Never Look Down

Raindrops in life don’t always feel light,
Sometimes they come hard and feel like razor blades against my skin,
Ricochet by the wind like a bullet from the caliber of a gun,
But, grandmother always taught, no matter the cost…never look down.

Busy city streets,
Taxi’s passing by as swift as the smoke from a cigar,
I’m mistaken at times as one for easy sex as if I’m some rap video chick…despite my brief case and swagger,
Called out of my name for the refusal to give in to the pressure,
Being a black woman doesn’t automatically mean I am easy…I must maintain my identity,
Grandmother always taught, no matter the cost…never look down.

For she said…a woman who can tell you more about what lies in the dirt than what lies in the skies where eagle’s wings fly…may not necessarily know their truth self-worth.
In spirit…she would add as she smiled,
I look at the scars on her face from segregation in the 60’s, for not bowing down to the low state of men,
Thinking her position was either lying on her back, or serving in the kitchen.
Grandmother taught me…never look down.

I’ve learned to appreciate the value God intrinsically placed in the whiteness of my smile,
In the deep caverns of my eyes, in the texture of my skin…holding myself close like a warm cup of mocha when the weather’s chill rest upon my window seal.

No matter the cost…I won’t look down.
I will hold my head up high and not let either failure or what other people say or think, be the modern day noose around my neck.

I am free both in body and in spirit…no matter the cost, I will never look down.

Written by Savaslas Lofton
c.2009

It’s funny you know…how things change as you grow older. Your experiences turn into memories like drops of rain upon still waters. People call me by my first name, Cathy, but they really don’t know me…the real me. When I was 12 years old, my aunt, whom I had adored, told me I had an ugly smile. I was young. I didn’t realizing she was speaking out of animosity against my mother for winning the heart of her boyfriend during their teenage years. She never forgave my mother. They have been at odds since then. They didn’t realize the anger and the hurt they had exchanged were affecting their children like a blood transfusion gone wrong. My aunt’s two daughters and I were the ones suffering emotionally. Whenever I laughed, I would use my hand like a handkerchief to cover up my smile, rehearsing her hurtful comments as an actor recalling the lines to a play. “Cathy, you are beautiful,” was what I had heard from others for most of teenage years into adult hood. That comment I had imagined, was made, perhaps to an imaginary friend who went with me everywhere I went. I didn’t feel beautiful on the inside. This event along with other hurtful experiences feasted upon my self-esteem like cancer. I was a beautiful woman with a broken heart.

So to admit that I am beautiful today, to me, is more than making a statement of confidence…it’s the culmination of a journey.

Cathy is my name…but “Overcomer” should be my last name. From a painful past filled with hurtful insults to verbally abusive relationships, I survived it all. I’ve realized now...the beauty that lives inside of me. I am proud now to look in the mirror at my shapely hips, my hair flowing like liquorish strands of wool and my lips, full and voluptuous, sweet like honeydew. I’ve chosen to hold nothing against anyone, forgive everyone…but most of all love me, to celebrate my successes and learn from my failures.

People call me by my first name…but only I know the true value of the “Cathy” living inside of me.

By Savaslas Lofton

Power of the Lost Pen

I went to a bookstore one day in search of a place within distant shores
Business, Essence and GQ Magazines welcomed me with a smile, flaunting themselves like fashionable manikins amidst the Christmas Holiday
Though bright, shiny and festive in color…could never tickle my fancy
Perhaps I had been too focused to notice their proposition
I was searching for something simple
As I continued, the fresh crisp smell of books and novels not long on the shelves fixed my eyes
My tradition?
Thumb through the cool pages, let spark an idea and if the story suits my fancy, find a quite place and let my imagination journey
Yet I was dissatisfied
Pondering why disgruntled
To my side lies a pen
Perhaps dropped by one before me
No comeliness it possessed
A simple beat up pen, white and blue in color with some company’s logo fading along its spine
Then I remembered my pad I had packed the morning of in my backpack, which lie, to the left of my ankle while I reclined
I took out my pad and began to write
Ah…then I remembered the origin of my journey
Discovered by this little pen which embraced my spiral pad as if they were lovers, Romeo and Juliet
I wrote and wrote uninhibited by imagination
Each stroke of the pen brought unto me the fresh smell of lilies
The light tap and soft salty smell of rain
Caressed my ears with the sound of children laughing
The touch of a baby’s skin
The clouds presented at my feet
And the roses against my skin
Time had stopped for a moment
People vanished into thin air around me
I had created a world of impossibilities
All made possible by this unknown pen

Written by Savaslas Lofton
c.2008

At Love’s Gate

A traveler walked alone, highway unknown
The mountains surrounded her much like a crowded stadium…there was only silence
The sound of each footstep patterned the pace of time like taps of a muffled drum
Her destination yet unfulfilled
She had come from a town full of hurt, heartache and pain
A town of unwelcoming thoughts pushing her around and aside the very autumn leaves fly in the midst of an angry wind…much torment
She ventured to escape
Love she pursued
She understood traveling this road could be one of chance
A journey that stood chance of leaving her more smitten than before
One she was willing to take
Letting rest and peace be the drive of her life if not reached
The thought alone would leave her contented feeling the journey’s worth
This young woman and people like her are searching, surrounded by a cloud of witnesses from distant places: spectators, predators, and ones whom qualify
Their hearts traveling still
In search of love
In search of peace
In search of someone to love
Be loved…
Finally welcomed at last at love’s gate…the place to finally call home

By Savaslas Lofton
c.2008

The Arrow of Beauty: The Sight of Love

The Arrow of Beauty; the Sight of Love

Botanical twisters like navy crimson tides,
The moon appears sudden with a glow of light
A breeze flows tenderly like the stroke of an infant’s hand
While making sweet music; smooth jazz under the midnight moon
Out of the shadows appears what it seems
Freedom dressed as a bouquet of fresh roses
Her white linen clothes boast free flowing against the wind
Men stand enchanted as she dances and spin
Her hips are rhythmic
Her face so tender
Skin distinctive like the symmetry of pearls
Graceful, cool and polite
Her smile though thin as silk red ribbon is as bold as the waves of the Mediterranean Sea
Who can stand against her without surrendering to her beauty?
Many have succumbed
By the countenance of the brightness and warmth of Eve
It is my friend…the glowing sight of an enchanted beautiful woman

by Savaslas Lofton

Through Childlike Eyes

Through Childlike Eyes
By Savaslas Lofton
c.2008

Imagine your world through the eyes of a child,
Untouched, untainted, unharmed by the world’s system of thought and belief.
Imagine your world without heartache, grief, disappointment, fear of what others could ever do or say to you,
Even what they think of you.
I find as life continues, many search for the path back to normalcy when beauty and playfulness had its place,
Back to a time where the meaning of hatred, discrimination, sex, abuse had neither meaning nor definition.
It was a time of pureness of heart,
A time when the senses were, heighten by beautiful colors of nature,
Remember the place?
It appears into adulthood that someway, somehow we find ourselves on the other side of the looking glass,
Rain sliding down the window pain,
Wanting to break free to a world we’ve only experienced once.
Through childlike eyes,
Yes, I remember.
I remember when I see the child swinging or playing on the monkey bars in the park, with a face that glows like the noonday sun,
I remember when I look into the sparkling of a baby’s eyes as he smile intrinsically searching for the words to say instead of “goo-goo” or “ga-ga”,
I remember when I see my five-year-old son run free without concern; the dangers this world contains,
I only pray he remains protected.
Through childlike eyes,
We strive,
At times tired of surviving,
Trying to stay alive instead of being who we are in a world that desires for us to be otherwise.

Black Hands and Wine

Black Hands and Wine

The potency of your soft, tender lips overcomes me like the sweet sensation of aged red wine,
Leaving me enchanted,
Floating like cradled autumn leaves--graced by the lullaby of a light and gentle breeze.
The moment we kissed,
My mind reminisced,
Resurfaced were the thoughts of cool waterfalls,
The taste of honey and deep rubies of passion and fire.
The smell of your perfume penetrated my senses like smooth flowing rivers.
Your hips boast the deep curves of a bouquet of roses,
Your cheekbones are like the curvaceous slopes of Roanoke,
None to compare to thee my love,
For you are fearfully and wonderfully made.
Here’s a toast to the memories we’ve shared with each other,
Playful thoughts of whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ear.
Our hands and our hearts intertwined like healthy grape vines,
As we made a toast to love,
A toast to us,
You for me and me for you…forever we will always be.
by Savaslas Lofton
c.2008