Peace & Blessings

That's how I greet my friends, and those who allow me time to enter their mental universe.  That sound you hear is my thoughts merging with your mentals, massaging your psyche with the concepts I learned on the Southside of Chicago.  Thank you for reading my words.



Ever Briefly

Ever Briefly she touched my imagination as she expressed views that I had long held sacrosanct and
was convinced no one else would recognize them
She reached out through fiber optics and held my hand and soothed the rebellious teen not to pacify
the spirit but to simply say "its awright"

She modulated her tone giving me a lifestyle glimpse that provided me with a reason to continue our
conversation late into the night
I cracked a door on long shut thoughts that had grown covered with cobwebs in the corners
of my mind

But she now cleaned some of the debris from the surface of my soul and helped me to polish it to a
high gloss gleam
I moved, I ran, I walked, I stood still, and I ran to standstill as her mother wit and charm shone down
on me like a benevolent and warming sun

And she did this ever so briefly

(All pieces by K.A. Williams)

I am just a Poet

One of the most gangster lines I ever read was by this Persian cat who kicked the ballistics nearly a 1000 years ago
He wrote “take the cash at hand, let the credit waive and heed not to the rumble of the distant drum”
That’s poetry baby, pure poetical a titanic meeting of verbs and nouns
And it stands in stark contrast to many of the efforts that I hear from contemporaries
Poets who decide to create greatness, poets who have culled a following among a clique of non-poets and to whom they present throw away lines of dramatic nonsense no substance words of flash and dash, they have managed to create the verbal version of Donald Rumsfeld’s shock and awe, full of promise but empty as cotton candy, great on initial taste, light as the air, goes down easy and later we realize how detrimental it is to our system
Poets who put more stock on creating names of bravado, of putting forth a physical image of coolness, of being aligned with those who they have deemed as God poet manifested
I have learned that when you write and you hit that spot, you have got the groove, you feel humbled and proud, you look at the page, screen, napkin, your hand, the window, the back of your shirt and you remark to yourself quietly
Nowadays I hear and see poets who strive not to get better as a writer but better at slamming, better at being better than the next one, better at being recognized as being deep, better at wanting to be worshipped, better at everything except being a poet
I recall those days and times when I became a Hip-Hopper striving to get on the mic, those days and times of rocking shows and having poets tell me poetry does not rhyme, those hours and minutes of poets wanting me to understand some archaic perspective those minutes and seconds of being frustrated because I do not want to be judged but I subject myself to judgment when I slam and when the slam is less than honest having beginner poets tell me that’s how the game goes
And as I look and I recall standing on corners as the rain gently fell rocking in hallways to a beat box for a demo tape, paying to get in talent shows, and running for my life when we won in the wrong neighborhood, until that very moment as this poet tells me that’s how the game goes
I question myself, why do I write, is it to win, is it to be recognized, as I listen to poets who strive to create lines of memory only to have them be erased as footprints in the sand
I know you cannot desire to be remembered by your words, Omar Khayyam wrote the quote and when he did I bet he never wondered about his place in history or memory
He was just a poet

(All pieces by K.A. Williams)