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The Eyes of

Freedom’s Daughter:

Poetry & Art

Lyra Mae Butterfly

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form by any means, electronic,

mechanical, recording or otherwise without the prior written

consent of the publisher.

Copyright © 2014 Lyra Mae Butterfly

All Rights Reserved

Book design and photography

by Lyra Mae Butterfly

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Dedicated to my Big T, my Little A, my Little J and to all

struggling artist, writers, photographers, musicians and

creative types of any kind out there.

Keep dreaming, keep creating and keep going.

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“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is

translated through you into action, and because there is only

one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you

block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will

be lost.”

~ Martha Graham

(Harlem Mural)

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following

you

i tried to keep up with

you

kept my eyes peeled

on your back

the crowd got too thick

the distance between

us too far

you wouldn't stop

you wouldn't look back

i ran

didn’t see you

felt lost felt alone felt shook

spent months wailing flailing & whining

& yes you can get all cried out

so i stopped trying to find you

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to see your back

found rhythm with my environment

called the distance between us freedom

learned to walk

to see me

felt found felt whole felt safe

exploring

setting my own pace

& discovered myself in step with you

who ran off into a

future

where you knew when

i found me

i would find you

waiting.

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the goddess consciousness

a phenomenon she has been from her birth on

"it takes a man a long time to get to be himself. . ."

drunken words float to her from yellow dog-eared pages

like wind blown into an empty bottle

how long is long? she wonders

when possible friends have come and gone?

too tight with their dysfunctions to pity my own?

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when love showed himself to me as ten men &

i'm outta balance with no yang & a lotta yin?

that's a long time. . .

& she hasn't met herself yet

twenty-six years she's been hiding in back of that closed door

behind her third eye

the one with the sty

she put there to block the light she wasn't trying to see

a phenomenon i have been since my birth on seeps sinisterly

under the door like smoke

white & wispy & hypnotizingly lovely but lethal

if inhaled a goddess

will take form

the goddess she has

been from her birth on.

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someone said

she heard someone say

love only grows when you least expect it

love only happens when you close your eyes

she heard love only grows when you least expect it

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watching for love is a waste of time

but how does she know she’s speaking if no one is there to

hear?

how does she know she’s lovable if no one seems to care?

how can she go on living when this loneliness she can hardly

bare?

nobody’s got answers for her

she heard someone say

oh, yes, it's fact

it happened that way for me

love only comes when you learn how to act & how to be

she heard someone say

i was minding my business & out of the blue

there he was, complete, beautiful & too good but true

so she promised herself that she’d forget

that she was lonely & longing to be held

& she promised herself that she would let

nature, in her own time the story tell

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hands off, wishless & still she stood

& she still doesn't know if she’s speaking 'cause no one is there

to hear & she’s not sure she’s lovable because no one seems

to care & she’s trying to go on living but this loneliness she can

hardly bare

nobody’s got answers for her

but her pretending has gone on too long

& maybe she broke a few rules

but tenderness runs through her like an unsung song

a lullaby turned to blues

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& if love, you’re listening, she sings, why are you avoiding me?

what did i do to you love, why are you being so mean?

when love, do i get to meet you

& when does my too good get to be true?

nobody’s got answers for me.

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gold good

why on earth were you jealous of me

when i was envying your hershey life?

a life i thought smelled sweet & rich

meanwhile you were hating on me

a sister living broke, bothered & bewitched

but maybe i can understand your narrow vision

plenty of times i get choked on comparisons

old women say the grass is greener on the other side

so many times i’ve tried to hide that emerald shade

filling my third eye

there’s room enough for everybody

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& it’s all good

but sometimes it seems there’s only one kind

of beauty, one kind of rich

& if you aint it, you aint . . .

a thousand poems written, a

hundred songs sung

& folks still spittin’ the

same old stereotypes

& curses

off their tongues

somehow we have to

bring in ideas new

& toss ideas old

‘cause sometime

between today &

forever

you & I have got to come

together

& realize we’re both as good as gold.

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to escape the thinkers stick or

surrender

you stand under the same sun that warmed Jesus

breathing the same air

resisting the same devil

you wear dkny

rest your head on satin pillows

eat at alehouses & read the poems of Jack Kerouac

you laugh at life, feelin’ yourself

how enlightened you’ve become

the young man says you should give him a chance,

he’s worth the risk

but you choose loneliness over his dimples

fearing you’ll drown in them.

trying to live forgetting the ‘what does it all mean?’

can you bury yourself in reality tv, internet chat,

live bands at teahouses & motorcycle rides?

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suddenly afraid to pick up a paintbrush

or type one sentence in that novel you say you’re writing

because you picked up a scent of truth

& low & behold it’s bringing you back to the

‘what does it all mean?’ you’ve been trying to forget

& you realize you’re standing in your own private garden

it’s not Eden, its Gethsemane

& the issue is still integrity.

you echo Christ saying “let not my will but yours take place.”

& you are nailed to the blank page, the blank canvas, your

blank life

bleeding

because God has something to say to you & through you

& you wonder why you can’t be happy

living a self-absorbed little life

why’d you get hit with the thinkers stick?

why do you have to live in constant contemplation &

evaluation?

is it a calling?

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or did you choose, & if so, when & more importantly. . .

why?

“. . . the man who thinks things out is hated.” ~ Prov. 14:17

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to see you like this

i tried on those gossamer wings you bought me

& i salsa danced on the moon, like you taught me.

i burned those old, broken down bridges, as you suggested

& watched new, strong ones rise before me, unrequested.

it's all so easy, you'd say, no need to be uncertain.

then you showed me the man behind the curtain;

the wheels behind the clocks face

& told me i had no business running at a rat’s pace.

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you always asked if i was ready & finally, one day i was. . .

so how is it i find you now shivering in all this doubt?

clutching your joints, doubled in pain, hobbling about

my master of the universe, where'd you lose your cape?

your threadbare faith held together by tape

your eyes a portrait in fear

shhh, i'm here.

wear these, they'll take you high

come, i know where we can dance in the sky

we can take this arch

it'll lead us out of this dark

to that place where you make the dream come true

whenever you want to

& the face to look behind

is your own

don’t worry you’re not

alone. . . are you ready?

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woman warrior style

need peace, a kind face?

came to the right place

need a hug, need a kiss?

my supply is limitless

sometimes as soft as a doves back

i give you praise & no flack

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willing to embrace you like a child

i'm a woman, warrior style

i want to love you

wrap you in my sweetness

but sometimes

you misunderstand my meekness

take advantage of me

‘cause you think its weakness

lord help you

‘cause i can't if you won’t let me

frown & resent me,

because i tell you right from wrong?

turn your back, grow silent & disappear

for God knows how long

bad idea child, you’re forgetting

i'm a woman,

warrior style

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sorry if you don't want to come out

the mist

but honey i'm a natural

meteorologist

i'll let you know a storm watch is on

when i roll my eyes, c'mon!

don't resist me; you know i'm on your

side

know why? because i'm a woman, warrior style

like an octagon i have eight sides

eight angles, the mother in me

chides

the sister dangles treats you need to

stretch to reach

friend comforts & consoles

teacher learns you, grandma

reminds

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you what you been told

girlfriend funs you, wife loves you

baby girl can't wait for you to come through the door

giggles & hangs on your every word

aint that the sweetest description you ever heard?

it's yours if you act right

don't just sit there & smile

& don't throw a tantrum & act infantile

just come & love this here woman, warrior style.

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(Coney Island NY)

fallacy

outside the window

an inky black night

i see the reflection of myself lost,

you dying,

& a room that held no healing.

a large white butterfly crosses

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my view,

i am enraptured,

momentarily

forgetting that death has

come between us.

i want to believe this is only

a scene from a horror

movie

but i never hear the word ‘cut’

& when i sink in the chair crying

i am not pretending,

i am awake in a nightmare i

must learn to make a home in.

i am told you are in a better place

but i know it’s a fallacy,

there is no better place

for you

than here with me.

i am lost,

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having to learn to see

in all

this inky darkness

with only still wet

memories

that smear when i touch

them.

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circular reasoning

there are friends i haven't met

bridges i haven't walked yet

a man i haven't loved

poems i haven't written

children i haven't made

places i haven't stayed

students i haven't taught

lessons i haven't learned

a me i've never seen

unclimbed stalks from a magic bean

sometimes i'm sad,

'cause sometimes it's hard

seven years without mommy

an embryonic star that dies

one broken heart

two unfulfilled dreams

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& a desperate man telling

lies

rifts in relationships i

imagined were like glue

to escape would be a

dream

but shoot who am i trying' to fool

i'll be here till mother nature

says her work is through

'cause after all

there are friends i haven't met

bridges i haven't walked yet

a man i haven't loved

poems i haven't written

children i haven't made

places i haven't stayed

students i haven't taught

lessons i haven't learned

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a me i've never seen

unclimbed stalks from a

magic bean...

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notions

a child is born

small & unwanted

he grows to play and laugh

as all children do

but his life & love are resented

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a head full of thoughts

wheels always spinning

confusion unravels from his tongue

mommy why this? why that? why not?

& who’s my daddy?

why doesn’t he come to see me?

she looks away

from a replica of

the face

that got her into

this mess

he was young &

stupid

but boy was he

fine

& now he couldn’t

care less

“things would be

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better

if you weren’t here

there’s opportunities i’m missing

& fun i aint gonna have

man this just aint fair

why you got to be here?”

the words were never spoken

but feelings were awoken

of uncertainty, doubt & fear

the words were never spoken

but a bright mind got the notion

“i’m not wanted here”

physically unstable

living in a world of emotional fables

starting a journey with a questionable end

a handsome young man

stood on life’s treadmill

running races he couldn’t win

changing states & leaving places

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where he’d only just arrived

rejecting help due to early beliefs

that had survived & turned into

self-actualizing lies

a life short & unsweet

an equation never solved

a foot away from happiness

with no idea how to evolve

no one heard his dying words

no one was there to hear

young man turned dead man

leaving unanswered questions in the air.

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the sky has doors

the sky is not the limit

they lied

Armstrong will tell you

the sky has doors

it is your imagination that is the limit

i know you've heard it before

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but it merits repeating

free your mind

your happiness cannot breathe until you do

your dreams cannot live

your blessings cannot run amok

like kids out of school

& your spirit will never stand up straight

i tore through this falsely called reality

to stand on the solid ground of freedom

to live life without a ceiling

& without walls

come, fly with me.

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things you might hear on any

ordinary day

winds remain gusty as sunshine emerges throughout the day

good morning

we have a train ahead of us, we’ll be moving shortly

thank you for your patience

get my accountant on the phone, schedule a meeting for us

hold my calls, oh & i’d love some coffee

to go or to stay?

hey sexy

did you hear jason’s mother died?

i like your shoes

see you tomorrow

we have a train ahead of us, we’ll be moving shortly

thank you for your patience

to go or to stay?

hey sexy

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is this yours?

ruff! ruff!

please call 1-800-your credit card is over the limit

hey, we haven’t spoken in a while…

just calling to see how you are,

what you’ve been up to & all that jazz

tonight’s 8:00 movie is…

expect rain tomorrow

hey sexy.

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revelation

seems to me

like you enjoy my sadness

your gloating smirks

assisting me to madness

my heartbreaks stoke your

fire

go ahead, deny

you me God & the devil

know I’m no liar

releasing your venom

as you bottled your humanity

you berated sparks of genius

as you coddled insanity

how happy I am to be free of you

finally immune to your attacks

like atlas when he shrugged

I got your weight off my back.

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reassurance

baby how can i show i love you anymore than this?

i gave up my little black book for this hug & that kiss

why stress me when i look to my left & my right?

you know as well as i do these arms seek you every night

yet you ask you wonder you fret you frown

filling your conversation with an accusational sound

don't punish me for imaginary cruelty & sins uncommitted

i'm in love with you, don't you get it?

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gifts

which one shall i thank you for?

the giggle between friends

sidewalks carpeted with fallen leaves

the tenderness in the conversation between a daddy and his

two year old

the gentleness in the kiss

for life. . .being born

for a strong hand on the

small of my back

for birthing a sun,

for little doggy breath

on my fingers & little doggy

paws on my thighs

for kindness, consideration &

thoughtfulness

for a soft place to fall

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for the love

of writing, whether i’m good at it

or not

for the love of painting, whether i’m good at it or not

for relationships, whether i’m good at them or not

for being passionate, whether i’m understood or not

for music…beats that pump life through me like

oxygen carrying blood

for family, confusing or not

for friends, imaginary or not

for yesterday & today & my expectations of tomorrow

for a magnificent universe & a part in it?

Father, i thank you for all.

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(Adam Clayton Powell, Jr Monument, Harlem NY)

when a man writes a poem

when a man writes a poem

he is a knight in shining ink

wielding a pen for a sword

while inspiring

& stimulating others to think

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hunting justice & passion

he pours out his essence upon

sweet fruit producing soil

he says

i love you

i don’t understand

i’m sorry

i’m looking

i’m waiting

i want to know …

when a man writes a poem

he sires stories

piggy backs numerous offspring he will never know

how many the children of Hughes, of Dunbar,

Thomas, Auden & Poe?

he erects monuments to truth

tears down lying walls

lifts soul, spirit & consciousness

from places his hands could never reach

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caressing hearts, massaging minds,

tickling bellies & ears

he seduces, teases, enlightens,

warms, heats, rocks

he makes love

he makes war

he makes peace

he protects & defends

he is enemy, provocateur, teacher

he is father, brother, lover, friend

when a man writes a poem

he adjust the medicinal glass that makes things clearer

& we journey with him

through mountains & marches,

revolutions & uprisings

parades & palaces, labyrinths & laboratories,

cities, fields, history, heartbreaks

moon bound missions

& we arrive back at ourselves wiser,

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validated & less alone

when a man writes a poem

he concocts potions by which we feel stronger

handing us a polished stone & an eagles feather

he is saying

“look, analyse, ask, live.”

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(Harriet Tubman Monument, Harlem NY)

when a woman writes a poem

when a woman writes a poem

she nurses visions

disciplines errant intentions

& harnesses wild running dreams

“get back here!”

her steel strong, love soft eyes on

the dream that is too young

to know its vulnerability

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she croons regretful, hard learned lessons

into wood pulp, water & starch

while painting herself in a new coat of innocence

she weaves futures from spools of strong will

awareness & insight

her children call her mama Maya & mama Millay

mama Sanchez, what did you say?

& she answers . . .

when a woman writes a poem

she answers rivals, troublemakers, students,

sisters, mother, lovers, foes & friends

“watch what we can do.”

she says while holding hands with the hungry

leading them through dark tunnels

to light filled free land

washing fear stained skin

& dressing ego afflicted wounds

when a woman writes a poem

she roller-skates on rainbows

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as she asks & seeks & searches

napping on clouds

after the fighting, the loving, the laughing

she cooks up a big ‘ole pot of spicy emotion

tenderness & yearning

she is saying

“come on over here, child & taste life.”

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they find him hard to understand

they find him hard to understand

oh, they recognize his skin, his height & weight

as that of a man

it’s his spirit that rattles their equilibrium,

losing their balance in the glare of

freedom’s son

so they greet his effervescence with reticence,

insinuating their superiority by their silence

& his pearls fall among deaf swine

& he’s left wondering if he’s losing his mind

but what happens when freedom’s son cannot run free?

feeling hedged in by the numb, the visionless & wounded by

complacency

must he prove his desirability by shaving off the edges of his

individuality?

ought he alter his soul to fit the mold

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that shapes the masses?

see, they just don’t get him

oh, they know his name, his kin & his address

but it’s his passion for living that disturbs their monolithic asses

so what happens when freedom’s son cannot run free?

you tell me, must he withdraw into the safe interiors of his

cerebellum?

see, i understand him, freedom seeking belle that i am

i’m always talkin’ ‘bout freedom:

freedom now, freedom then, freedom when?

let freedom ring from the the lookout mountain of self-

awareness

& from the hilltop of high self-esteem . . .

so i chase the dream

& i buy some clues & get some free

but i worry, if i gain the world,

will i lose me?

freedom’s daughter/ freedom’s son

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shedding burdens, learning lessons, wearing scars

two colliding stars walking the high wire

of life, love & longevity

arms stretched out for balance, for friendship, for sun,

warmth, precision, refinement & love

free love, a free for all, the best is the free fall,

headfirst into enlightening waters

swimming to undiscovered shores

in a consciousness as beautiful as night

filling with an awareness of an ancient truth:

see, it doesn’t matter what they get or understand

they can’t change the weight, height, skin or depth of the

man,

nor shorten the spread of his wingspan

he is a portion of God on this earth, as i am

as you are, as we are

see, i think you’d get him; you’d be reminded of yourself

now or maybe way back when

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& deep down you’d admire his spunk & want him to win

oh, they think a lot of him too but they stain their admiration

with earthly, demonic envy, fear & assimilation

no matter, freedom’s children will always rise

reflecting ancient truths in their dream chasing eyes

growing to authenticity while embracing peace & mercy

growing to authenticity while embracing peace & mercy

growing to authenticity while embracing peace & mercy

growing to authenticity while embracing peace & mercy

(Martin Luther King Jr. & Malcolm X)

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Note from the author

Why did I call the book Freedom's Daughter? Well, one day

I'm walking down the street and as I am approaching an

older, grey haired, beautifully dressed woman adorned in

African print, she begins talking to me about the restaurant

she was standing in front of. She didn't say "Hi, excuse me..." or

"Let me ask you a question..." She just began talking, as if we

were together, already involved in conversation, were out

shopping and stopped for a rest. Some people might think

that's crazy, odd and continue walking but there was nothing

crazy, odd, dangerous or offensive about this woman. I

stopped and listened and talked with her and after a ten

minute pleasant, amusing, down home-ish (you know what I

mean) conversation, we walked on in our opposite directions.

When she was maybe twenty feet away she turned and

called after me, "You're Freedom's Daughter! That's who you

are; I'm giving you that name!"

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I liked the name; I accepted the name and decided to use it

for the title of my first book, thank you Ma’am.

The poems in this book are taken from the pages of my

notebooks, notebooks I’ve kept for years, filled with quotes

and thoughts, ideas, sketches, dreams. They have been

printed in a raw style with very little editing so as to capture

the spirit in which they were written; freely and without self-

monitoring. I felt it was time to share them with the world in the

hopes that they will give someone somewhere a sense of

being understood, feeling less alone and feeling validated.

The photos all feature street art that I captured with my cell

phone, so unfortunately they aren’t of the highest quality.

They were all taken throughout Brooklyn, Manhattan and

Harlem during 2005-2009, I’d say. I am not able to give credit

to all of the artist and creators of the images in this book but I

deeply thank you for sharing your blessed talent and

creativity. I have the heart of a photographer but not the

professional equipment of one, which brings me to my next

statement. . .

As I said at the outset, this book is dedicated to all of you

visionaries out there, especially you young people, with art,

drawings, paintings, photographs, songs, music, poems, plays,

stories and sculptures to share. Do it, do it yourself and do it

before you’re ready. Someone out there needs to see it, hear

it, read it, feel it. We are no longer in an age of needing to be

approved and edited by larger companies and publishing

houses before we are allowed to share our creations. This is

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the era of Do-It-Yourself. Research, investigate and try. Do

your best. You owe it to yourself, to your art and to the Creator

to find a way to share that which you are and that which can

help, aid, inspire and encourage others.

Go for it and prepare to win because you get what you

prepare for.

Blessings

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