to not believe in hand outs but the public health services prove to be more than useless gifts

As the needles broke her skin and blood vials spin and she sits in the waiting room alone as the sweating begins

The thoughts are loud enough to be an Imax theatre. 3-d. In high-definition. Everyone wondering what was on whose lips they exchanged a bit more than they probably should have gave.

So cut the set belts out of your automobiles and do anything and everything to make you feel the best, clog the holes in drowning ships with bundles of sticks

Sunroofs are useless in a steady rain; recklessness is best kept as a saline drip.

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To the Man that is a father, who is not a Father

I am her father.

I am a ghost…

I am the spirit in her house

I am the creek in her bed that grows louder as she fails to get prouder

And the boys that are in step with the noise grow older and so much border

What actions this sort of prince charming courage employs,

Is the exact same selfish flame that gave me what I need to leave her frozen in place

I am her father.

I am the walking dead.

I am a ghost.

As always, I would love to hear peoples opinions on either the poems or my performance of them. Please be a little gentle this go'round though, it is my first time.