I had written a piece of prose a while back by the title of “Ghosts in the Ghetto” that I felt like turning into something lyrical and could be put to a melody:

Why are no horror movies set in the ghetto?
Can you bring one to mind?
Always camps, quaint towns, old homes and like kind,

But the projects are teeming with haunts,
and oppressive poverty flaunts.
Famished ghouls of addiction,
violence, and submission.
Poltergeists of abuse,
and banshees of aggression run loose.

Twisted demons preying on pain, and generational curses.
Every ounce of fortune reverses.
Abusive bias and statutes oppressin’ the destitute
No hope of absolution,
restitution, and no
proposed solution.

Those unaffected by the wraiths are blind.
Ignorance: whether innocent or of a heinous mind.
Turns out the past was not left behind.

Gaslighting such notions as shadows from elsewhere.
Blame the victim!
There’s no prayer,
just despair.
It’s unfair, trading the public’s welfare for warfare.

The priv’liged are solution reflectors
fearing the inspector’s detector finds
they summoned the specters.
I’m no respecter,
of such apathetic schemin’.
It takes a priest to cast out a demon,
but the parson is stuck in his prayers and reading.
Meanwhile, they’re mistreated and bleeding.

The oppressed and repressed have reached out for repose,
still the masses claim that nobody knows.
And I search for the Church to oppose the injustice,
but the truth just is
they presuppose
to interpose
would their beliefs juxtapose.

They’ve failed to give the Scriptures seniority.
No moral majority, authority, or priority.
The minor prophets,
major prophets,
the Gospel and epistles
call to care for the oppressed indvid’l no dismissal.

Though untouched by the phantoms, their fiendish work I see;
bringing those who God created in His image to their knees.
The problem is systemic, epidemic
Needing a passion for compassion,
and ears to listen with attention
to the discriminated host:
in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost.

You can read the summary in Matthew 25–
when at the judgement seat you finally arrive.
The Lord accepts those who “did for the least of these”,
the ones at His left, left the Lord displeased.
You can turn a blind eye to the marganlized’s plea:

but the apathetic priest
is gonna miss the feast,
and be greeted by the beast.

He suffered lots on the cross for the broken and lost.
Stop playin’!
You’re transformed, so stand for the forgotten and forsaken.
Love’s the place, grace the space of true disciple makin’.
“They will know you by your love”. I don’t know who you think you’re fakin’,
If you’re acting like your actions don’t matter you’re mistaken.

So step up royal priesthood, and do good
in your ‘hood, and their ‘hood,
for the common good, then we could
see the kingdom lived here and now.
Before at His feet we humbly bow.

Original written post: https://phillaeasley.wordpress.com/2017/10/24/the-vision-epiphany-from-cacophony/

As I traveled down country roads yesterday to visit a friend, I was impressed by the landscape encased in ice. We had some rather nasty weather earlier in the day which froze to every surface it struck. The roads had been treated by the time I was traveling his way, so I did not need to focus carefully on my driving and could instead focus on the marvelous scene. I had the thought that my perception of the scenery would change based on mood. And so I thought of three proses: happy, sad, and contemplative in response:

Happy Perspective

Well, thank God they have cleared the roads. It would be a shame to concentrate on safe travel instead of this spectacular landscape. Nature, in an angsty fit this morning, encased the earth in glass. Man has removed her musing from our pathways, but left her beautiful kiss on nature untouched.

As I meander down country roads, my vision is unobscured by the distracting constructions of man. Only telephone lines, and the road, seem to bear any proof man has been through here. The grass has even been iced by this morning’s storm, so that each blade looks like shiny, glazed candy flooding the fields around. The trees are fantastical. Perfectly encapsuled in ice, they remind me of some quirky curio I’d find in a country store in a cozy, quiet town. Nature, even in its broken state, speaks of its Creator’s personality. Perhaps He is a fan of quirky curios; I certainly fancy myself a quirky curiosity.

Sad Perspective

Some small mercy the Lord has granted, the roads are not treacherous as I wind through the obscure paths you must search hard to find on a map. The oppressive weather this morning really made a mess of things. The roads are clear, but nature is still entombed in its icy shroud.

I’m the only one out here sojourning the barren landscape. There isn’t even a house or barn for companionship–only telephone lines and the lonely road. The dead grass has gone from a pitiful pale to ghastly white, as each blade bows low from the weight of the frost. The trees too, hang heavy from the dense ice clenching their boughs. The whole landscape appears to weep, as the scenery vainly suppresses its emotion in the mist. The Lord is present though, even in this forlorn, forgotten place: my soul, and this country road.

Contemplative Perspective

The Lord has granted my mind to wander free since the roads are cleared from the sleet this morning. The land is still covered in ice though, so my thoughts turn to it.

I am undistributed by other drivers, or man made things, on this quiet path. Each blade of grass is distinguished by the transparent shell form fit to it. Glazed by winter’s rain, the trees are both foreign and familiar. The breath of the earth wisps through the area. How long, O Lord, will it be until these things are no more? Like the ice that blankets the land, our life will quickly melt, yet like this frozen visage, we too can make an impact on the lives of those that view us.

The heavy fog has conquered this morning’s land, yet I must be its ally, for I am pleased to witness its conquest. A chill races down my spine; is it from my joy or the frigid air? Traversing the forsaken hours before dawn, the fog overwhelms my field of vision. Street lamps, no more than two visible in the distance at a glance, throb into existence through the fog. Their warmth, ineffective against the heavy laden air, fizzle out with haste once passed. Even the beams of my headlights are as useful as a flashlight against murky waters.

The frosty, wisping air bears no malice or eeriness this day; in truth, I am the phantom haunting the wee hours. I sail as a ghost ship round the bends donned in the frigid shroud. Grandiose fantasies, and fable-like scenes fill my imagination.

So rare it is to see good photos or paintings which depict the child-like awe that this phenomenon demands. This ineffable birthing of clouds intertwined with and obscuring the frozen landscape fills my soul with joy. I cannot help but praise the Maker of this moment. Such mystery, such wonder, such beauty gently grasps the morning.

There are no ghosts in the ghetto. There is not a horror movie brought to memory that occurs in the projects. It is always a camp, or quaint town, or Victorian home–never the wrong side of the tracks. That is not to say the ghetto is unhaunted. The haunting is of a different kind…

The ghetto is teeming with ghosts. Famished ghouls of addiction, vengeful poltergeists of abuse, phantoms of inescapable poverty, all relentlessly haunt the disenfranchised communities. These twisted demons prey on the pain, prey on generational curses, prey on misfortune; they utilize every scheme and statute of man to keep the denizens of these destitute areas in a constant state of oppression.

It seems those unafflicted by these wraiths cannot see the torment. Indeed, these privileged, free from the vindictive spirits, decry such notions as shadows cast by some other thing; perhaps even the machinations of selfish lunacy from the afflicted themselves. Denying the evidence, for they fear they may have conjured the very specters that prey on these downcast. It takes a priest to cast out a demon, but the parson is stuck in his reading and prayers.

I, though barely touched by these phantoms, see them. I see their fiendish work among those God created. Too few, too few are those, unmaligned by these spirits, that are willing to perform the exorcism! But these ghouls are insatiable, and when they have devoured all, they will sup elsewhere. Then the apathetic priest’s blindfold will not avail.

On the drive to work, the air is beset with a fair fog and flitting flurries, so as far-sight is thwarted by the horizon’s over-filled capacity. This display of winter’s mischievous audacity is also, at once, a harbinger of ethereal veracity as the opacity fills me with adrenalous tenacity with each winding bend, for the thrill of life. Obscured though my vision may be, and inconvenienced by the blustery weather, I marvel at the vacillation of shadows and lights in each reflection and refraction of light in its deflection off crystalline flecks dancing ‘gainst the landscape–quite to my satisfaction. What beauty, what grace fills this mundane space! Such common place face donned by winter’s visage is a missage heralding the good Father. To think, an occurrence, such a bother, might bring inspiration and joy– a coy ploy to employ. No annoyance, rather a flamboyance of splendor giving clairvoyance to heaven.

Persistent drizzle,

No breath of wind disturbs it–

Chilling the morning.

The days remaining are few

Where there shall be such relief.

Passing August rain–
Its obsequious visage
Bringing only wet air.
You may beguile others;
Your falsehoods are lost on me

There has been so much loss. My wife left me. I lost my church, I lost my apartment, I lost two cars, I lost $1200, I lost my grandmother, I lost my grandfather, I’ve now lost a dearly loved great aunt, and a cousin. I sometimes feel as though Psalm 73.13 has come to light: “All in vain have I kept my heart clean and washed my hands in innocence.”

It has been a struggle. I have nearly lost my sanity, my salvation, and myself. I have been cross, and crass, and lustful, and slothful, and angry, and jealous, and remorseful, and depressed, and jaded, and deject, and disdainful, and impatient, and anxious.

I am here in Seminole. My cousin, Terry, has lost his Mother and Sister, my uncle Sid his wife and daughter, within 5 days of each other. How can one possibly begin to cope with that? It is a sorrow and tragedy of coldest manner. To see emotions raw in the face of kin akin to wounds not fully healed in me is…I’m not sure I know how to process all the complexities at this moment.

I pray, I pray ever so fervently, that they find peace and solace. That people around them may be a bottomless well of encouragement and empathy; that the Spirit would not cease to shower them with unfathomable calm and hope.

It is in the day to day. It is how we all must. We can, and should, have future plans and look ahead, but not at the cost of the day to day. The present is non-refundable and unexchangable. Just as the past culminates in the present, the summation of the present will be the future. If that amounts to, “live to fight another day”, then live. Live, and struggle, and fight to snatch victory from the iron drip of despair.

How does one carry on in the face of such loss? How does my father and aunt and uncle carry on in the wake of losing both parents within five weeks of each other, after watching their father’s mind slowly fade? How will my cousins, and uncle, carry on losing Nel and Stacy within the same week? How have I continued these past two years in the wake of overwhelming loss?

God. Only God. “He knows our frame, he remembers that we are dust.” “Precious in the eyes of the Lord are the deaths of His saints.” Jesus wept at Lazarus’ tomb.

“I don’t know about tomorrow; it may bring me poverty. But the one who feeds the sparrow, is the one who stands by me. And the path that is my portion may be through the fire or flood; but his presence goes before me and I’m covered by his blood. Many things about tomorrow I don’t seem to understand, but I know who holds tomorrow and I know who holds my hand.”

It is difficult to explain the depression. It is not unwelcome; contrarily, it is cathartic. The intensity is addictive, and so few feelings of late beset me, of any manner or intensity, that the melancholy is heartily welcome. I am quite sure this state is diagnosible as manic depression, bipolar, or some such; yet, I am not so quick to address the issue, as the state is a euphoric release from the apathy, frustration, and callousness which have haunted me for nigh two years.

This is not to say I desire my situation to continue its decline. I should like few things more than to return to a stable income, surround myself with friends of like faith, and find a woman in whom to confide. But at present, the solace is to be found in silence, sadness, and tragic nostalgia.

Though, like any addiction, there is danger in morose musings. It is a tree branch, heavy laden with snow. The weight strains the branch ’til either the bough breaks, or the snow is shed in a cascade of white. The danger in mounting snow lies in the limberness of the branch, for each successive snowfall weakens the integrity of the tree.