The day turned from a Walter Mosley morning
to a Horace Tapscott afternoon.
Words became keys on a summer breeze.
Easy riders in classic shauts leanin’,
rollin’ down Central Avenue.
Busses bustin’ fumes on Vernon Ave.
Shoulder saddled boom boxes
a relic of Gen-X’ers.
Sounds now internalized
through energized earmuffs
plugged into handheld systems
strapped to the hip,
spinning silvery disks
whose radial rainbows
erupt into timbres resonating
within tempered chambers of the soul.
Super sax on a stick blowin’ a melody.
’Train on a Voyage—Maiden no more;
too huge to be heard
too many yet out of tune.
Street painter at his pulpit.
Sepia ink scribbled on rag paper.
Cerulean washes flow from sable,
sky impelled, webbed;
wire carrying communication
tapped by ‘big’
but not ‘brother’.
Preacher with a paint brush;
plantin’ ‘Talent Search’ tracts
in the palms of the people.
Heralding a Savior
Who dared to walk
not only on stormy waters back then
but on their tempestuous streets today.
As angels strum the strings of the harp;
The Maestro stills the quivering heart