Tarringo T. Vaughan » Another Crack In the Sidewalk

After the Rain

tarringovaughan — Sat, 30 Nov 2019 14:31:00 +0000

6:58 A.M the sky cried

through the misery of darkened skies

the rain came down

harassing sleepy eyes

and solemnly splashing

against drowning curbs;

it bullied

blind windshields and bloated

thirsty fields

it welted drowsy highways

and feed angry puddles

flooding hurried streets – like a tempered

soul the rain emptied

causing the morning

to surrender in defeat

before soothing into a soft spoken

drizzle.

Then after the rain,

the sky smiled

releasing a greeting of good morning

down upon the subtlety of life

now awakened.

Tarringo T. Vaughan

August 28th

Winter’s Song

tarringovaughan — Mon, 28 Jan 2019 12:49:35 +0000

Winter’s Song

The snow fell today, and

and silence lifted throughout the streets;

no whistling winds or chilling air

blowing against the breath of my mind.

Just the stillness. This moment. Here alone

making footprints on the dusting

over cobbled stone/with poet eyes dreaming the sky.

Walking, through the birth of winter night

I think of this freedom to feel and wonder why we search

to heal the past when the present

has embraced the strength that has grown into

our existence. I wonder about the life that has already been written

and the life awaiting its journal entry upon the process

of thought and I continue to walk.

It is just me and the night.

I watch the tree branches crackle through the shadows

of moonlight

and listen to cars glide through

a harmony of traffic/barely in sight. The capture

of the stars gleam down on the façade

where lampposts spotlight glimpses

ice stained curbs. The temperature is barely literate

but it reads me. It reads my shiver as a residue

of Malbec aromatizes my scented breath

with just a hint of sobriety.

Sometimes it takes a glass of wine and a long walk

in the brisk air to recognize

this romance with society/ as coldness

brings fourth the warmth of the heart and dampness

dries our minds to believe the process of renewal.

The snow fell today, and time hibernated

Inside a pause of a moment. This moment. These minutes

of conversing with life /searching and finding

my reason to belong

right in the embrace of Winter’s song.

Tarringo T. Vaughan

In Summer

tarringovaughan — Wed, 22 Jul 2015 01:01:31 +0000

In Summer

In summer, the song sings itself.
~William CarlosWilliams
I hear the songs again. Back when my mind
was in the body of innocence – before growth
when adolescence stood still in time
and the playfulness of youth
filtered through the poetry

of nursery rhymes. I hear the songs again. Memories
dancing on aged sidewalks of granite decay
just beneath sunsets of golden brown

– drifting off into the brilliance of another day.

We played. Girls double dutch(ed) to the rhythm
of freedom – pigtails sweating within the humidity of laughter
as smiles journeyed through the warm winds of hope

and us boys played tagged. Running freely through streets
where dreams had promise. Our shouts

were the lyrics of energy as childhood synergy
is still heard through many centuries of June.

I hear the songs again
in summer. Back when the genius of sunrise
lit up the playgrounds of imagination. A time when
a child’s eyes orchestrated
the perfect vision of summer’s sky –

I hear the songs again.
© 2012
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Thoughts From A Loft At The End Of June

tarringovaughan — Fri, 03 Jul 2015 01:10:24 +0000

I wonder what Langston Hughes would’ve done

if there were no words – I wonder how he would’ve
taught the world about deferred dreams if there was no way
to write the blues. I wonder what would become of language
if the fears of Shakespeare didn’t tell tales
in old English rhyme and didn’t retell history in line
after line of rhythmic poetry — I wonder if the beat poets

would ever be – if they weren’t allowed to write
the bullshit we all thought but were afraid to pronounce
in four letter words. What would’ve become of Poe & Plath
with the ability to communicate the dark maze
of the mental wrath? And would there be a Bukowski
if words couldn’t express their anger about the digestion of life
in the transformation of obscenities

yelling off pages of obviated temper tantrums. Without words
the world would be a population of
mimes; faces written with no expression and histories told
with no embrace of future challenge and without words

the language of poetry would be absent of style. The grammar
of our emotion would be lost in the evolution
of silence and then there would be no one to discover
our internal voices and where would I be – If there were no words

to discover the poetics of my heart.
© 2012
Tarringo T Vaughan

A Path In Time

tarringovaughan — Tue, 19 May 2015 23:39:51 +0000

Early morning sunrise surprises the ocean’s yawn
as it quietly pounds against sleepy rocks that awaken
at the renewal of dawn.

If there could be a place where love lives,
it would be here, in this almost surreal
portrait of life. Hot coffee steams against the fabric
of our lips but it is this supreme view

of sparkling skies amongst the glitter
of ocean eyes that is caffeinating our hearts
as we, the soul of two lovers, walk this path
with silence but communicate through the common
desire of this moment.

Indeed, if Mother Nature was a poet
she wrote this so beautifully; the way the sea perfectly
illuminates the daylight of serenity;

the way the Sun reaches down layering
pavements and seaside structures with a unique warmth
curing a slightly damp chilliness spit by the winds
of time

and the way these minutes seem to resonate
in the fragrance of stillness as on this day

Marginal way has captured me again magnifying
the minds romance with nature and the delicious
feel of relaxation. On this path there are many aromas
of smiles as the beauty of relationships of all flavors

are explored and brought together by the currents
of time. Many generations have inhaled here and many
futures will exhale this magnificent capture

Grand Central

tarringovaughan — Sun, 04 Jan 2015 14:08:06 +0000

Captured in admiration
between the study of fear and the tranquility
of fascination, I watch a flash mob of minds
scurry in different directions to beat time to new destinations.
Scents of Magnolia cupcakes tiptoe through vanilla
halls where voices travel
in the walls decorated in architecture of a magical acoustic.

I am in the heart of New York City, midtown Manhattan
fifteen minutes from the arrival of the Metro North.
There are so many accents distracting my thoughts; so many different people
colliding in a collage of stories just beginning to turn
their pages. I am reading them, as they reading me
as just another stranger just an eye glance away from
being known. Tourists stand like soldiers in salute, cameras raised/
ready to fire away flashes of memories
as illustrations of romantic art stare down
upon the main concourse of shadows laced
with glimpses of sunlight. Around me are so many platforms of life
as people travel and admire
this structural attire. Smiles greet me as impatience shoves
me deeper in this crowd of obscurity.

This is where I can just be random – a strange face
forcing a smile just to feel a moment of acceptance,
because for now this is my space – in the middle
of Grand Central Station where fragrances of modern history
are being photographed and I, calm to the city, has
now become found in the travels of anonymity.
© 2011
Tarringo T. Vaughan

Butterfly Wings

tarringovaughan — Sun, 16 Nov 2014 22:43:29 +0000

flutter in front of my eyes causing my mind to stutter
for just one moment as I gaze into the stillness of time
watching this beautiful artistic creation of metamorphosis
fly freely. A pretty black with traces of gold – wings
the eyes of opportunity as they drift though the skies
of a complicated world. During these times, when I study
the path of a butterfly, I wish I had my own wings
to fly; to become a part of the wind flowing with time
without the worry and complications that plague our thoughts;
without the sadness and heartbreak that beats away at our hearts
like an emotional cancer with no cure except the mental
therapy of survival. I find magic in the possibility of flying.
It is like a revival of freedom when our own motivation
fuels our passion to fly without even leaving the ground. Like
the butterfly, we emerge from human cocoon and through growth
life can become our wings encouraging us to rise even when we fall
and rise again even when we think we’ve lost our all.
It is the spirit of our internal beauty that propels us
to lift ourselves up into a sky where inspiration becomes
our liberty to fly. Butterfly wings flutter around me;
an amazement captured reminding me of the places we can go
when we allow the wings of our dreams to set free.

Fly butterfly,
Fly.

Human Nature

tarringovaughan — Wed, 01 Oct 2014 20:34:02 +0000

“It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.” ~ Charlotte Bronte

Summer always matures on a Sunday. The beginning
of a new week organized as a day where even
the sun sleeps late eventually blossoms into the brightness
of tranquil action. This day studies a graceful satisfaction
as I sit, mind focused and as astray, outside amongst
the beings of temporary life.

I wonder where we go when there is nothing
left to be. There must be a place, somewhere
just before the border of motion that we go to bully stillness.
We live in such a world of commotion
that we sometimes forget how to rest, we forget
how to vacation inside the capsules of time
and how enjoy each island of a moment to the fullest
of possibilities

we often envy our own abilities to escape — as
even in daydreams we find reason for an end. Yes Miss Bronte
we find a need to make things happen
even when it is necessary to just let things be
like now where my human nature
has become an action verb – always thinking

about the action of being.

In Traffic

tarringovaughan — Sun, 14 Sep 2014 12:57:59 +0000

It is amazing the way the mind wanders when
we are in traffic. We sit in a clutter
of tempered stillness waiting for permission
to go at the flash of a green light. There is so
much observance we capture with our sight
when we try to peek sideways at strangers
who are intensely gripping their steering wheels
impatiently ready to drive off to another location
for the next pause in time. There are stories
in their eyes. Each motorist has either a chapter
to continue or a chapter to begin in life’s novel
of inevitability. On summer days, in particular,
we seem more restless; there’s an urgency
to get to the next familiar place. There is history
in our faces as smiles turn into mood swings releasing
a road rage that surfaces from the inside like a battle
between Jekyll & Hyde. The beeping of horns
gossip in an obscenity of noise as a rude July heat
agitates the frustrated and annoys the patient
in humanity’s hustle to be somewhere else
within the destination of time. For one minute,
in the collapse of traffic, we become a collision
of motion, soon forgotten, until the next escape.

Suburban Sunset

tarringovaughan — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 18:55:33 +0000

This, the beautiful temperature of sunset, is something
to be admired. There is easiness here;
a steadiness that has captured me as I sit,
in the backyard of open translation, studying
the movements of serenity as the sky has emptied
of all of its obscenities as quietness

fuels the stillness of time.

Here, in the outskirts of the city,
smooth transitions of the mind are comfortable
as I absorb the decay of another day. This is new for me/
these surroundings that are decorated

in the brightest of summer green. There is heroism
within these trees that have stood sturdy
over decades of years, growing tall in the energy
of earth’s tears. They are resilient monuments of nature

as they dance in the soft music of slight winds
that whisper the sounds of a dream. And then there
is the sky, naked to the eye, a portrait of pleasure;
a canvas one can only treasure. It begins its transformation,

drifting in its elegance into the warm evening.
Clouds become playful as the decadence of a light blue
darkens and gives way to the bright spiral of gold
as it descends behind the façade

of suburbia.