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A horn of plenty spills from your hands into the starved lives of millions.
Aberjhani
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Aberjhani
Age: 67
Born: 1957
Born: July 8
Blogger
Columnist
Historian
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Photographer
Savannah
Georgia
Jeffery Jerome Lloyd
Spills
Horns
Plenty
Charity
Millions
Lives
Hands
Starved
Love
Horn
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We can cry for years but sometimes gotta smile too.
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History dressed up in the glow of love’s kiss turned grief into beauty.
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Millions of tears have fallen for black sons, brothers, lovers, and friends whose assailants took or maimed their lives and then simply went on their way.
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What hell condemned, let heaven now heal.
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An outrageous instinct to love and be loved blinded your arms to lines of propriety––Women and Men, Christians and Jews, Muslims and Buddhists, white, black, red, brown. An outrageous instinct to love and be loved executed your brain every hour on the hour.
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The birth of a true poet is neither an insignificant event nor an easy delivery. Complications generally begin long before the fated soul carries its dubious light into whatever womb has been kind enough to volunteer the intricate machinery of its blood and prayers and muscles for a gestation period much longer than nine months or even nine years.
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Mainstream medias representation, or its guerrilla decontextualization, of black mens lives in particular can set the stage for erroneous assumptions capable of damaging an individual or a nation.
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To create art with all the passion in one's soul is to live art with all the beauty in one's heart.
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Classic romantic love is an emotional attraction between two individuals in which they may share a heightened awareness of mutual adoration. Erotic love, traditionally, has been described as shared sexual attraction.
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Many people can rightfully claim, as much as anyone can rightfully claim anything, that much of their lives have been spent stumbling through a cloud of cluelessness.
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Now come the whispers bearing bouquets of moonbeams and sunlight tremblings.
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A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare to the jeweled vision of a life started anew.
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The words ‘I Love You’ kill, and resurrect millions, in less than a second.
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Love taught me to die with dignity that I might come forth anew in splendor. Born once of flesh, then again of fire, I was reborn a third time to the sound of my name humming haikus in heaven’s mouth.
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Your pain is a school unto itself–– and your joy a lovely temple.
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Because Mr. Mandelas early opponents invested so many resources into distorting the true nature of his advocacy, the singular historic moment millions now celebrate could have been tragically lost to guerrilla decontextualization.
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This is what our love is––a sacred pattern of unbroken unity sewn flawlessly invisible inside all other images, thoughts, smells, and sounds.
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War poisons the land Like diseased minds downloaded/ into bowls of tears.
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That good gardener, who wept thorns plowing his fields - harvests grace with joy.
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True lovers earn their genius in schools of blood, prophecy and dust.
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