The Devil’s Cancerous Plan

Abnormal cells unblotted out—left alone and allowed to grow—eventually, though, they find a group—those familiar spirits that we all have seen and know.

Enlarged, cancerous evolutions which cut to devour, kill our “communities” and, folks we claim to love so–they lose all chances for immunity. Slowly, but surely, life within is embroiled then ever so quickly all snuffed out.

Though most are aware of this situation along with its horrid dis-ease, we stand and we shrug broad shoulders, then lie down to accept seemingly everyday occurrences as the way in which those in the “hood” must live and believe.

While allowed to grow going un-addressed, the cancer reaches out. Helpless are the weak similar to the prey of waiting lions who delay, later to descend at an opportune and appropriate peak.

But, true cancer never is complete when affecting just the cell of one, or two. Rather, the multiplication process of these ugly abnormal little things are known to swiftly target an entire crew.

Yet, instead of combating the intrusion as we would that of any other thief, we quiet our voices on this issue till the tragedy of infusion multiplies its reach. Then on every hand the perspective rendered becomes quite bleak.

But, do we ever stop to think how we landed in this place with the number of violent deaths so common among our young men? If we analyze our plight, would we find it all began on the first day that we ignored the devil’s cold and cancerous plan?

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Where Is The Justice/One Family’s Plea

November 30th of this year will mark one month that our 26-year old son, Christopher Richard Walker, was murdered in the streets of Altadena. Yet, there has not been one phone call or letter of condolence from not one “Jesse Jackson” or “Al Sharpton–community” type. The local NAACP has been quite silent as well. There have been no marches, no yelling concerns “that they’re killing our children”– no protests of any kind. Instead, our family (me, Christopher’s mother, his dad, his two sisters, and two daughters as well as his girlfriend—all who loved him—we are all supposed to simply go on with business as usual.

For the record, Christopher had left his marketing job in downtown LA for the day and had stopped at a local burger stand in Altadena for a quick bite to eat before picking up his 5-year-old daughter from her aftercare school program. He was not causing any trouble, nor had he been in trouble—yet he was cowardly gunned down by someone from behind. He was an innocent victim—a contributor to society who was cut down before he really had a chance to live his life.

For the past several weeks the media has focused strictly on the Michael Brown/Police shooting in Ferguson, Missouri. We have seen nothing but rioting in the streets and millions of dollars in property damage as businesses are thoughtlessly destroyed. Why, there even is a story of a St. Louis woman who accidentally killed herself with the gun that she had purchased for her own protection during the city’s unrest. All told, we may never know the lives and businesses negatively affected as a result of the constant violent protests to the Grand Jury’s decision.

There is a statistic out there indicating that to date, Police have killed over 5,000 civilians since September 11, 2001. My search for murders committed under the heading of gang violence (you know, mostly black-on-black and, or brown-on-brown), for one year alone in 2011 has rendered a daunting number of 12,664 individuals–people–our sons and daughters, mothers and fathers–all who were unfortunate victims of violent murder in this one year alone. Let’s see now, not to downplay the value of life by any means—but, a total of 5,000 civilians nationwide over the last 13 years equals just about 385 people per year.

This number compared to the total of 12,664 in 2011 (times 13 years), equals 164,632 individuals in total—a percentage significantly higher than the news reports we have received about details surrounding the death of this young man—a percentage higher by 103.13%. While I have nothing to offer to the family of Mr. Brown but our sympathy (especially at this time when our own family is personally experiencing the fresh and raw pain of the loss of a child), the evidence shows that Mr. Brown had just finished stealing from a convenience store, that he was impeding traffic by walking in the street, and that he was extremely agitated and aggressive toward the local authority—things for all of which he should have been, and very well could have been arrested.

Though it was a terribly unfortunate situation that Mr. Brown had seemingly brought upon himself, the Ferguson protesters continue to focus their time and energy to destroy their own community all in the name of justice. But, where is the justice for Christopher Walker and others like him who have been struck down by the numerous acts of gang violence so thoughtlessly perpetrated over the years? How long do our loved ones have to cry from the grave before we stop the insanity? Where are the marches for “Justice” for these? Are these individuals any less important—or any less dead since they were actually killed by their own kind? When will we address the problem in our own back yard?

Lost In Your Last Day

Visions of you continue to come through. I see your deep brown eyes

in my dreams.

Then when I awake, your picture monogramed is clear—a grave reminder

that I keep near.

In my drowsy state, I question, why are you there…

on the front cover of a funeral program?

Conversations that we had, and words that you said,

they just won’t be quiet in my head.

But, instead, they now ring out loud. While buried there, they arise to resonate

and repeat in my ears almost to the point that I wonder in fact,
if others might also hear.

The pure sound of your laughter, and your “killer” smile—all

are in my memory so clear. Then there are the gestures you made,

your proud little walk, and the way in which you talked and dressed–deep

in my heart so seared, as they now all lay down for a winter’s rest.

You’re gone away, yet a small part still remains in the very breath I take

and included in

each movement I make.

My desire is to forget the pain of your death—I sincerely wish that day

could simply be changed to disappear and actually go away.

But, stubbornly, my thoughts remain
wherever they may.
They stay,
and they linger… till I find that I’m lost
right there, once again… in

Your Last Day.

Why, Where & When?

Why are we demonstrating and rioting for those killed by the police while we virtually ignore the 93% murder rate for black on black crime?  Are those boys murdered by a “brother” not just as dead, or just as important as the few that are now and then killed by the police?  Where are the calls to action against gang violence?  When will we get tired of cleaning up the blood of our sons in our streets?

Ecclesiastes 12:8-13

“Meaningless!  Meangless!”  Says the teacher.  “Everything is meaningless!”

Not only was the teacher wise, but he also imparted knowledge to the people.  He pondered and searched out and set in order many proverbs.  The teacher searched to find just the right words, and what he wrote was upright and true.

The words of the wise are like goads, their collected sayings like firmly embedded nails–given by one shepherd.  Be warned, my son, of anything in addition to them.

Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body.

Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter:  Fear god and keep his commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.

This Is How I Feel

Everything is different.

Nothing is the same.

Though the paths I take,

on this earth,

they stubbornly remain.

While going through my day,

I can’t help but think and ponder as

I sub-consciously look around

for you—

in everything I say and do.

Now that you’re gone away,

we each and separately make our mind’s list

of all the rights and wrongs—

all those things that we said and completed

strictly during your time.

Though for me, I find, that

keeping the same routine

is still a very good way

to keep me on my path of peace

for each morning’s sunny ray.

But vast emptiness and

missing you has really taken hold—a new

access road–which now has taken it’s abode

and holds my tears at bay.

For everyone who wants to

know the way in which I feel,

let me say, without a doubt that

my senses have declared

a VACANCY and great desolatation

in the center of my being

for which, I guess, this feeling

always shall remain…