Artwork by Lincoln Hughes

This story is a continuation FROM, which starts HERE

August 13, 2019

Although we reside in the newest refined city of village rock, the rules we follow are of the past. No one cares to change them—they’re managed by those who were born into them. But as rulers pass, time will tell if their stories make it to Saint Laurent’co Circle and back.

We once found home where we’d rest.

Rest being the area we could feed our chest.

Beating it like drums; as survival was the test.

Our sun lingers on all but the following believers.

Forgetting to look up; in the way, a preacher’s finger.

Home was where the gut settles,

Where the heart beats mellow.

It’s not the street, or your next door fellow.

Nor the brownstone you rent from an uptown dweller.

Make it in the mind—be happy, be kind.

Home’s the space we can be us.

Money may hinder; confusing enough?

Watch who you trust.

I was born out a small village they named Dronya, miles outside the wall borders of Trenchport—near Central-West Africa’s Panaya. Between a rock and hard place, it’s hard describing my home with a setting of space. They never told us who sprayed the lands, but as Dronya was sprayed, we walked to Bhuri. I recall 13 moons until the village lost its access to fresh water. The women were coming up missing. We were often thirsty. After barriers were ambled by animals, we’d walk again. Sister villages Pranantika and Nibiru was home prior to our one-way flight to the bank. Before settling closer to the Panaya, we went from Puro Village, Sambahula, Anatirikta, Vizala, Jala, Tola, Jalohondorhona, which is where we almost lost my sister, Remi.

The Panaya was safe, however, not every bend held clean water. At least the people who lie at the bed weren’t sprayed there. It was my playground for 11 years. Through political warfare and corrupt leadership, my dad and Nwaka flew us out. As social justice warriors, they made me question my purpose venturing through TheValley as a child. And today, only the wealthy and fortunate indigenous people get near the river.

We refuse to be labeled tourists on our birthland.

-Budd

Continued here…

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

17 Comment on “A Recollection Through Him (Book Preview VIII)

  1. Pingback: How Dare I Run Portland Different | @VehicleDigest.net

  2. Pingback: One Who Doesn’t Skip Breaths | @VehicleDigest.net

  3. Pingback: It’s Her & I | @VehicleDigest.net

  4. Pingback: A Childish Type Writer | @VehicleDigest.net

  5. Pingback: Bearing Tears Before Flight | @VehicleDigest.net

  6. Pingback: Faith Beneath The Brightest of Midnight | @VehicleDigest.net

  7. Pingback: Who’s My Audience? | @VehicleDigest.net

  8. Pingback: Choices For Tomorrow Is A Better Today | @VehicleDigest.net

  9. Pingback: Trust In Watering Rocks | @VehicleDigest.net

  10. Pingback: Waking Up To A Day In The Life | @VehicleDigest.net

  11. Pingback: The Train Of Thoughts For Brotherly Love | @VehicleDigest.net

  12. Pingback: Dear Mice In My Attic | @VehicleDigest.net

  13. Pingback: Where Did The Power Of Anxiety Take You? | @VehicleDigest.net

  14. Pingback: How Crazy Ran Full Moons For A Year | @VehicleDigest.net

  15. Pingback: Look What You Did: Day 5 | @VehicleDigest.net

  16. Pingback: Life Of Him (Book Preview VII) | @VehicleDigest.net

  17. Pingback: A Story Behind Stories (Book Preview IV) | @VehicleDigest.net

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: