I was not born to be small, not carved from hush, not designed to disappear.   I will not acquiesce, or negotiate who I am with you.   I will not barter my skin, trade soft-spokeness for your comfort.   I will not reshape my words to fit your blueprint.   I will not shrink, smooth, hush, or squeeze into the closet of your design.   I will not silence myself, not for you, not for the world, not for the ghost in the mirror who once begged to be small.   I will not unbecome to make you whole, apologize for taking up air, for burning too bright, for loving too loud.   I will not dim my shine, soften my blaze, or make my survival a polite anecdote.   I am unapologetic, unbargained, beautifully broken, And untouched by your demands.

I let the sound wash over me Waves on the beach Moving me with their melodies My hips sway to the bass Pulsing through my core That purple feel gives me chills Serpentine movements flowing Harmony, peace, and love Things we can believe in Strawberries sweet and drippy To be someone is that better Than just being alive? Harsh realities set in Once that trombone stops But maybe, just maybe That music that connected us And the feelings it brought Will make these beliefs come to pass

(From his book: Silence in the Quiet of Peace) I remember being small, like a fish inside a bowl. The world outside was inaccessible; for all I knew it was just a vast land of nothingness. No rivers or lakes. No mountains  or hills. No life outside of my tiny bowl. That i what it feels like to be a child living in a war-torn country. Treading outside of my bowl meant certain death. If it was not from the shelling or the snipers, it was from land mines or collapsing infrastructure. During my infancy I did not know how the war came to be, and I was not mired in politics, either, so I had to assume that my parents always knew what was best. I did not know that my country was desperately vying to break free from communist rule. I did not know the difference between Serbs and Croats and Bosniaks. I did not know what “ethnic cleansing” meant. I did not know that while my parents struggled to keep me and my siblings alive, many parents in concentration camps were being provided weapons an...

 

these trials and  tribulations befalling so many nations all of them can be summed up with some simple vocabulary vanity gluttony and greed to have much more than you'll ever need these are the things that tear nations apart pitting each other against some fictitious other some unknown invisible enemy slowly invading your home yet all along while they sing this song they are slowly charming their way into your hearts and your minds subtly, secretly planting their mines waiting for the day when it all breaks loose so they can rob you of everything while you hang by their noose

  They say "slow and steady wins the race," But it’s awfully hard to lessen my pace While the rest of the world throws mud in my face With the ruts that they’ve made in this human rat race. We speed through life and never see The green grass nor the colored leaves. Why must I always be so slow It seems that I can never go To the places that I long to show My memory so it can grow Why do we always run so fast Leaving almost no time to relish the past? All we can see is straight ahead With no time left to keep our brains fed. We run and run and wear down the tread A foot race until the time we’re dead. But it seems that I don’t mind being slow Because in my mind I truly know, That in my    life I have only one foe: The hurried turtle has got to go! I’ll slow down my pace and take it all in Because surely I will be here again. In another time or another place I’ll rejoice in the fact that I slowed down my pace. Enjoying this visions in front of my face And learning from the ...

Make a list, darling  Of things you love I'll help you burn it In the backyard Here's a lighter What do your thoughts Look like in your head You know you have to Let them go If they're things You truly care about For whatever reason Arbitrary, but that's the rule Apparently it's proven So tell me dearest What are these things That are extensions of Your soul Hopes dreams desires The things that validate The person you are Flowers kitties seahorses Dreamcatchers and sundresses Books and fantasy tales You and me Let's burn it all Burn the world And like phoenixes Rise from the ashes and flames Whole, untouched, made new.

 

 

 Louis Toliver Jr. reads his poem, "Creativity" for the Louisiana Words Tour at Beausoleil Books in Lafayette, LA.

  Gabi Miller reads her poem, "Butterfly," for the Louisiana Words Tour at Beausoleil Books in Lafayette, LA.

    Gabi Miller reads her poem, "Starry Night," for the Louisiana Words Tour at Beausoleil Books in Lafayette, LA.

Louis Toliver Jr. reads his poem, "American Like Me," for the Louisiana Words Tour at Beausoleil Books in Lafayette, LA.

 

  Our future is but past lies I write these words in the dark  The dream of every child cries Our angels will never hark  I lost my due unto you  Your passion I shall sue Your heart drunk on gin We will never love again Suicide veins wonder:  Will I die from this ponder? Bending words is your task  You can take off hell's mask  Count backwards from ten Your heart I shall not win

  Remember me, the raven in your window A hardened stare into your eyes With lightening flashing to set you blind What you saw, no longer there Behold these images of native gods Your test so now begins Bringing a rush to shake your soul And leave you longing more Now fear sets in, it clouds you mind Severing all of your senses In one swift hit, brought to your knees What you were, no longer are

A peculiar fourth room has appeared in my three bedroom abode. High ceilings Higher than any ceiling in the house Perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls The largest window one can imagine Stretching from floor to ceiling  Wide as an ocean’s horizon  Revealing the  lushest  greenery and the bluest skies.  I am meant to show masterpieces here.   But in one of the corners  o f the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls  i s an ugly patch of dirt. Dirt darker than charred coal.  And the dirt is crawling And multiplying.  With their spindly legs and dangly antennae  Vermin covered in filth and willingly ready to spread their germs Scuffing the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls.   But I have to move on,  I have a gallery to exhibit. Smile and act as  if  nothing is wrong. Come.   Enjoy the show.   Enjoy the artwork hanging  Upon the perfectly pristine whitewashed gallery walls.