Saturday, December 31, 2011

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Pillow Talk omg my joint.

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Friday, December 23, 2011

Return Trip by Lepadah

Crossing the Boulevard
snap syncopated electric steps
hands descending into a cast fibula
smarted out black pea coats

sketches of Tel Aviv
and the iridescent eyes of the Dead Sea
your narrated lucency
vision of mortal Gods, Conquerors, Kings and a madman
imbathe in her abundance

aspiring fortune opportunity
traveled; upon your return
delighted in your dramatics

please explain once again
for the bells toll to hear
imported tnflection
suffering through idiom's

I'll be first before the Moth
shelled legs, lingering
instigating a continued jubilee

this evening will be
full of written, morpheme words
spoken/unspoken thoughts
ebbing future erotic struggles
remove the pen . . . unleash the sword

© 2011 Lepadah

Wild Flower By New Birth A song for M. Pryce praying for her.

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Thursday, December 22, 2011

Waxpoetics Latin Issue Bravo!

Waxpoetics has done it again!!! The Latin edition is filled with so much Sazon I'm salivating gobbling every atom of musical dope, lyrical, singing genius it is RIDICULOUS. Wax is chock-full of articles it is a must read if you don't know now you know. The vibraphonist extraordinaire Cal Tjader, Al Santiago and the birth of the Alegre All Stars and the pie'ce de re'sistance Afro- Cuban Evolution my man Eddie Palmieri musicality so spectacular I had to dig in the crate dust off Palmieri's "Mozambique" a gift from my ex hehe.
Please read the article "Righteous Struggle" . . . listen I'm going to let the music speak for itself. Peace go out and get your issue of Waxpoetics for yourself or someone you know who digs this beautiful musical knowledge. Peace Lepadah

Eddie Palmieri y Ismael Quintana - Cinturita - Music Video

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Monday, December 19, 2011

About Artist Lepadah (Per Se)


About the author Lepadah
Words. Universally expanding outward beyond known possibilities. Spatial sporadic coagulations forming paratactic fragments. A collective archetypal inheritance expounds in the form of connected notions.
An equal expansion within. Unconscious forces seeking wholeness—the mystery of soul. Waves of resonance vibrate inward where emphasis and essence and imagination infinitely flow.
An artist’s self-sculpted personified effigy—words—shape into a finely contoured poet. Congregating episteme, a curious questioning method of elenchus seeks resolutions, as the tightrope walker balances on the high wire between truth and belief, between calm and chaos, between reality and illusion…
Between the lines, a marinating alphabet soup of thought. Provoking pieces of nourishment. Spoken and unspoken images merge into discovery of repertoire as an ensemble waits in anticipation of dramatic performance, in other words, performance poetry, per se.
In lyrical soliloquy, a presentation of balanced, heart-felt harmony—prose and poetry—in other words…Le Per se.

State of Being (for Lepadahxxx) Mapovia

Poems for Comment

State of Being (for Lepadahxxx)

From: mapovia (mapovia)
Last Visit: 11:26 AM
Posts: 7705

To: All
Posted: Dec 18 11 08:32 PM
58048.1 (1 of 3)

You pick the paints to color me.
Black and blue are fine by me.
I'm partial to the darker hues.

White wash me if you will.
It will not change who or what I am.
I am mud, I am saffron.  I'm also coral reef.

Mock me, curse me.  So many times
you've spat on me, I'm numb to adversity..
Towards adversity  I feel a little fondness, in fact.

Whatever you do, don't pretend to love me
and then at random despise my race and culture.
I've already warned you who and what I am.

I am lowly not because it is my station. For love of art,
I dress the part. Handle me with caution, then.
I might be your siren of destruction

For those who insist to know what I'm about,
I'm a woman of a thousand faces.  Some Calypso,
a few Medusa.

I deride royal titles.Pompous titles I will bring to naught.
True nobility is of heart and mind,
and of temper most of all


Saturday, December 17, 2011

Frankie Lymon - Goody Goody (Live)

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Wednesday, December 14, 2011

In memory of Autumn Pascal Pryce

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To Autumn Pascal Pryce we will never forget our precious angel. Missing you every second, minute, hour and days.

Love Mother

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Holiday and Memories from Editor Friend and Lepadah

Monday, December 12, 2011 10:42 PM


"Larry Mayfield"

"Lydia Percy"


When Christmas seemed to have more meaning. That holiday season kind of meaning. Everyone in a good mood, for no particular reason. Mom and Dad working together for the family. Let's see...we will go to my grandmother's house whatever day the kinfolks come to town and work the rest in as it happens. I loved my grandmother."Mama" we all called her. Lived to be 99--what an inspiration. Never complained. Always glad to see everyone. All those old stories resurfacing, again. The food. That's what it is all about. Turkey, dressing, yams, mashed potatoes, corn, green beans, fresh rolls, iced tea. And dessert. Pies of all kinds: several pecan pies, lemon chess, chocolate, coconut, mince meat, pumpkin... And other snacks: fudge, chocolate chip cookies, peanut brittle, and divinity. Did I forget anything? probably...
Christmas at my parents house on Christmas Eve. As a kid, the presents were few, but meaningful. There would always be some kind of kid toy I wanted, and didnt really expect, but it was always there. And when the presents ran out, there was always one more for the little kid that came out of hiding, me for many years, until another little kid took my place. That last present would give me tears, knowing we didnt really have enough money for that one extra present.
My generation grew up and had our own kids, as the old ones passed on: my dad, my grandmother "Mama," and all those who I now wish were there again to bring their specialty food and big smiles for the occasion. Christmas and a family reunion all in one.
Had my own kids, same thing, work in all the traveling to each others' houses to see each side of the family. Christmas morning. My kids faces, bright and shiney and ready to dive in all the presents. The family dwindled, almost down to nothing compared to... I miss my Aunt Vieta's mince meat pie, amd Mama's pecan pie, And now Mom is too old and frail to fix those little extras like divinity.
I miss them all: Uncles: Chuck, Jud, Cecil, Charlie, Ira... Aunts: Vieta, Evelyn, Thelma, Vivian... Several of my generation now gone, and I am the youngest of 16 of that generation. My dad, Forrest, and Mama (Birdie) I miss the most, though I carry them inside.
The divorce separated me from Christmas more than expected. The kids grew up, moved away. Last year it was just me and Mom, like this year at Thanksgiving. No decorations anymore. They are boxed up, unused.
My son coming to town. He wants to see his grandmother, Memaw to him. The once bright family eyes of the past, having been dimmed for several years, flickered at the thought of... One phone call led to another, Looks like 15 at last count. Two pecan pies, one pumpkin, and one mince meat coming to the party so far. And I have the chore of cooking the ham and turkey and dressing, well actually it will be my 89 year old Mom telling me what to do. She's a little frail these days, but wants to see everyone just in case it it her last time.
I dont know how to cook, but I do know how to eat. And I really like sharing those old stories, again.


Emma's chicken dumpling the upset stomach and Holiday Memories

When i was little my mama Emma's chicken dumpling soup would stop the bellyaches making the world a better place to be.
I scamper down the basement steps into the large kitchen frantically sifting through the drawer creating a mesh march of mess searching for the biggest ladle to scoop out mama's homemade dumplings swimming around in the rich yellow broth from the fowl. Eating my portion right out the large cooker. This eased all that bother. Mama knew I was busy ripping off all the dumplings leaving just the chicken for everyone else. Sure enough comfort a skinny little pig tailed girl a big know "I'm special!" These are treasured memories loving the bitter and sweet taste of growing up Lydia. I missed those days dancing with dad on his Friday's off, being our personal chef throwing a family party just because. Crank up the stereo throw on King Curtis pour the Johnny Walker Black time to set the table. A Friday night fish fry. I can still smell the food, hear the laughter and music. Even though Holiday's were hectic ours was always full of love, patience and understanding the character's that made up this family. . .

Peace Lepadah

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Atlantic slave trade - Respect history that's whats up.

Venus Hottentot sister's love your body


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kin to good dreams
vivid nightmares in-between
indulgent scenes
espy thespians

clipping sapor
soaked bamboo sticks
coco mango a merge supreme
neighborly smells
of fried fish, plantains, rice and beans

seems my dress is so corny
as one sit adroit trying to fit in
licking at the hips of coolness
a stiff shot of something lusty
will settle the tightness of configuration

loosen lips sedate the linguist
to issue just as nature would have
one to belong
innate talent to capture dwindling luminaries

trend edge snatch up by corporations
sold back to the hood
with stamps of their own
she survives rising up

towering heights with steel roots
her horns spitting accents
marinating in each sonnet I continue to toss at the wind
assemble Venus Hottentot descendants
to revelation dance

I love you . . . Brooklyn
cotton to your warm living room of old illegal joints
someplace downtown brown
shake shimmy; cutting capers in no drawers

unraveling her apron for spring
colorful trestle majestically solid
all dressed up readying for new folks
of many countries

I refuse to leave in this way
whispering i must stay

for the last dance

© 2011 Lepadah

Diego Rivera Birthday, Mumia Win and the movie The Help

Happy Birthday Diego Rivera! One of my favorite muralist/artist would have been 125 this December 8th 2011. FYI please go see this wonderful exhibit at the MOMA and experience the visual brilliance of this Artist.

The Leonard Lopate Show
Diego Rivera's Murals at MoMA

Curator Leah Dickerman discusses the murals and career of Diego Rivera. “Diego Rivera: Murals for the Museum of Modern Art” is on view at MoMA through May 14. The exhibition features murals, which are up to six feet by eight feet in size and weigh as much as 1,000 pounds, made of frescoed plaster, concrete, and steel. There are also three working drawings, a “portable mural” made in 1930, and smaller prints, watercolors, and drawings.


Please note Mumia's win as noted after breaking news yesterday and his 30 years of persistent appeals, prosecutors rule out execution of Mumia Abu-Jamal. a bittersweet victory as stated in this weeks Amsterdam News and this discussion on WBAI.


Recently viewed the movie "The Help." A deeply moving and vibrant movie I watched with my son last night. Awakening emotions exposing tears which ran without my realization. The immense power of the depiction during this pivotal period still resonance in the forum of our minds feeling the deep injustice of humankind towards another human. I strongly urge everyone no matter what color to view this film.

Peace Lepadah

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Brooklyn II by Lepadah

Brooklyn II

kin to good dreams
vivid nightmares in-between
indulgent scenes
espy thespians

clipping sapor
soaked bamboo sticks
coco mango a merge supreme
neighborly smells
of fried fish, plantains, rice and beans

seems my dress is so corny
as one sit adroit trying to fit in
licking at the hips of coolness
a stiff shot of something lusty
will settle the tightness of configuration

loosen lips sedate the linguist
to issue just as nature would have
one to belong
innate talent to capture dwindling luminaries

trend edge snatch up by corporations
sold back to the hood
with stamps of their own
she survives rising up

towering heights with steel roots
her horns spitting accents
marinating in each sonnet I continue to toss at the wind
assemble Venus Hottentot descendants
to revelation dance

I love you . . . Brooklyn
cotton to your warm living room of old illegal joints
someplace downtown brown
shake shimmy; cutting capers in no drawers

unraveling her apron for spring
colorful trestle majestically solid
all dressed up readying for new folks
of many countries

I refuse to leave in this way
whispering i must stay

for the last dance

© 2011 Lepadah

Poems for Comment poetry
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Brooklyn II

From: mapovia (mapovia)
Last Visit: 12:58 PM
Posts: 7690

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Dec 12 11 12:59 PM

I perceive aristocracy in your picture. Your poetry is in that accordance.


Dec 15, 2011 06:33:41 AM

The following message was sent to you by pollyfish15 while viewing
your Member Profile:

Hello lepadahxxx, ;D

I'll try to be brief. I was perusing writing, as I often like to do on various forums and I ran across your work on I run a writing website and I was hoping you might
want to lend a critical eye and post some of your works there. Our site is just starting, only 60 or so active members, and our mission is to promote a friendly learning environment that fosters
growth and challenges writers to grow as artists. We want to attract the best quality of writer we can, so our only ad campaign is by personal invitation. I've read a couple of your posts and thought
they were intriguing, particularly 'Brooklyn II'(simply amazing) amazing), and was wondering if you might want to contribute some of your work and expertise to a small member-friendly start-up. (In
your spare time, I by no means wish to steal your talents away from your usual posting grounds.)

There are also monthly contests with prize money attached if that sort of thing floats your boat. and I think we could really benefit from your guidance.


Sunday, December 4, 2011

Lepadah @ Rockefeller Center on the way to Bk BBQ's


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Brooklyn I Love You!!!!! So much soul flavor it's ridiculous.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Jade Eyed Jewel By Lepadah

Vision of an one eyed jewel
token cloak views
stroke brushing a broad spectrum
up out of the bowel earth's rectum
eyes abandoned sight
a genius to light
titubate search thus . . .
daedal elemental
stem absolute mental
potentiality endless omens
flexing cerebral cortex
awake while sleep and never dead
drowned in bold perimeters
autograph the universe with words

© 2011 Lepadah


To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Dec 05 11 10:02 AM

I like poems that make me think - and love the end line.  It has a meter that fits very well with the ideas, which had me do a bit of research.  Do you mean Daedalus - father of Icarus?


Note to Sister Sun Light Epiphany Castro

I knew the inner energy was true within you. I recently viewed your latest video blog and to my surprise to find out you have issues with your vision. You are not alone just like our Sister genius writer Alice Walker lost the sight in one eye; yet is one of the prolific writer's of our time. So peculiar you mentioned this I found myself smiling because I too have a condition with my vision as well (myopia) so like us all you Sister/Queen are a visionary jewel able to view the broader spectrum of the universe daring to dwell mentally where no one else dares, intellectually outside the perimeters. Acute sense of our purpose in this world. Your eyes giving for sight but the mind holding the genius to light. Enjoy the specialness. A bless recovery after surgery Sister.

Peace Lepadah

Body & Soul Tony Bennett and Amy Winehouse

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Thursday, December 1, 2011

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Lepadah after the Drum March OWS


My Thursday, Friday, Saturday spent with family and friends. Some sane, some not you know how the Holiday's can bring out the Ebony hillbillies, country cousins, snobs, Bebe kids and the our elders who totally monopolize the day with complaints. But . . . I must admit the evening began with a hella smoke. Started with sprucing up the house, poured a nice big goblet (lol) of wine, proceeded to prep for Thursday. Completed all elements there of and started the ritual chopping of collards; washed, ready for the pot tada! stop! not that simple sister. Went to a neighbor for a meshed cook off, blew a little, drank some more wine and douse two ibuprofen. Returning to the nest to finished the collards which were I thought simmering on the stove. I don't remember how I managed to undress throw a sheet over the sofa and TKO. Well, I did just that forgetting all about the Holiday greens until I heard my name in the distance and the thumping at the door downstairs. Wow! this was a Cheech & Chong "Smokin" moment; as I woke slightly from a serious daze. Nonchalantly flounced to the kitchen turning the fire off and proceeded to walk in a float downstairs opening the door to witness security and a neighbor standing before me. Security "Is everything alright Miss?" without hesitation responded "of course, I'm just cooking." Closing the door and returning to my now burnt greens and a very smokey house. Very please with the final turn of events ended in a meticulously maintain Kente decorated table, fresh uprooted Autumn flowers from the front yard no money spent . . . replacing the collards for brussels sprouts. Cleaned the house thoroughly, lighting scented Apple/Cinnamon candles blending with the kitchen aromas of sage, thyme and other spices. A party of five scheduled to arrive just enough for my management and it was a great day after all. As Jazz filtered through out my important guest my daughter home for the Holiday. Thanksgiving is everyday one is able to witness another breath of life. Unfortunately this day was not such with all the violent events of our past which many history books have blatantly lied about. But I will reserve comment at point for further discussion another time.

Friday a day spent with my daughter. We made our way down to Zuccotti Park participating in the Drum March with Queen Mother and the OWS Protesters. Once again NYPD imposing presence was evident but "Power to the People." Big props for Occupy Oakland holding it down strong. Drop verses and did some taping over the weekend as well.

Peace all Lepadah

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

A Sunday, Sunday Kind of Day by Lepadah

It was one of those days
it was Saturday, no Sunday
walked the upper West side
but this time feeling very fine

stack steam streaming
from portholes in the street
giant jingle bells
spy the unlit Rockefeller Center Christmas tree

Saturday night fever strut
relaxing back on the axis
clock time hours past midnight
and I don't care
if dawn beats me to the door

only to be found standing naked
listening to water raining over lyrical jibber jabber
nothing else matters

with exception to empty drunk stomach's
meet at mama's inn
the distinguished friend
outfitted in jeans, turtle neck a wrapped shawl
mirrored gentlemen jeans, Pendleton spitting out an merino ascot

let's eat, be happy with our behavior
feast bowl of oat's
topped strawberries, blackberries, drizzle honey cream
potatoes pancake dalloped applesauce
one mug of coffee , one cup of coffee

please hold the progression of this day
there would be more to come
plenty of wine heterogeneous abaca

saddling aside
sliding a boney arm across hipbone
a Sunday, Sunday kind of day
there was runs to be made

accessing the PH
once locked into his world
"kiss me."

perfecto! drinks please . .. .
canvas rare Copenhagen, original Piccaso's
darlings strewn about
mad definition of purposeful clutter

the white room intensely lit
she straddle one leg
falling into his thigh
thump upon a baron
knotted cabal

stereophonic sounds Billie singing "My Yiddishe Mama."
one dark paranoia
kept eying the door
quick move slight of noise
satisfied answering her queries

no worry; we read Celine
pouring profusely over button accessory
drooling rage of wild laughter
improvising, reenacting vivid imagery

entrust book
as gift to a writer worth the salt
yes, yes dear one . .. .
fondle his hydroponic hands

subsequent steps akin to Siamese twins
"down for a ride."
drop to the other side
hang muse Gumi

his anatomizing anomaly of body head, hydro red
master kush, kush kush, bud and bubba
a serious strain of sour diesel and purple haze

just another Sunday, Sunday kind of day

© 2011 Lepadah

A Sunday, Sunday Kind of Day

From: kingbey (kingbey)
Last Visit: 12:14 PM
Posts: 82

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 23 11 10:45 AM

You go to the most fun places, and hang out with the coolest crowd, this walk was as much fun as the slow ride,  you always got good music, food and refreshments, my belly is full, and I'm feelin good, and had fun wathcing you and your crowd,  nice piece Lepadah.

Poems for Comment
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A Sunday, Sunday Kind of Day

From: 68degrees (68degrees)
Last Visit: Nov-27

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 23 11 09:36 PM

I spent six weeks in Manhattan a number of years ago. Used to walk on the West side from 120th down to Staten Island Ferry almost every day, sometimes twice a day.

I was there again after reading this. Thank you.


Saul Williams a serious Poet


Friday, November 18, 2011

In Other Words by Lepadah

In Other Words

Those piano keys
must be Monk tinkering at the light
awakening the we to early morning rhythms
slipping in-between slats
slit sunshine through his criss cross (pause)
over our souls new arrangements
abstract, architectural syllabus
Alpha to my Omega
you be the creator to our Pyramids
non other . . . than you lover
discover, uncover the principal
sought to walk away
but allow this love to re-lay
in other words . . .
if only for one day; per se
in other words . . . to convey
we are an air of cliche
so far removed from the rest of the world
flown, blown to celestial skies
"hear our love cries"
"hear our love cries"
sway me away
with trembling tambourines
chiming, echoed births of African spirituals
rocking you into tickled ivories, black and white
a micro nucleus burst jollying about
volley inborn; once shaded caliginous
lit by luminous liner notes and current berries
"Alleluia." the cry
balm of Gilead
snatching pearls to tempt reaping acquaintance
I yen for you . . . I yen for you
though the feelings are real
all the words that I say
all the words that I say
could not express how I feel . . .
simply ... could not express how I feel

© 2011 Lepadah


From: cumin (cumin)
Last Visit: 5:21 AM
Posts: 8112

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 18 11 07:29 PM

I have said this before...and I take those words back......this poem from you is now my favourite of all I've read from you.

So many splendid lines.... these ones especially......

"sway me away
with trembling tambourines"

thanks for the pleasure of reading yours.

From: kingbey (kingbey)
Last Visit: Nov-20

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 19 11 12:45 PM


That was a lovely song, and you say words could not express? Well, that was one beautiful instrumental, jazz instrumentals are my favorites, this poem too, I'm gonna go listen to this one again, and who knows, maybe today, per se, I could end up feeling that way. Nice piece Lepadah, nice.

In Other Words . . . Love / Spokenword

From: kingbey (kingbey)
Last Visit: Nov-21
Posts: 71

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 21 11 01:25 PM

Now that's somethin, don't run into too many E.D. fans, ur right, underappreciated, I first got into jazz in the avante garde era, and brothers like him, Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler, not everybody could handle that, I first heard E.D. on I think a Trane album, Trane, Pharoah Sanders, Miles, were(are) favs, but yeah, like ed and monk, I'm jazz fanatic in general, sax in particular, Monk, u know, a monster, haha, that gives me a lot of insight into the way you write, haha, you play that kind of stuff, now I know why I like it so much, so keep playin that stuff, peace

From: 68degrees (68degrees)
Last Visit: Nov-21
Posts: 2723

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Nov 21 11 08:04 PM

Anything that makes that connection to Jazz is okay by me.

I'll bet this sounds terrific being read...

In Other Words . . . Love / Spokenword
Nov 23, 2011 01:52:11 PM

Posted in Poetry
Subject: In Other Words . . . Love / Spokenword

Hi Lepadah, you are really something, I don't know if I've ever seen anything like you, you really blew my mind getting into the music, you done really messed up now (get the stimulants, you know what's up) you've really given me something to babble about now, music(jazz) is probably my deepest and most eduring love, seems like you love it too. About the last thing I ever expected to discuss on a poetry forum was Eric Dolphy, and it led to an enjoyable night of music for me. Really laid me out that you could be into someone like Dolphy, I entered jazz in the "out the box" era, and was so into it, that it took me years to appreciate classic jazz. Trane was the one that got it all started for me, where I first heard Dolphy and Pharoah Sanders. Anyway that's when I hit youtube last night and started with some Dolphy, ur right, one of many unappreciated geniuses around then, had mostly only heard him on bass clarinet accompanying others, at first, and had a couple on vinyl destroyed years ago, and hadn't listened to him in a while.. I don't know how familiar you are with Pharoah Sanders, but that is my man. He was lucky to outlive the others, and to me is one of the most unappreciated of all because he was sorta born in Tranes shadow, but carried on a lot of what the others were doing, like Dolphy, for decades, and I was on cloud nine when I heard one of his cuts that I hadn't heard, or had forgotten, called  "Our Roots Began in Africa" ooooo I love a wide range of stuff, but that, and maybe "(I)Got to have Freedom by Pharoah are what I call my mainline type jams, when I don't have time for the high to creep up ha ha, any way Lepadah you started all this by bring up Dolphy and telling me about your cool collection, so I thought since you are so nice, and so wonderful and kind(buttering u up) that you would share some of your other favorites with me and tell me a couple of cuts that really take you out, you might be turning me onto something I'm not hip to. Any way, I'm not a whole lot into the pilgrim stuff, but have a wonderful day, holiday, and weekend, and please get back when u get time about more on your collection and your ultimate get-off stuff, and thanks for not cussing me out by now, ha ha, peace       Mick ;


Hello Mick,

So glad and appreciative of your comments. Listen I've had a love affair with classic Jazz since I can remember. I grew up listening to my father playing the Blues, jamming to Parker, Mingus, Monk, MIles, Dolphy, Bud Powell, Jazz Messengers, Clark Terry and BLOW DiZZY, Lester Young, baddest drummer ever Chick Webb lol damn the list goes . . . on. Most of which my mother totally disagree with Jazz and Blues being played in the house reference them as junkies hey it is what is. But I would shake at any sound that moved my soul and fell in love with Jazz so bad I could not wait to hit the clubs in the Village and I did. With regards to Pharoah Sanders shit (stop playing) a baddddd jazz man outside the box and when he did Equinox whoa blew me away just like Coltrane take on it but Pharoah took it to a experimental height. These artist were visionaries with a beautiful intelligent twist on music, art and life. My heart belongs to Coltrane's "Acknowledgment", Miles "Bitches Brew", Wow some of the greats I had the privilege of hearing is Roy Hayes which I secretly video taped at the Blue Note. I stumbled upon Art Blakey one lonely night stepped into Sweet Basil and there he was beating the hell out those drums and only four other people in the joint years ago, Clark Terry, Reggie Workman, Dr. Billy Taylor . . . endless. One of the fondest memory was when my father singing Arthur Prysock song "I Worry About You" to me when I was little; I never ever forgot his duplicate voice reverberating in me. Listen enjoy this day off even though my thoughts about Thanksgiving is a misgiving and disillusion. But please enjoy.

Peace Blessing Lepadah

Thank you Lepadah, I am so glad to know you, and that was a journey like I've never experienced, you are so blessed, and are so free with your blessings, enjoy the holiday, that was a musical journey like I have never taken, and I thought I knew some jazz, but damn, my sistah, I bow to you, over there in New York talking about being in places, and seeing people, that I have only known on album covers, WOW! But thanks for taking time to tell me all that, I really, really, enjoyed it, and I'll talk to you soon, peace and love, mick

Cool Like Dat


Tuesday, November 15, 2011

WORDS could not fully express the Luv that I FEEL 4 U 11/17 by Dr Rok | Blog Talk Radio

WORDS could not fully express the Luv that I FEEL 4 U 11/17 by Dr Rok | Blog Talk Radio

Chime into Dr. Roks ... Computer Luv show tonite @ 8pm cst/9pm et ... Topic ... WORDS could never express the Luv I have 4 U ... CoHosted by Poetess Lepadah ... call in # 718.508.9018 ... CU There on the KKMT Radio Network ... @ ...

Monday, November 14, 2011



Tuesday, November 15, 2011 3:19 AM

"Larry Mayfield" Editor/Creative Conscious


About the author Lepadah

Words. Universally expanding outward beyond known possibilities. Spatial sporadic coagulations forming paratactic fragments. A collective archetypal inheritance expounds in the form of connected notions.
An equal expansion within. Unconscious forces seeking wholeness—the mystery of soul. Waves of resonance vibrate inward where emphasis and essence and imagination infinitely flow.
An artist’s self-sculpted personified effigy—words—shape into a finely contoured poet. Congregating episteme, a curious questioning method of elenchus seeks resolutions, just as the tightrope walker balances on the high wire sensually straddling calm and chaos, between truth and belief, encompassing reality and illusion…
Between the lines, a marinating alphabet soup of thought. Provoking pieces of nourishment, a literary tarantula translates. Spoken and unspoken images merge into discovery of repertoire as an ensemble waits in anticipation of dramatic performance, in other words, performance poetry, per se.
In lyrical soliloquy, a presentation of balanced, heart-felt harmony—prose and poetry—in other words…Le Per se.

Pussy Toes Poetry



Hare Krishna






Frida Kahlo love this woman



Couple of all time my fab Artist



Romare Bearden



Beautiful Souls









Friday, November 11, 2011

Arrived at the Court Square Diner around 8:25 am for breakfast and quiet time before work. Looking over my photos I took at ptz building earlier the graffiti writers did a fantastic job on Run DMC Jam Master J. The artist slam hard on this building unbeli

Arrived at the Court Square Diner around 8:25 am for breakfast and quiet time before work. Looking over my photos I took at ptz building earlier the graffiti writers did a fantastic job on Run DMC Jam Master Jay. The artist slam hard on this building unbelievable work from artist all over the world. Finish breakfast peace everyone enjoy the sunshine.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Poor. . .verty, I'm Gonna Put a Face on This by Lepadah

Poverty Put a face on this
finding every corner turning ash burn
tossing bodies out into the lost and found
pushed out impoverished cubbyholes
where not enough is just not enough

I'm gonna put a face on this
we are the proletariats
clash against Philistines
they keep on coming
they keep on pressing
testing how low can you go
before you blow

it's no illusion this deliberate confusion
we're going through
a Biafra right here in America

I'm gonna put a face to this word
poor verty . . . poverty not one race
it's a human thing
an oppress thing; the haves and the have not
it's a condition cause by greed
need to bleed a society

a socioeconomic thing
political, class thing
where children's stomachs are never full
growing growls tattling of hunger

poverty is not fare
neither is welfare
but we all been there; or soon will be

poverty I'm gonna put face to this word
the miserable cycle of revolving doors
shuffling homeless through city shelter's
stratifying us from the rest
label you a loser

I'm gonna put a face on this thing called poverty
starting with me
I may not be the classification A
but I'm certainly B just below
awaiting the threshold

stole some guts
swallowed pride
held onto every bit just to get by
so they called my name
holding back the shame
I discover there was none

collected the check
signature to paper
in hand a benefit card
step to door and own my dignity
went to the nearest supermarket for food to feed my babies

poverty is knowing the elderly
can no longer afford food
where pensions, social security is just not enough
it's just simply not enough

government taxing us to death
foreclosures, irreconcilable debt
so we all gather together
millions disenfranchised
holding hands, sing "We Shall Overcome."
beat the tom tom's

monopolize the dreamer's of Zuccotti Park

Poor verty I'm gonna put a face on it . . .

© 2011 Lepadah

Monday, November 7, 2011

Message to Lover by Lepadah

Message to Lover

Our amaranthine presage
broadcasting Mile's kinda blue
with ancient ambidexterity
she left love waiting
sacrificed in a glacial heart

devoted to our love lie
easy say for an easy lay
pussy is so relevant
"I love you." ah huh . . .
arranged in each one's arms
bestir to noticeable light
bid you some sugar "good bye."

continue to ecstasize this masquerade
earmark distant lover
you are one of many
"did she jest confess?"
excuse the pun
why not go tell em
tell him your true

the night other's held onto your breast
sucking the life out of them leaving one a willow
weeping/bleating in the motor inn

next time tell how she drained that cock
donning it supreme fountain to all life
leaving a string of Blowfly songs; to sing along
right after we both said "I love you."

ah huh . . . go on baby tell em

you know "I love you." ha ha

© 2011 Lepadah

Thursday, November 3, 2011

A Slow Drive By by Lepadah

Apart from tenements, clothes line
stoop side characters
drive by; drive thru
rows of Queen Anne's
Mother, Daughter
Dutch, English tudors
gas lit Harwich Port lampposts
removed replicas from piccadilly circus

attache' full of Woody . . .
organically grown
never expected; well protected
flame to her black and mild cigar
blowing stacks to Toots brilliance
"Breakfast at Tiffany's"
we are so inconspicuous

go ahead babe . . . capture the crescent
ornament in the sky with no string
"amazing!!!" are you high?
let's do that drive by
Eddie's Sweet Shop

drop offs, pick ups
under eggshell hues
this is my friend
a wise guy and one millionaire
she is a poet; a friend of mine
we all laugh
out of our slick corner mouth's
narrow lies; twisted trues

forget Armani suits
he rather wear lee jeans; mountain boots
his Bushmaster AR-15 just in case we have to blow this gig

gather inside Pampas
a round table crowded hot pans shellfish, chicken paella
Argentine beef, oil fused wild mushrooms bedded scalloped smooth potatoes
now we eat, drink wine, pontificate
political rhetoric funding anew revolt
with Wall Street Occupied
under siege by the 99%
there she sits with the 1%

a poor poet
sourcing undercurrents of illegal interest
an evening where money really matters . . .

© 2011 Lepadah

Monday, October 31, 2011

Artist Lepadah Weekend

The weekend was simply interesting and full. . . New York's unexpected snow storm wet, cold and windy for October oh well I dug it. Love wrapping myself my body locking in the heat and venturing out into the day; especially night.
First after all my Saturday errands to the bank, important all the time. After the chaos of the day a visit to my Forest Hills man in my life at present; enjoyed the conversation our usual pontificating and political protest pretty quiet evening in total. Sunday was fast moving with a steady peaceful mood. Happy to spit a little something yesterday on Blog radio and later at the cafe. Drove through Forest Hills Garden checking out the architecture of all the beautiful houses ended our tour at Pampas Argentine Steakhouse great food, wine, black & mild and the conversation was stupendous. Let me not forget the brilliant music of Toots Thielemas please note everyone this CD is on my wish list.

Peace Lepadah

Medical Apartheid Part 1

Check out this video on YouTube:


Medical Apartheid by Harriet A. Washington « Commentary Magazine

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Monday, October 24, 2011

The God of Pyramids by Obatala

The God of Pyramids (oba)

I am a god
living in some
orgasmic paradise
where the night crawls
into new midnight where
the corners of my skin
creeps into the breaks
between my body when you
are away, just, just a little,
a little out of reach. I am
the god who tucks all lovers
into bed leading them into deeper
embraces. I am the god of a billion
laughs who presses each tear away from
all dreamer's doors. When you ask for my
guidance fold your little hands into the
shadows of a pyramid that hides the lust
of my need to taste you now now God
now now...

Obatala. . . poet, my friend, mentor and brother to the street submitted by Lepadah

Thanksgiving Dinner

Thanksgiving Dinner

Another Day in the Park

A day in the park Washington Square with Maulene. Representing to the fullest natural Afro and natural hair dress in our black attire ready for the day events. Maul a born vegetarian missing her favorite Hare Krishna veggie spot on the lower East side of the village substitute meal at Vegetarian Paradise on West 4th. Ok I'm beginning to see the light of eating delicious food without eating flesh. Still suffering withdrawals of a thick Porterhouse on the grill but this day I ate potatoes with cheese and had a satisfying cup of coffee. Trying to make our way up to 14th street Union Square Rally after a diversion intentional with incorrect info. You know I think all matters concerning the mass are a conspiracy. Don't you all take me so literal. After a wonderful sunny fall day in the Village we hit the subway and purposefully missed our train back to Queens listening to the funkiest drummer's in the subway. "Listen to the drummer's beat . . .

Peace Lepadah

Friday, October 21, 2011

A Writer's night out at The Parsons Ale House Pool Time

Last night after work had me some Fat Bastard Chardonnay and played pool @ Parsons Ale House. Reminisce with Ronnie, Ricky and brother about Studio 54 and Stratton and promise to try Sweet Bitch next time.

Peace Lepadah

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Thoughts, Commentary on Gaddafi and United States Involvement

My prayers for the world. Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi dead. Question for America now what? Greed is a bitch. Take care of America first before you go seeking property of others.

World Love and Peace

US involvement in Libya saves lives
Originally Published: 03/29/11 8:04pm |Modified: 03/29/11 8:05pm | 8 comments

The American involvement in the international intervention in Libya is drawing a lot of negative attention. A Gallup Poll conducted last monday found only 47 percent of Americans approve of the military role the U.S. is playing in the campaign; 37 percent flat out disapprove.

This is the lowest approval rating Gallup has reported for any American military action in the last 30 years, going back to President Ronald Reagan’s jaunt into Grenada in 1983. In contrast, the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq had 90 percent and 76 percent approval ratings, respectively.

More Americans should approve of the military action against Libya. The intervention is the closest thing to a “humanitarian war” the U.S. has participated in for almost its entire history. Here we have a clear-cut case of a maniacal dictator carrying out a violent, systematic military campaign against his own people.

I understand there are material (read: oil) concerns for the nations taking part in the intervention — more so the European nations than the U.S. However, the existence of material concerns for the intervention, even as primary or secondary motivators, should not make us ignore the positive effects of the bombing campaign.

Muammar Gaddafi’s forces, which had been busying themselves lobbing shells indiscriminately into rebel-held towns — killing at least 8,000 people according to the transitional government in Benghazi — have been stopped.

The airstrikes and missile attacks have helped negate Gaddafi’s technological and equipment advantages over the rebels, paving the way for a successful drive west by the rebels.

As of Sunday morning, there was news the rebels had retaken the key cities of al-Brega and Ras Lanuf — providing observable evidence of just what the United Nations, or U.N./NATO intervention is enabling.

As it stands now, the intervention appears to be working. We can look to a previous intervention (and lack thereof) for guidance about what to do in Libya.

In the 1990s, as Yugoslavia was falling apart and the Balkans degenerated into a bedlam of ethnic cleansing and massacres, NATO and the U.N. stood by hemming and hawing at the corpses piling up on their doorstep.

The four-year siege of Sarajevo tragically represents the length and magnitude of the region’s suffering. The conflict in the former Yugoslavia was extended unnecessarily by the international community’s inaction; the mass graves and scorched villages remain as silent monuments to this fact.

When powerful nations finally got involved in 1995 with an extensive bombing campaign against Bosnian Serb forces, the military capability of the Serb forces was reduced significantly and the conflict came to a conclusion soon after.

Although the agreements and divisions following the intervention are deserving of criticism, the events in Yugoslavia have shown us decisive military action against genocidal and repressive forces can be successful, at least in the short term.

There is such a thing as the right side in a war. That side is the human side — that which protects innocent people and fights for liberty and justice. Even if these ends are side effects of a materially motivated act, they still are good. It is the obligation of powerful nations to protect the people who are being repressed and murdered by their leaders.

What the intervening countries need to concern themselves with is keeping up the campaign, lessening or widening the scope of the intervention as needed and allowing what happens in Libya to remain natural and endogenous.

Last Saturday, I attended a discussion on the events in Egypt and the Middle East. Eventually, the discussion turned to the Libyan intervention. Juan Cole, a professor of history from the University of Michigan, was one of the speakers.

Although he was referring specifically to hesitance about the intervention in the minds of leftists, I think one thing he said can be applied more broadly. He said we must not let our aversion to imperialism — and seeing all Western military action as such — blind us to the humanitarian potential of the intervention in Libya.

I hope my fellow Americans will not ignore the positive potential in the Libyan intervention if it is carried out properly.

Matt Korovesis is a State News guest columnist and a political science and Russian senior. Reach him at

My question is Libya's new government better for the people and what is the future of Libya's interaction with the United States? I want to know. . .
How are we the United States of America able to mandate, maintain guidance over foreign countries when America is in dire straits. Poverty, Racism, Unemployment and will the rallies enlightened the politicians to change government that currently exist.


Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Banished American Ethnic Cleansings Independent Lens

The Making Of  The Filmmaker Filmmaker Statement Film Credits
Map Harrison, Arkansas Forsyth County, Georgia Pierce City, Missouri
The Browns The Stricklands

Forsyth County, Georgia
"There were 1,098 blacks living there in 1912. Within a matter of months, it had dropped to 30. It's the largest racial cleansing in America that I know of."
—Cox Newspapers reporter Elliot Jaspin

In the early 1900s, there were more than 1,000 African Americans in Forsyth County, Georgia, comprising 10 percent of the population. But in 1912, whites violently expelled all black residents from the county. Today, Forsyth County is home to about 150,000 people, more than 95 percent of them white.

In January 1987, a white martial arts instructor in Forsyth County organized a brotherhood march in honor of the first federal holiday honoring Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and with the intent of countering the area’s racist image. But en route to the event a bus full of marchers was assaulted by a crowd of white supremacists chanting racial slurs and throwing rocks and bottles. In danger of physical harm, the marchers turned back.

Two weeks later, a much larger march involving 20,000 civil rights activists and supporters from across the country headed back to the county in protest. An estimated 5,000 counter-demonstrators also showed up. This large demonstration cost Forsyth County approximately $670,000 in police overtime, angering many local taxpayers who were unhappy at having to foot the bill for what they saw as outside agitators. The town subsequently levied large parade permit fees to discourage future demonstrations, but that effort was disallowed by the U.S. Supreme Court in Forsyth County, Georgia v. The Nationalist Movement, 1992.

These events brought national media attention to the area. News crews and The Oprah Winfrey Show descended on Forsyth County to investigate. The governor set up a biracial commission to try to heal the racial rift, with little success, and a legal team began to assemble a lawsuit on behalf of the descendants of the black families expelled in 1912. While no suit was filed in the end, the team gathered compelling personal stories and hard evidence of widespread land loss.

Adverse Possession

Building on this evidence, Cox Newspapers reporter Elliot Jaspin was inspired to trace land deeds and tax rolls back to 1912. He found further proof that the majority of the property owned by the banished African Americans was never sold, but instead taken by their white neighbors. Called adverse possession, this process is partly statutory and partly common law, and involves the legal acquisition of a title to a property without having to pay for it. In the case of the land in Forsyth County, white residents simply held the property belonging to black residents following their banishment. In the state of Georgia, the period of adverse possession is seven years. After this period of time, whites legally owned the land.

White title attorneys such as Phil Bettis plead ignorance regarding the appropriation of black-owned land, but some descendants of these black families have declared that the property is rightfully theirs. With missing title transfers and deeds of sale between former black residents and current white property owners are often missing; therefore, returning the land in Forsyth County to the descendants of its rightful owners remains a controversial and legal challenge.

Banished American Ethnic Cleansing's


Thursday, October 13, 2011

Trouble by Lepadah

Rising aside light of God
his sunshine
troubles along the way
force one to brave this time alone

they belong to me and only to me they belong
showing up the void of notice
electricity turned off; i'll wait for turn on
phone shut; wait for the tone
and the sound of the Beep!

but the eviction
holds one to tremble in entirety
wandering, walking for days
careless through one's fathom the way
pirouette breath complicate urgency

waited until the conductor keys
and the battering door
shaken into brisk ambiguity
neither lover, man, woman or child

them mine; all mine
only time will achieve amenity
occupancy of this fall descending
a dead leaf to concrete

chasing wonderment of prosperous Ivies
fissure between bricks
of subsidized houses oppressed

acorn's sequentiality
tarries strange baldness of Autumn's gray days
brim sorrowed nucleus with aimless beats
pursuit of fine chronology

them troubles belong to me
cast in iron and everlasting burdens . . .
ferry a lifetime

ode to forgone ghettoes
my real love of trashed streets
it's familiar retreat burrowed in graffiti blocks
my sweet young callousness
sorry I ever left you for change

© 2011 Lepadah

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

I Love Waxpoetic

The subway ride to work was void of anything or anyone. I sat ravished by my copy of Waxpoetics featuring articles on Theophilus London, Gil Scott and Nina Simone just a few delightful reads. So I snatch this from the Nina Simone article which I love. She is truly an inspiration. A quote by Lorraine Hansberry's . . . "Let no Negro artist who thinks himself deserving of the title take pen to paper--or, for that matter, body to dance or voice to speech or song-- if in doing so the content of that which he present or performs suggests to the nations of the world that our people do not yet languish under privation and hatred and brutality and political oppression in every state. . . The truth demand its own equal." BRAVO!

Listen up everyone go get your copy of Waxpoetics you won't be sorry. This meticulously written magazine is so preciously put together you won't put it down.

Peace Lepadah

Great pics from Wall Street Shut Down

GREAT pictures. Wish I could have been there. Seeing the signs, the peace symbol shirts, reminds me of my youth. I remember my brother was in Viet Nam in 1967 and 1968. I was aboy 13 years old. As time progressed, my record collection started--Led Zeppelin, Beatles, Ike and Tina, Otis Redding, Creedence, The Doors, Dylan being my first that represented the time period. I received a draft notice in 1968, but it was a mistake and they did not take me, I was just 13. The music--Started by seeing concerts by Traffic, Jefferson Airplane, Ten Years After, The Allman Brothers, The Jerry Garcia Band, Neil Young, The Grateful Dead (three times), Crosby Stills Nash and Young, Lightnin Hopkins, Roy buchanan, Willie Nelson. My hair was long, the jeans had patches and wore desert boots, and T shirts, homemade tie-dyes. Outdoor concerts; topless women. We didnt shoot the finger, we said "peace" with our fingers. In junior English, conservative town, I wrote a pro pot essay, and crafted it carefully in such a way, the instructor didnt know what was said, as she made me stand up to read from what she thought was more conservative stemming from a play on words from then TV ads from the times, yet I got all my research from liberal publications, kids snickering as I read a liberal perspective, titled, "Why Do You Think They Call It Pot?" I bucked the system. Every-other-word in conversation was "man." We had our own group of merry pranksters. I was against the war back then, too. The tales I could tell... Those braless, mini-skirted, peace loving times make me want to go back and do it all over again.

By Larry Mayfield

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

East Village Paper, Pen and Pocket Knife by Lepadah

As I walk the streets of the East Village
a bag full of paper, pen and a pocket knife
the tight fright upon the face
obvious I'm in the right place at the wrong time

band of banshees
sadistic meth heads
one possibly could be the next vic
tomorrow's daily news

tonight unhinged
faux fear; I'm really scared
an alley cat timidly stalking the dark side
near the watchmen of life
wait to harvest unsettled bones
rattling along Village streets
marking their tombstones

tether those idling church restroom
his Father shadowing stain glass
removal of the last candle
and here you come mama and papa flower child
without your invitation . . . stoned

© 2011 Lepadah

Poems for Comment

East Village w/Paper, Pen & Pocket Knife

From: GuyBlakeKett (GuyBlakeKett)
Last Visit: 10:20 AM
Posts: 10566

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Oct 05 11 01:23 PM
57730.2 (2 of 2)
Reply to 57730.1

nice work, Lepadah. I type this in a third floor apt overlooking the top of tompkins square park - the sunlit version of the deep night poem you've written here. quite a world out there. you've done it justice.


Monday, October 3, 2011

As I walk the East Village alone with paper , pen and a pocket knife. . . Thinking about you Brother . . .


Soul Kissing a Poem by Lepadah

Soul Kissing like soul music
soul dancing; so entrancing it's so beautiful . . .
you kissing me
I'm soul kissing you

your summer's taste
tongue tobacco laced
steeping docile nips
clip a tease effortlessly godly

braided spirits
nibbling height mounting
corkscrew malleable a thrust
thundering ancient girdles

genuine fatness around
his manly hold under each thick cheek
nice . . . to be held in such a way
where one is lost entering Holy Canaan

one should never hush a murmur
a lofty suspire
or the submarine gullet of lust

cast glory to beat against fury
forgo her rescue
award the stay
as long as this world shall last

© 2011 Lepadah

From: cumin (cumin)
Last Visit: Oct-5
Posts: 7946

To: lepadahxxx
Posted: Oct 05 11 10:00 PM
57721.4 (4 of 4)
Reply to 57721.1

Love this all time favourite of all of far.......


I'm not in this forum constantly, but I have read a few of your poems and like your work, as well as your wide range
of voices.

YEAH You go to my editor/friend nice job man

You Gotta Believe: Playing Catch
Blitz Weekly Story of Interest

Sept. 28, 2011 - By Larry Mayfield -

Baseball has long been a part of my family life—the way it bonds one human being to another. Some of my earliest recollections are of baseball. Sitting at the dinner table, Dad had exclaimed his excitement about the home run race between Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle back in 1961. Those were the first two professional players' names I can remember. To hear Dad talk, baseball was important. Baseball cards became my most important possession as a youngster, as I learned the players, the stats, and the game.
Baseball pictures and memorabilia decorate my living room, and at a glance a memory can be relived. A picture of my dad on a team in the 1940's reminds me of those days when there were area hardball and semi-pro teams scattered about the state. He played shortstop and second baseman. When I was a kid, Dad taught me to catch the ball properly. When playing catch, he would throw the ball very hard, and my body would wince every time the ball hit the glove. "It will stop hurting when you learn to catch the ball right," and he was right—within a couple of days the sting in the mitt lessened from making adjustments on catching the ball. His old 1940's style baseball mitt is still within eye's distance from my writing desk, and once in a while I put it on my hand, pound my fist with an audible smack into the pocket, then place the glove to my face to smell the old leather to remind me of those days when we played catch.

Another picture on the wall reminds me of a time farther back in my family's past. My granddad is in that photograph—taken in 1906 in a barren field near Johnsville, Texas. "That team was hard to beat," he had said when handing me the picture. Just a bunch of country boys, they didn't have uniforms or baseball shoes—only gloves and a couple of bats.

One branch of my family tree built a baseball field—out in the "middle of nowhere" in rural Texas surrounded by pastures with a juniper-covered mountain as a backdrop to centerfield. There is no field like it, excepting maybe the baseball diamond in the movie Field of Dreams. Our family field has a backstop and a surrounding fence. There is a scoreboard and an announcer's booth. There is a flag, and we sing the national anthem before our yearly family-reunion softball game between the Slammers and Bombers. In this family—baseball is important.

As time went forward from the days of playing catch with my dad, I became a player. But first my dues had to be paid by playing neighborhood ball. As a kid there were two yards we used when playing ball, and even though they only look like a front yard to today's passersby, I can still see them as baseball fields—complete with last year's license plates as bases and rules like "automatic outs" and "ghost runners" made up by kids. Those ghost runners are still out there somewhere in time—running those bases with imaginary crowds cheering and witnessing some of the greatest games ever played—games that only ended because of darkness or the call of "suppertime" by Mom. As time passed, my dad continued to prepare me for Little League try-outs by playing catch daily and teaching me how to hit. He made me a special ball for batting practice by drilling a hole in the middle, attaching a long string and swinging the baseball-attached string around his head like a lasso. I would stand nearby and wait for the ball to come around…and swing! With his help, I made the team, and just like anyone who has ever played the game, the memories are permanent. Reflecting on those days, I can still remember standing in the on-deck circle, waiting to become—a hitter.

My love for the game was the initiative needed to raise my hand and volunteer to be a coach when my two sons were ready to be "ballplayers" back when they were kids. We shared that bond for over ten years, as I watched them grow in stature and ability. After those formative years were gone, I found myself helping my oldest son coach a team—a continued realization of the strong bonding effects baseball can have when a person takes a "time out" from life for a game of catch. Upon meeting a close friend's grandson for the first time, he approached with a ball in his hand and threw it to me. It was his way of saying "Hi," and when I asked if he had a bat and glove—excitedly off he went to retrieve both items. Our game of catch created an instant friendship, as he sat next to me later that evening, and we talked about playing catch the next visit.

There is one baseball game from the past that often comes to mind. It was the last game I would coach my oldest son. I wanted to refresh the event time and again to remember the last time he came to bat.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Wednesday, September 28, 2011