Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
Regalia
He was so beautiful in his brown buckskin regalia,
His hair done up in two long braids
Which flowed by his sides.
His eyes were a deep brown, ebony, like glistening beads.
He had seen things that spelled calamity in his life,
He had seen but perhaps, he had shielded his view.
I remember where I was when he came into view,
He sashayed over to me in his loud regalia.
I was by the beaded jewelry vendor. In all my life,
I don't recall seeing such silk-like braids,
Wrapped near the ends with peyote stitch. I examined the beads
While he breezed by my side.
I exhaled as gently as possible while he stood at my side,
Gazing at the jewelry, as I kept him in my view.
All about his finery were intricate beaded
Designs, flowing about his regalia.
His face was worn, old. I loved him. His braids
Brushed against my arm, an imprint in my life.
He must have lived a traditional life.
I got to watch him dance, by the side
Of many dancers. His braids
Danced as well as he. I viewed
Him for hours. His regalia
Flowing with the drums; but I can hear the beads.
That small silent clacking of beads
Jumping off one another. I wish to remain in his life.
I wish him to tell me the stories of his regalia
I wish to stand by his side,
I wished him to view
Me as I majestically saw him; him and those braids.
His beautiful, perfect, black-brown braids,
They scintillate, like glass-cut beads.
When he talked, his voice was soft, but stern. His point of view
Was touching but valid. He elucidated, like his life
Deserved explanation. I could sit by his side,
And just hear his voice, and feel his regalia.
I reach to touch his braids, but I don't. In all my life
I'd never seen such wondrous beads. His eyes look to my side
Where I viewed my trembling hand touching his perfect regalia.
May 16, 2005
Suge
His hair done up in two long braids
Which flowed by his sides.
His eyes were a deep brown, ebony, like glistening beads.
He had seen things that spelled calamity in his life,
He had seen but perhaps, he had shielded his view.
I remember where I was when he came into view,
He sashayed over to me in his loud regalia.
I was by the beaded jewelry vendor. In all my life,
I don't recall seeing such silk-like braids,
Wrapped near the ends with peyote stitch. I examined the beads
While he breezed by my side.
I exhaled as gently as possible while he stood at my side,
Gazing at the jewelry, as I kept him in my view.
All about his finery were intricate beaded
Designs, flowing about his regalia.
His face was worn, old. I loved him. His braids
Brushed against my arm, an imprint in my life.
He must have lived a traditional life.
I got to watch him dance, by the side
Of many dancers. His braids
Danced as well as he. I viewed
Him for hours. His regalia
Flowing with the drums; but I can hear the beads.
That small silent clacking of beads
Jumping off one another. I wish to remain in his life.
I wish him to tell me the stories of his regalia
I wish to stand by his side,
I wished him to view
Me as I majestically saw him; him and those braids.
His beautiful, perfect, black-brown braids,
They scintillate, like glass-cut beads.
When he talked, his voice was soft, but stern. His point of view
Was touching but valid. He elucidated, like his life
Deserved explanation. I could sit by his side,
And just hear his voice, and feel his regalia.
I reach to touch his braids, but I don't. In all my life
I'd never seen such wondrous beads. His eyes look to my side
Where I viewed my trembling hand touching his perfect regalia.
May 16, 2005
Suge
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Regalia
Regalia
