The poems of Write The Vision are my song and my expression of journey. I trust that as you read the words, you heart will hear the melody and understand that our "child's voice" has God's ear.

Write the Vision: A Journey to Forgiveness in Poems and Other Celebrations

By Benjamin Edgar Williams

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Benjamin Edgar Williams
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-5455-4

Contents

Acknowledgements............................................ixPreface Write the vision....................................xiAlone, I arrived............................................xiiiOn Thursdays and the days that follow.......................1Bound by shackles...........................................5Fragile Flowers(cry of an abused child).....................7My Heart Speaks to You......................................9Quiet Tears.................................................11Teach Me....................................................14What I Learned Today........................................16Then, my eyes caught purchase of a view.....................17I Need to Ask You Something (for Irene).....................19I Dreamed of You............................................23I Wish for You(for Kelse)...................................24In the light................................................26the Cost of a Kiss..........................................28Ask Me......................................................30Would you be free?..........................................33Seasons.....................................................35My Prayer...................................................37When .......................................................38Forgive.....................................................41Two Thoughts................................................43If..........................................................45A few feet from my past,....................................47New Shoes, No Feet..........................................49"I don't know how to forgive!"..............................51fifty 8.....................................................53What Next, God?.............................................57What If I Ask?..............................................59"Let me show you how".......................................63Today.......................................................65These Hands.................................................68Just Thinking...............................................70Simple Rules................................................72to touch as a child.........................................73You've Taken My Hand........................................75When I......................................................77Love Them...................................................78You, Here, Me (for Kyra)....................................80Perfect Man.................................................82Then, My Children...........................................84A Different Day.............................................85When You Were Still A Dream.................................87Unbanned Soul...............................................89Dying Question..............................................97Write the Vision (plain speech).............................103Epilogue: A New Vision......................................107

Chapter One

On Thursdays and the days that follow

I once read that we have so little control of our lives. I tend to agree. Our hair color, eye color, nationality, race, birthplace, parents, and day of arrival into this continual play are predetermined. Our ability to choose—the freedom we guard with unyielding devotion, that right that we enjoin as a coming of age—is diluted to little more than an agreement to perform within the limitations of our script. I believe, for the most part, that we rehearse behaviors modeled by our mommas and daddies and their deficiencies, which were impacted by their mommas and daddies. We perform, produce, and move to hit our "marks," as directed, in our arenas and stages of life.

It is interesting that we are called offspring. This, I believe, unravels a truth. In time, we are launched and bounce into tracks of conformity or rebellion, which tear at us, in an effort to prevent the past and its inherent curses.

Many of our choices, unveiled, are not choices at all, but responses ...

I was born on a Thursday, as was my father, my eldest daughter, and my oldest and youngest sons ...

I was born of Compton, California. I'm a son, produced from love, nurtured by the conflicts of pain and pleasure. I honor my ascendants—my father, maternal and paternal grandfathers—with my pseudonym, Benjamin Edgar Williams.

As I have walked, run, fought, fled, stood, stumbled, fallen, and continued to stand again, one constant has remained apparent: I'm still here. My mystery and quest has been to determine why.

The question persists, and the answer is not always clear, but sometimes, when I am still, I start to move through the cloud. Unfortunately, stillness is rare and far too infrequent and comes when confronted by insurmountable mountains, impassable walls, crevasses, and raging torrents. As I age, I understand that some of these circumstances stop me by design. Then, those moments of pause are beyond argument, and after the anger, frustrations, despair, and denial retreat, the unrelenting voice of my calling is intelligible and distinct.

Writing is my calling. Writing not only gives me voice but also answers the cry that is a deep perpetual chord within me. It is my music and the instrumentation to my play. It is my connection to the eternal—to God.

I am a writer of prose, a poet, and a playwright. Write the Vision is the first verse of my movement. I trust it finds harmony with your spirit.

    Bound by shackles ...


    Fragile Flowers
    (cry of an abused child)

    Wind whips the petals;
    See them blow.
    No pain, still cried in silence,
    Don't you NO?
    THERE colors, still resilient,
    Like the show?
    C'mon time, stop the progress,
    Let 'em go!
    Child looks, the bruises fountain,
    Have your way.
    Perfect skin mends broken bones;
    Hurt, you say?
    Climbing out, the WHOLE behind,
    Seized in day.

    Oh, the fragile flowers grow.
    Watch the play!
    Fragile flowers in beauty sun.
    Smell the scent.
    Rooting deep in LEAVES, they thrive,
    Feel the bent.
    Petals fall, the flowers fail,
    Relief or went?
    Redeem the clay, her flowers seed,
    Life extent.
    In childhood blooms, there flowers bud,
    Sun comes fast.
    Broken wind, breaks air and PIECE
    How will they last?

My Heart Speaks to You


What can I create or build or shape,
What gift or jewels can I bring?
How soft can I touch or tender words,
To quiet scorched memory's sting.

We looked and we...