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      Artist captures feeling of 9/11, daughter's birth in poetry

      Bluz performing in Charlotte (used with permission)

      CHARLESTON, S.C. (WCIV) -- A spoken word poet in Charlotte, NC took to Facebook Wednesday to share how he explained the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2001 with his young daughter.In his post, Boris "Bluz" Rogers explained that his daughter, who was born just days before the attacks, asked about what happened and what it all meant."Being born on Sept 4, this day is like, for most born close to 9-11 prior or post, a looming shadow," he said. "I answered her the best I could but I felt like I didn't do her curiosity justice."It's a challenge that faces many parents and this one put his feelings down on paper in the form of a spoken word poem, commemorating not just the tragedy of the attacks, but the birth of his baby girl.there was a time in my youth,some placeknee deep in my enormous innocencethat I thought,no,I knew that dragons were realfireflies were made of actual fire, miracles and magic lived in everyoneand that planes made cloudshow the puffy white smoke would spout out of the jet enginelike some Dr Seuss cloud-a-matic inventionflown by two kidsthat looked like meexcept that they might be whiteand from Whoville or what town or someplace citybut for a time in my mind that was the truthwhen you were bornplanes clouded the sky with noise and smoke linesleaving evidence of their departure from some destinationand on sunny daysclear daysyou could find a patch of the coolest green grasslay on your back, track their pathsmake a wish to be in a first class seat to go wherever they're goingor to leave whatever they're running fromseemed easyto dobecause when you're born planes were everywhereas abundant as birds and fireflies,with the taste of freedom in their wingssteel gracemetal defying its weight and deciding to flyit's a marvel and if it weren't for the science of it allyou would say it was a miracle or even magiclike you, when you were bornI looked at you with complete love and panicand the first crazy train wreck of a thought rushed through the quiet town of my brainwhat have I gotten myself into?who are you?what a little strange stranger you areyou should have a name,I silently asked well what did God call youclearly clichethinking you must be one of his angelsGifted from heaven,so he had to call you something blah blah blahat the time, I was so high off the feeling of being a father for the first timethat I was waxing real poetic, almost to the point of vomitbut then the reality set inthis kid was mine,like for realthis miracle, marvel of magicwas depending on me to get my life togetherso I did, I got a job teaching kidsreading, writing, arithmeticthat's what old folks call mathnumbers, digits, addition, subtraction and the likeand for the first 6 days I was likethis being dad thing is coolI had a bunch of plansa ton of things I would teach youlike how to ride a bike or tie a shoe,how to properly make a righteous fist to fight injustice withor punch a boy in the face if you needed toyou know, things a lil' girl living in this dangerous and hypocritical world would needor at least as a much as an over protective father could conceivebut on day 7on a clear day,a sunny daya few air traffic controllers, and several hundred New Yorkers traced the paths of planesright into the Twin Towers of World Tradeit was not miracle,it was not magicit was metal remembering its weight and destructionpiercing a pentagon, scorching a field making ashes of heroesreminding usthat it was not meant to fly,peacefullyas if it were angry at our audacityto believe we could be a part of the skywe were reminded that we are fragile little humanssome of us passionate and pissed enough to fly planes into buildingsand I was remindedon day 7 after you were bornheaven was going to be collecting for your arrival,it was as if God gave you to mebut I failed to examine the fine print properlyso little angel,little whatever your real name isI know that there were days when planes left our sky blank and silentas the day Picasso or Native Americans remembered itbefore they decided to paint on a wall of earth or canvasthose were days I canvassed the skysearching for noisefor the lines, for the evidence of departure to some destinationleft for small fingers and imaginations to traceto a place to escapebut there was no trace,no imprint in the sky to say a plane had flown therebut I'm sure whispers of angel wings were everywhereif we could only have been without enough sin to see itinstead we were wondering which kind of suicide those trapped in the building had to decideeither to burn aliveor take a leap of faith and try to fly..hoping God would trace a path back to heavenwith Miracle or MagicI believed in bothI believed God is an awesome miracle, promise keeper, and even better magicianmaster of the slight of handhad me so focused on your birth that would never see death slip inon a clear day,a sunny dayI'm reminded of the give and take of this lifeThe snatch and switchThe sun and moon in combat with the clouds and starsFor position in an empty skyLooking' to be noticed or wished onOr believed inlike magic or miracleYou are what I believe inPlanes loaded with Godwith a flight path to HeavenSteel dragons from a fairytale, from my youthare now a 9-11 bedtime storythat I tell to explain what this day meansSo I start withWhen you were bornI remembered how planes clouded the skylike Godlike dragons and firefliesit was magicit was miracle~Boris "Bluz" Rogers

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