Final Exam

Long ago, in the quiet halls of learning, a teacher once asked, “Who can make a song sing without crying? Who can truly live life without dying?” His students pondered, wondering how life’s simplest truths could be bound to such complex questions. Yet, through each lesson, the teacher’s wisdom guided them along a path of discovery. “Am I the fork in the road,” one student mused, “or the one who planned it?” The teacher merely smiled, knowing that only by questioning would they find their way.

In education, a teacher’s role extends beyond delivering facts; it is to foster critical thinking. Here, young minds are taught not only to absorb knowledge but to challenge it. By setting and reproducing the anatomy of truth, the teacher cultivates an environment where bright boys and girls are emboldened to think, question, and grow. Armed with both a pen and a purpose, they stand not just as students but as carriers of future wisdom. The true mark of a teacher is not in the knowledge they impart but in their ability to inspire.

In this sacred place of learning, the air crackles with the sound of ambition. The sharp scent of chalk dust lingers as rounds of soap whistle down the hallway corners. Each step echoes determination. Here, diffidence is martyred, and young minds bloom like wildflowers beneath a storm, nurtured by the electric presence of a teacher whose very being seems to vibrate with unseen energy. His eyes spark with understanding, his hands move with purpose, and beneath it all, a quiet strength—like the roots of a great oak holding the earth firm.

Sir, you are more than a teacher—you are a testament to the very idea that growth comes through challenge. Your imperfections, those slight flaws that make you uniquely human, are not hindrances but divine marks of character. You teach us that life’s law is not to conceal truth but to seek it relentlessly, for only through scavenge does true knowledge reveal itself. And so, we honor you, Teacher, not only for your lessons but for the very spirit of inquiry you ignite within us. Without doubt, your influence will endure, shaping minds long after your armchair sits empty.

Until death is proven final, your matter lives on.

Jah Know

The other night I spoke with a Bruv of the childhood era, and asked how he was doing. 

"I'm just fine, Bruv," he answered. 

I then inquired as to whether replying in the affirmative was one of truth or conditioning. He said he was happy, but conceded that he shares the darks with none but Jah. 

I expressed agreement to this, sharing my belief that Jah dwells not simply within me, but in all living things. However, it can be offsetting to people when you reveal the darkness that shadows your days. Thus, you opt to be less transparent, and suffer in silence. We talked about that—the quiet suffering we hide, the isolation we feel, especially when we’re afraid to be fully transparent. I’ve felt it too, from childhood onward, and that conversation took me back to a memory of loneliness that seemed endless.

For a long time it appeared as though my cup did runneth over, as if loneliness were a constant drip into my life, drop after drop, like water filling a cup too slowly to notice at first.  

Yet, there were things to stop--or at least pause the dripping. 

The sanctuary of my mother's voice.

The essence of her face. 

The quality of intention within her cooking. These things wrapped me in comfort, if only for a while. 

However, adulthood brings a different display; each day bearing the same emptiness. 

Now, I watch my dogs as they sleep, sometimes even in the daylight, envying their peace as I sit in the dim quiet of my own thoughts.

I envy them. 

At night, my lights are on. Regardless of whether I am sitting up, or laying down. 

If I am home during the day, the lights are off, the curtains drawn, and I wish it were still dark outside. 

When you carry darkness within, it can feel like a burden too great to share with others. Trauma, poverty, and emotional impacts often weave together so tightly that it becomes difficult to unpack them in full. I find ways to connect with people—through work, through service, through recreation—but often, these are just temporary distractions, like taking aspirin for a deeper, more incurable ailment. The connections soothe for a time, but they don’t heal the root of the pain. It’s a survival mechanism, a way to keep going even when the soul feels weary—of walking barefoot through broken glass hallways.

The truth is I have felt completely alone for years. 

I apologize if this reading has alarmed, or depressed you. 

My fondest memories extend to the childhood era, attending Sunday school with my brother, you, and your brother. 

The magic, albeit complex, of simpler times.

I recall walking through the old neighborhood years ago. I had cut through the woods of a local park toward a funeral home across the street from the big church on the main avenue. Making my way out of the park and onto a backstreet, I saw a little Black boy further up the sidewalk. 

Upon making eye contact, he stole away from his parents, running toward me. 

Standing just below my mid section, he hugged me in a tight embrace. I couldn't fully make sense of it then, but immediately recognized a connection of sorts between us.

I hunched over to meet him with a loving embrace of my own as I looked out toward his parents, frozen in disbelief. 

They smiled and began apologizing as I led him back to them. 

In that moment, I could not mount the courage to tell them that this little Black boy, their child, was the splitting image of my reflection so many years ago. I did not know how to ask, but the truth is I would have begged to take a photo with him in that moment. 

To remember him, 

To remember myself,

As well as my tomorrow. 

Today. 

Had Jah been trying to tell me something?  

Had my yesterday and tomorrow united to find me that day?

I must have been 28 years old then.

I come to the same conclusion whenever I draw upon that memory.

Lord, I wish I'd taken the photo...

#JahKnow 

#mentalhealthawarenessmonth

Truck (Keep On Keeping On)



I sit alone in a four cornered room,
Staring at candles
Dwelling in a den of despair--
Sort of like Daniel.
My father said, "Handle your biz"
But Pop, I can't though...
Someone put a knife in my side,
I'm bleeding bad now
Tears of a clown, when I cry,
I'm smiling sad so
The next time you see me go down,
Help me to stand, Bruv.
I'm praying for the day when I can
Walk as a man would.
So, I'm going to stick to the plan
Just like a man should.
Fears traded in for more tears,
I lost my best friend.
Cried, prayed and sang through the years,
God bless the dead.
And the night before the mourning, won't you, Send me an Angel.
Like water breaking free of the womb,
That's when the rain fell...

Keep on keeping--keep, keeping on
Keep on keeping--keep, keeping on

Now, tell me will you remember the one Incarcerated.
Will you remember to love,
The one that's hated.
Do onto others as you,
Would want for yourself.
Count how you make people feel,
That's how you count wealth.
We are the children of Ham,
We are The Chosen.
Chained at the neck, feet and hands
Since we were stolen.
Still, if we carry the will, we can accomplish
Don't you just talk it, lets build
And learn to walk it.
Time will make a demand,
In every man's life.
For him to square up and stand,
Where greater men died.
Before the morning, you will--
Be made an Angel.
Like all the Brave who came before you,
Your name will ring bells.
Before the morning, you will
Be made an Angel
Like all the Brave who came before you,
Your name will ring bells...

Keep on keeping--keep, keeping on
Keep on keeping--keep, keeping on

Keep on keeping--keep, keeping on
Keep on keeping--keep, keeping on

Malachi

My Boy,

There was a time 

when Black was a hue of untold stories,

Stories colored with struggle, sweet and wild,

A melody rising from hardship. 

Yet in that time,

This world and the next 

were always meant to be yours.

Tell the truth when you speak of our people—

Prophet and prisoner alike—

Voices echoing in the chambers of history,

Their words painted on the canvas of justice.

Ye playwright of purpose, crippled by the weight

Of righteousness, must navigate a world

Where hypocrisy stands tall, like an unwelcome pillar.

Believe in men who do not yet know how.

For Brothers are scarce in life,

And even harder to find beyond death’s curtain.

It is a challenge—a rarity—

To find such loyalty, and yet you must search for it,

Both in the living and the departed.

Speak of courage, of justice, and of freedom.

See God not just in the storms of wind and rain,

But in the quiet moments that pass unrecognized.

Give thanks in your joys, give thanks in your pains.

Love your sister.

Lift her above the floodwaters of adversity,

And when you do, the ocean will cradle you

Forevermore

When The Legacy Dies

To the Teacher of the Ancient Way.

Who can make a song sing without crying?


Who can truly live life without dying?


Set and reproduce

the anatomy of the truth


And by the height of a tree, tell its root

What is the meaning when a thought leaves you stranded?


Am I the fork in the road or the one who planned it?


Is it better to boldly question or remain in wonder?


Shall my thoughts unite before you or fall asunder?

Was it not here


Where men and women stood on the shoulders of giants that they too might become


Was it not here?

Where bright boys and girls emboldened to be distinguished


Soldiers. Carriers of twofold artillery. 


A Pen and A Purpose.

Inhabitants of this place are required by the struggle of strange fruit.


Rounds of soap whistle down and around hallway corners.


They know their targets well. 


Diffidence is martyred here.


Lost kin realign

Sir, to me you are indeed a mystery


Electric to the water in a garden of youthful minds


Daring children to be stronger


Men and women to grow longer


The Scientist of great FAITH


Runner of the Great Race

Transcending the complex simplicity of real time


You are uniquely incomplete


Your imperfections divine


The ever-willing sufferer of intelligence 


Tried, tested and reviewed for future relevance

Testament to the ideal 


That the law of life is not to conceal, but to challenge 


For truth is oftentimes revealed in the scavenge


We find that what makes one dare is the very reason one is here


Thus, to be painted as brave, one must first outline fear

So we honor you, Teacher, 


Your notes and your armchair. 


And until death is proven
,

Your matter lives on here.

Daily Bread

Dream boldly, with the intensity of lightning cutting through a darkened sky. Let your dreams crystallize into visions as vivid as the first rays of sunlight on a misty morning. The path ahead may seem shrouded, but each step you take reveals new colors of possibility.

As you conceive a plan, drawing it from the well of your imagination, you’ll notice the doubters. Some will question your ability, both to your face and in hushed tones. They will wonder if you can truly take an idea, fragile as a seedling, and grow it into something strong and enduring. But they are the same people who, when the skies darken and rain begins to fall, abandon their own dreams. They seek shelter, unable to weather the storm.

Rain, in fact, is as essential to the night as the sun is to the morning. Both are natural forces that contribute to the balance of the world. Just as the sun nurtures life, the rain provides the conditions necessary for growth. In life, obstacles, represented by the rain, are inevitable. But rather than flee from them, it’s important to understand that they are part of the process.

So do not let their doubts weaken your resolve. Instead, use their discouragement to build your inner strength. Remember, visions are not merely fleeting ideas; they are like newborns that need to be nurtured, fed, and cultivated. It’s not enough just to give them life—you must guide them to maturity so they can inspire and bring change to this world. 

Push forward—even when it seems impossible. 

Let your determination differentiate you from those who retire from the race premature of the gun.

Song 21

a poem of vivid imagery, narrative depth, and a cohesive flow to capture the introspective journey of manhood…

I’ve been waiting for what feels like a lifetime, anticipating the moment when my turn will come.

I know it’s close now—the weight of it lingers in the air, pressing against my chest like a held breath.

Soon, my song will play.

It began long ago, an unfinished melody

layered with whispers of who I was meant to be. The notes—soft at first, uncertain—found rhythm in the echoes of childhood dreams, then sharpened against the jagged edges of time.

Each chord carried a lesson, each pause, a silence, heavy with meaning.

I sit here, still, the quiet broken only by the faint hum of a life lived just beyond my reach. The song I’ve waited for feels familiar, yet distant, like an old friend who knows too much. Its melody rises and falls, a bittersweet harmony of victories won and battles lost.

There is something to be said for the passage of time—a truth buried in the spaces between seconds. We are all guided by the songs of our lives,

not mere background noise, but symphonies of who we’ve been,

and who we hope to become.

The dissonance, the hard rifts—those are not mistakes. They are the warnings,

the wisdom we carry forward. 

By the time the clock hands meet,

when the hour strikes its final note, we must have learned enough

to understand the meaning of the music

that’s been with us all along.

Do you dare to listen to your own song,

to the truths it carries?

Or will you only hear mine—

a reflection of what you fear,

or perhaps what you long for?

I’ve been here, waiting,

watching as the moments stretch and fold into themselves.

The song began long before I understood its purpose.

Its rhythm shaping my days,

its crescendos warning me of struggles yet to come. I think of it often,

wondering if it still plays somewhere,

even when I fail to listen.

And when the clock hands finally meet,

will the melody be the same?

Or will time have rewritten it,

just as it has rewritten me?