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Cynth'ya Lewis cynthyaspeaks@gmail.com

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unpredictable
by Cynth'ya Lewis cynthyaspeaks@gmail.com

Sunday, April 03, 2005
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Cynth'ya Lewis cynthyaspeaks@gmail.com
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           >> View all 570

For the lives of the ones known as "Terri Shiavo, Johnnie Cochran, and Pope John Paul II.)

Life. Death. Cycles. Don't mess with what is if you can't explain where it's going. clr


so many so called
X-spurts
living in a land
called "might it be"

trying to soothe the anxiety
of a world that refuses to
have faith in the Almighty,
the one who is the answer
to the things we desire
should we boldly ask His guidance
in a sovereign spirit
of humility

for you see that
there ain't no shame in
not knowing what lies ahead
for you and for me
in life's untame game,
since truth spoken bold
from the griots wise lips
speaking futures
untold are bought out,
but decendants of
kings and queens sold out
for a stereotype, propagating
the hype that black unity
is forever an unsolved mystery

but indubidubly as soon as
their credibility turns ill
they up pack and run straight
for the hills, giving our
disillusioned ancestral spirits
cold chills. . .

freedom vanishes in the smoke as
they so called freedom fighters
would rather cling to freedom papers

and say to the children. . .

"Later!"

this of course
leaves the rest of us
stuck in a polical rut
with just enough strength
to hold our own nappy heads
high, with just enough will-power
to hold up our end even if we have to
hold it up all by our own self,

and if we have to deal with
fools as company then
we'd rather go slow and sure
that swift and stupid,
choosing rather not sink with dead weight promise but continue
to float until our change comes
upon us,

even dare a marathon swim
in the fog that covers the horizon
before us, make up our minds
to go it alone when so-called friends
ignore us, leaving us singing solo
when we thought we had some backup
in our chorus,

because in the Church of
the Living Dreamer,
the parishioners
keep their voice
lifted high, rising
like smoke from a funeral pyre
lifting sacrifice to
the one who never thought twice
to die for our sins,
the one who made

earth, wind and fire

so freedom praise must
continually be sung
in mellow tones of
bygones & bye-byes
with laughter in our hearts,
tracks of our tears that
stream profusely from our eyes,

and the victorious cheer
will be so abundant that
it will shatter the stratosphere
of all planted lies and doubt
to the point where the predators
of politics don't dare to ignore us
in this land turned by greed
and plenty

and as Angels of Justice
sing of crimson and clover
over and over, the
not-so-religious resurrect
and reflect the last
tiny sparks of Mother Liberty's
exponential light
whose flame questions all
that once used to be right
and ends up exposing
all government blights

and voices of whimpering victims
are no longer camoflaged
by screaming demons,
the banchee invaders

but see ya'll, one day
it's gonna be alright
and we all will once more
find that peace both by day
and by night

but you know we got to shine on,
at least until tomorrow
and with Mother Mahalia
in that GREAT gettin' up mornin. . .)

might it be that
those of whom others claim
might be against us
are actually

FOR US?

and might it be
that as we together
rewrite the song
that others sang as parody,
that it is you and me
who will re-create things
that we know need to be
as they ought to be

but that's just between

you. . .

God. . .

and me. . .

because we know not
what tomorrow brings

so word to the wise
and i mean no disrepect to you
when i teach we must not
compromise with the
ones those who stole
the ultimate power
who will give account
for the works of their soul
in that GREAT gettin' mornin'
in the world's last day,

THE FINAL HOUR

so let us all pray
as a human family ought
let us not sell one another out
on the auction block based on
what some other fool thought,

and perhaps someday soon
we will create a place to sing
a true constitutional harmonious tune
a place our ancestors
predestined would be

a place that they dreamed for
their chosen to see,

this is the GREATEST spiritual mystery

so it's GOT to be
up to you and your brother
and your sister, for they are mine
as well,

it's the one true God
who makes friends
out of enemies
keeps people from
sending one another
from heaven to hell

so please sing out
this brand new song
like McCarthy and Lennon's Legacy--
they had it right all along

and for once in our lives
let's just give up the grief
might it be that our children
Can a a brotha or a sista
catch just one shred of relief?

Let it be, might be
Let it be, might be
hear the words of wisdom,
ring them out from sea to
tsnami ridden sea

and can we blend
one joyful sound
will we choose to abound
and dare others away from home
as well as in this town
to see live sane and sweetly,
simply deciding to
fall in love with live,
and simply "Let It Be"?


© 2005 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserved.

Pieces
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Reviewed by - - - - - TRASK 4/5/2005
Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh--But It Is Predictable-

As There Monuments,Glass Castles,Churchs,Synagogs,Vaticans,
Empires,Worlds Continue To Crumble----Me,TRASK I Just Simply Let
It (Happen) Be,i.e. DEATH IS INEVITABLE_

Where You Or They Or Him End Up After DEATH Is Right On Predictable...

TRASK
Reviewed by Eddie Thompson 4/4/2005
In that great gettin' up mornin', fare thee well, sister...
Reviewed by jude forese 4/3/2005
excellent poem ... we can only let it be when we allow it to become ...
Reviewed by E T Waldron 4/3/2005
Let it be! Amen! Thank you Cynth'ya!
Common sense/wisdom has spoken!

Eileen
Reviewed by George Jackson 4/3/2005
Powerful stuff here, Cynth'ya.



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