Will There Be a Toll…

By Howard "Sergio" Tucker

Cold, damp drizzle pelting against the windshield, the hum of the car engine…purring, eyes not focused on the road rather squinting at faint images, recollections of days past. Rhythmic cadence of the wiper blades sways back and forth; back and forth, trance state, Zen state? No, no peace, no tranquility…only questions.

When will the storm pass? How far do I go? If I turn off here, will there be a toll…

Car cabin, warm cocoon, provides little insulation from bouts of reoccurring pangs of doubt…drifting from road to memory…foregone days sunny and sweet…simple dalliances, lighthearted and fair, running without a care… hand grips wheel, suddenly turns, no object in the path…only memory of the danger of being caught in the act…

When will the storm pass? How far do I go? If I turn off here, will there be a toll…

Sweat forms on brow like heavy dew, gripping tighter at the wheel as if one knew, the outcome of an old movie, dark forms lurking, long shadows creeping up the wall, lights flashing, blinding, then there is nothing at all…driving with no map there is always a cost, living today through the past, one is surely lost.

When will the storm pass? How far do I go? If I turn off here, will there be a toll…

Betrayed by those who profess to love…vicious indeed…the road sharply curves at odd angles, there is too much speed…No signs, no warnings, the cliffs loom dangerously close, the headlights dim through the fog, can see nothing at most…the way uncertain, lonely and forgotten, the trees passing forlorn and down-trodden…the road continues to narrow, hope begins to fade…yet light in the distance is dimly made.

No More (The Chronicles of Kamael)

By Howard "Sergio" Tucker

Have I always been an angel?

Fallen, been twisted every which way,

Made promises by silky soft voices for fleeting everlasting joy,

Smoke and mirrors, nothing real or firm,

Thought to have found peace and tranquility in solitude…

No More

Restless now

Not content with the status quo

The emptiness of material gain for what

Building frustration like howling at the wind

Shouting to the deaf "the kingdom is at hand!"

No More

Courage and conviction courses through my veins

Unleash your servant to make ready the way

Now become the herald, the harbinger, the hibernation is over

Time to take up thy armor, thy shield and thy grace

What about thy sword to wield in furious righteousness?

No More

No warning alarms will be sounded

No overt threats made

No coercion to the faith

No cause or consequence relayed

By subtle sound and movement…like a herd of antelope reacting to a snapped twig, the excitable and frightened shall run in full force toward the abyss, yet those who hold their ground, standing firm in faith, swayed not by the hysteria of masses, will see that it is you Lord coming with gentle footsteps and outstretched hands, with grains of grace to feed us as we journey home.

Sweet Mystery

By Howard "Sergio" Tucker

Sitting in a sidewalk café, warm, sun drenched an urban escapist's paradise. Mediterranean fare, fragrance of olives, garlic, and charred meat in the air… china and glass on table tops with white cloths, a puff of wind blowing ever so slightly lifting them, ruffling them, like the skirt hems of the women who pass by…each puff exposing some…

Hear the clitter, clatter of china against the cold steel forks as patrons stab at delectable morsels, hear the garbled restaurant noise gabbing, laughing, talking in earnest, lying, joking, pleading, swearing, mumbling with mouth full…all a symphony of color, sound, aroma and taste…

Wine, deep burgundy, rich bold body, yet delicate and complex much like Mystery flashing a smile, a glance, a nod, and a pout…indeed. Swirl the wine in my mouth, lingering on tongue, craftsmanship, nature and age…mingling…exciting expectation rolling down warmly into my chest.

Green is everywhere…bold and sublime…from the salad to the park next to the café…cool and inviting from an afternoon tanning. Poor fools in cars, blaring radios, stuck in traffic look over wanting to taste Mystery and I raise a glass to their futility…what would the world be if we all just stopped…to savor Mystery.

Mystery, what do you see with devilish, girlish, temptress intentions…

Mystery, where do you go...your beckoning glance, massaging touch on the back of my neck as you pull in tighter to brush your lips against my ear…

Mystery…I entice and excite you, feel my strength, makes you quiver, my well place hand on curve of your delicious derriere, you pause to catch your breath…you back away, not trying to get caught just yet…

I am in no rush, yes I like to savor, the little things, the touch and flavor, cause in the end there will be the tasting of suckling honey with ecstasy and like all things that are meant to be; why rush? Sweet Mystery…

The River

By Howard "Sergio" Tucker

We sat by the river and wept…
Our sweat flowed as we thought of our brothers,

Lost in despair for they wander the streets.

We sat by the river and wept…
Our tears flowed as we thought of our sisters,

Lost in fear for they are alone seeking love in unforgiving arms.

We sat by the river and wept…
Our blood flowed as we thought of our mothers,

Lost in mystery for they are vanished and their children crying.

We sat by the river and wept…
Our anger flowed as we thought of our fathers,

Lost in injustice for they are imprisoned to feed the greed of the industry.

We sat by the river and wept…

A mighty wind began to blow.

His breath roused the waters causing a great disturbance crashing fierce waves against the shore;

We were unafraid knowing He had come to cleanse the world of wrongs and unmask the truths;

We stood and welcomed the terrible storm on the wings of a million Angles with joy in the redemption!

We embraced each other as our brothers gained wisdom;

We cheered as our sisters gained respect;

We celebrated as our mothers came home;

We worshiped His name as our fathers were freed;

We sit by the river and weep no more…for this is the age of Zion!

Art House (2)

By Howard "Sergio" Tucker

A festive night, with a cold late November hawk blowing as herald of the holidays….the gallery is warm,

Colors beam the joyful, spiritual, playful Caribbean,

Bright sun drenched yellows, earthy hearty molasses browns, orange sunset fire reds, rainforest lush tropic greens, ocean tranquil turquoise blues…

Culturally uplifting and stimulating visual mix of styles and moods, Haitian, Latin and African,

Tonight's theme, music, fills the room with visual cords of color, complex and bright, jumps off the canvass right into your soul.

Marvel the time and talent; this is sensory jazz, elongated faces like improvised notes held in space so smooth with blue, deep and mellow,

Imagine islanders dancing in cane fields, to heavy rhythms of the congas like puppets, arms and legs bent at awkward angles, yet free and light, no gravity to interfere with their grace and form,

Faces serious, each dancer, their world, each dance, a meaning, from joy, to sorrow intermingling, combining, catching your eye reaching past your reason pulling at the strings of emotions

Yes we play an urban symphony as we sip wine, gently brushing by each other in that oh so polite social single dance to get noticed and seen, adding another layer, that underlying beat, that quickening pulse, that song you can't get out of your head, that personal soundtrack playing…

As I take in the bountiful hues, our women, winking, wandering ….admiring …masterpieces in their own right,

Intelligent and appreciative bright brown eyes, hair, stylishly long, short or braided, all part of the human medium, mingling, mixing and manipulating my senses,

I am among the strong stately brothers…cloaked in dark, mysterious, majestic black of art house chic, sporting a splash, vibrant color.

The resurgence, the Renaissance of the Philly art house…my canvass, our people… the places, the sights, the sounds, the music, the perfume, the cologne, the dresses, the suits, the furs…my tapestry.

How Do You Say?

By Howard "Sergio" Tucker

I like you.

You and I would be perfect.

We could make precious children with deep brown sparkling eyes.

I want to wake up beside you with your warmth, your glow, your scent, your softness with tender playfulness.

Yes girl, I would give all that I am and all that I am meant to be.

I want to hear you moan with a short breath of delicious ecstasy.

Come to church, pray with me, be blessed, his face forever shines on us.

Sit by my side, read contently, wanting nothing more than the stillness of silence.

You inspire me to write, to work, to perform, to take it all to the next level, not for fame or fortune, for your smile, your glance and your delicate presence with unconditional reassurance that you are by my side.

Your words float effortlessly from your lips to my ear and fill my spirit with joy.

Yes, yes, this is meant to be.

Say your name girl…

What…is…your…name.