The poems of Write The Vision are my song and my expression of journey. I trust that as you read the words, you heart will hear the melody and understand that our "child's voice" has God's ear.

Write the Vision: A Journey to Forgiveness in Poems and Other Celebrations

By Benjamin Edgar Williams

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Benjamin Edgar Williams
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-5455-4

Contents

Acknowledgements............................................ixPreface Write the vision....................................xiAlone, I arrived............................................xiiiOn Thursdays and the days that follow.......................1Bound by shackles...........................................5Fragile Flowers(cry of an abused child).....................7My Heart Speaks to You......................................9Quiet Tears.................................................11Teach Me....................................................14What I Learned Today........................................16Then, my eyes caught purchase of a view.....................17I Need to Ask You Something (for Irene).....................19I Dreamed of You............................................23I Wish for You(for Kelse)...................................24In the light................................................26the Cost of a Kiss..........................................28Ask Me......................................................30Would you be free?..........................................33Seasons.....................................................35My Prayer...................................................37When .......................................................38Forgive.....................................................41Two Thoughts................................................43If..........................................................45A few feet from my past,....................................47New Shoes, No Feet..........................................49"I don't know how to forgive!"..............................51fifty 8.....................................................53What Next, God?.............................................57What If I Ask?..............................................59"Let me show you how".......................................63Today.......................................................65These Hands.................................................68Just Thinking...............................................70Simple Rules................................................72to touch as a child.........................................73You've Taken My Hand........................................75When I......................................................77Love Them...................................................78You, Here, Me (for Kyra)....................................80Perfect Man.................................................82Then, My Children...........................................84A Different Day.............................................85When You Were Still A Dream.................................87Unbanned Soul...............................................89Dying Question..............................................97Write the Vision (plain speech).............................103Epilogue: A New Vision......................................107

Chapter One

On Thursdays and the days that follow

I once read that we have so little control of our lives. I tend to agree. Our hair color, eye color, nationality, race, birthplace, parents, and day of arrival into this continual play are predetermined. Our ability to choose—the freedom we guard with unyielding devotion, that right that we enjoin as a coming of age—is diluted to little more than an agreement to perform within the limitations of our script. I believe, for the most part, that we rehearse behaviors modeled by our mommas and daddies and their deficiencies, which were impacted by their mommas and daddies. We perform, produce, and move to hit our "marks," as directed, in our arenas and stages of life.

It is interesting that we are called offspring. This, I believe, unravels a truth. In time, we are launched and bounce into tracks of conformity or rebellion, which tear at us, in an effort to prevent the past and its inherent curses.

Many of our choices, unveiled, are not choices at all, but responses ...

I was born on a Thursday, as was my father, my eldest daughter, and my oldest and youngest sons ...

I was born of Compton, California. I'm a son, produced from love, nurtured by the conflicts of pain and pleasure. I honor my ascendants—my father, maternal and paternal grandfathers—with my pseudonym, Benjamin Edgar Williams.

As I have walked, run, fought, fled, stood, stumbled, fallen, and continued to stand again, one constant has remained apparent: I'm still here. My mystery and quest has been to determine why.

The question persists, and the answer is not always clear, but sometimes, when I am still, I start to move through the cloud. Unfortunately, stillness is rare and far too infrequent and comes when confronted by insurmountable mountains, impassable walls, crevasses, and raging torrents. As I age, I understand that some of these circumstances stop me by design. Then, those moments of pause are beyond argument, and after the anger, frustrations, despair, and denial retreat, the unrelenting voice of my calling is intelligible and distinct.

Writing is my calling. Writing not only gives me voice but also answers the cry that is a deep perpetual chord within me. It is my music and the instrumentation to my play. It is my connection to the eternal—to God.

I am a writer of prose, a poet, and a playwright. Write the Vision is the first verse of my movement. I trust it finds harmony with your spirit.

    Bound by shackles ...


    Fragile Flowers
    (cry of an abused child)

    Wind whips the petals;
    See them blow.
    No pain, still cried in silence,
    Don't you NO?
    THERE colors, still resilient,
    Like the show?
    C'mon time, stop the progress,
    Let 'em go!
    Child looks, the bruises fountain,
    Have your way.
    Perfect skin mends broken bones;
    Hurt, you say?
    Climbing out, the WHOLE behind,
    Seized in day.

    Oh, the fragile flowers grow.
    Watch the play!
    Fragile flowers in beauty sun.
    Smell the scent.
    Rooting deep in LEAVES, they thrive,
    Feel the bent.
    Petals fall, the flowers fail,
    Relief or went?
    Redeem the clay, her flowers seed,
    Life extent.
    In childhood blooms, there flowers bud,
    Sun comes fast.
    Broken wind, breaks air and PIECE
    How will they last?

My Heart Speaks to You


What can I create or build or shape,
What gift or jewels can I bring?
How soft can I touch or tender words,
To quiet scorched memory's sting.

We looked and we shared, and kisses we made,
Embraced by love entwined.
I knew your love, but then to doubt—
True hearts bosomed cries and binds.

Much simply put in words so few,
Teared voicing speaks my heart.
I wronged your love and wounded souls,
And I fear the span, the part.

When bridges build and travel joined,
Can reach your heart's far shores,
I will find dance, and sing new songs,
When God, new life, restores.

    Quiet Tears

    They have no sound, when falling down,
    To hit the seams of light.
    They fall around, seem upside down,
    And wrench my soul in flight.

    I call to you, find some to do,
    Of things just left inside.
    It still feels hurt of some strange worth,
    But sound, itself, has died.

    Can things undone and time so long
    Tend wounds on boyish holes?
    Will waves retreat and dry hurt's feet,
    Attend and mend my soul?

    I hear you, Dad, and feel the sad,
    Of times and questions lost.
    Your voice hits deep and comes replete,
    Makes questions of parents' cost.

    I need you now, to show, tell how,
    These things, my insides out.
    Help sell the pain, stop, hold the drain,
    Arrest and traverse mount.

    I hold my hand and hope to plan,
    To make these things that bend.
    Come time, and die, and time's new eye,
    I'll have my Dad again.

    So tell me, Dad, of what you had,
    Was I of special note?
    Can pride constrain or striving vain,
    Have stood with me to gloat?

    My days will past, I'll never last,
    To have and make time again.
    This way will end, time never has
    'nough answers to next, begin.

Teach Me

I am a difficult animal to understand. I am a man. I am strong, proud, assured, but lacking in so much. I lack that part, that piece, that skill that is not perfected in me until I am willing to give it totally away—my love, myself. "Me," that selfish being of oneness, is at the very core of my being, but it yearns for something it does not know or understand. It just knows. Meanwhile, I have guarded "me" and protected him from injury and wounds that I experience (both real and imagined). The layers are deep and made solid by my years—years that have seen trauma and failure. I've told myself that I treasure "me" and swear an allegiance to protect "me" at all cost. However, "me" cannot remain a prisoner. That is not His design or intent and yet, at times I trouble my own soul with my fierce tenacity of will that keeps "me" to myself.

If I continue cloistered by my stubbornness, I will forever be alone and incomplete unless I give "me" away and love more than myself.

What I Learned Today

If all the world told me that they love me, it is of little worth because the most meaningful love of me has diminished ... mine. I've got to find it, feel it, and know it ...

Then, my eyes caught purchase of a view ...

    I Need to Ask You Something
    (for Irene)

    I need to ask you something, Momma.
      How do I get hands like yours?
        Hands that touch and try to heal,
        Hands that hold and always feel,
        Hands that help and wipe the tears,
        Hands that cradled, oh, the years.
      How do I get hands like yours?

    I need to ask you something, Momma.
      How do I get eyes like yours?
        Eyes that saw these treasures in time,
        Eyes that see the children in prime,
        Eyes that told in growing old,
        Eyes that told their journeyed souls.
      How do I get eyes like yours?

    I need to ask you something, Momma.
      How do I get ears like yours?
        Ears that hear of future winds,
        Ears that know things come again,
        Ears that listen when babies pine,
        Ears that blended the joys of time.
      How do I get ears like yours?

    I need to ask you something, Momma.
      How do I get a nose like yours?
        A nose that sensed things out of place,
        A nose that knew a child's disgrace,
        A nose that bore the smells of youth,
        A nose appreciated, a nose of use.
      How do I get a nose like yours?

    I need to ask you something, Momma.
      How do I get a tongue like yours?
        A tongue that knew and sought to taste,
        A tongue that tried and found a place,
        A tongue that stilled, held kept and kept quiet,
        A tongue that laughs, its constant diet.
      How do I get a tongue like yours?

    And finally, Momma, I need to ask you something.
        Who did you see to trust in Jesus?
        How did you speak and hear from God?
        Where were you when he touched your purpose?
        What were the tastes on this road you've trod?

    Momma,
        When time calls and holds my hand,
        I hope I can go, I hope I can stand.
        My joy, my hope, my heart's desire,
        To sense and act as you've inspired.


    I Dreamed of You

    I saw my children standing, shoulders high and eyes in focus.
    Justice was in their mouths and at their feet, lay oppression docile.
    They were master of no man, only servants of God-inspired
    destinies.
    These strong children of mine suffered the crucible, the chastening
    of discipline, and now understood wisdom.
    Knowledge was their captive.
    These strong children of mine had not perfect skin or soft
    brows.
    Their hands were not tender and their gaits were not feeble.
    They had companioned pain and trial and had suckled at breast
    made bitter, yet they grew strong.
    Their perfection born of endurance and zeal made complete in
    the fire.
    Their compassionate embrace arrived in knowing tears and
    melding its salt into their souls.

I Wish for You
(for Kelse)

Of filled days, health, wealth, and much joy,
Sincerest of feelings with first kiss from a boy.
A doll, bouncing puppies, you treasured as toys.
Someday, baby's face, smiled, pleasured and coy.

With you I have treasure, wealth, health, and pure joy.
A baby no longer, eyes widened and coy,
God's grace gave you dollies and puppies, your toys.
I look, long, and wonder what man grows your boy.

Hard times, yes, are fleeting and good times give pause,
They both give us memories and mark roads with cause.
Time tells us how life was, and light's subtle clause,
No rerun, no replay, no challenge life's flaws.

So hear my appeal, sweet, and mold questions too.
How long will you live and what build you your view?
Of things that will falter, wear down and change hue?
Find love in your treasure; you'll always be new.

    In the light

    In the light,
        the obvious is apparent
        the reflections are clear
        the sounds are distinct
        and the languages are formed and articulated

    In the light,
        your eyes sing in celebration
        your lips press with urgency
        your ears time your pulse
        and your unrehearsed moves respond from memory

    In the light,
        I kiss, hold, and squeeze your heart
        I fondle, cajole, and invite your passions
        I cradle, caress, and captivate your seasons
        and I speak words silently into your being

    In the light,
        we find ourselves and learn love
        we sought pleasures and fought our souls
        we look to places and wonder their direction
        and we accept the peace of passing time


    the Cost of a Kiss

    What lingers on your tongue
    And blushes your cheeks?
    Turning and tingeing,
    Finding flesh to make red.

    Lips that purse, then open,
    Receiving and accepting
    Time and tenderness
    And warmth that floods.

    In exchange for passions,
    Wanton lust or real,
    Questions cost, its investment
    Made in heart's payments.

    Consider now, the value,
    The cost and its expense.
    Timed-treasured moments
    Spent and not returned.

    A kiss not complete
    Love enjoined in passion
    Requite with touch and taste
    Make joy its attending.

    Touch my heart, as I
    Feel tensions released and more.
    Finish the lush union
    Join fervor and fever.

    Kiss and cost for nothing.
    No payment could find
    Tongued deeply half rhythms
    Cost could doubt complete.


    Ask Me (for Beautiful)

    Ask me why I love you
    And I will tell your eyes
    Of visions and journeys seen
    And hope that tells the prize

    Ask me why I love you
    And I will take your hand
    Hold gently to my breast
    Feel heart that beats the plan

    Ask me why I love you
    And I will hold you near
    Speak volumes in fragrant words
    With kisses upon your ear

    Ask me why I love you
    And I will bring you time
    As witness and our disciple
    Our treasure possessed in rhyme

    Ask me why I love you
    And I will reach to God
    Find way and battle thwarted
    Our footfalls still to trod

    Ask me why I love you
    And I will wipe your tears
    Bear heart and soul with passion
    Our mind, without its fears

    Ask me why I love you
    Simply put, love calls to me
    A life without you, empty
    Fulfilled with you, are we

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Write the Vision: A Journey to Forgiveness in Poems and Other Celebrationsby Benjamin Edgar Williams Copyright © 2012 by Benjamin Edgar Williams. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.