ConversationPiece

Excerpt from Littlee Ghetto Boy (The Prayer)

May your heart stay soft and open
In a place that teach you stone
May your name sound good in rooms
Where they don’t expect you shown
May your hunger find a table
May your feet learn when to run
May you know when silence saves you
May you speak when it’s time to come

May your hope survive the headlines
May your joy don’t get misread
May you never learn to hate yourself
For the things they never said

Dreams too big for where you’re from
May you make it home with one

May your dreams outgrow the block
Without forgetting where you’re from
May your losses not define you
May your wins don’t leave you numb
May your hands stay clean of anger
May your spine stay straight and true
May you find a better mirror
When the world keeps lying to you

Gold E 2026

“They wrote you off before you even wrote your name,
but you’re still here.
And here ain’t the end.”

I write when it comes to me.
I didn’t plan to post this in the middle of the storm —
but it was storming, and I felt the pain in my pen.

Maybe that’s exactly where this belongs.

For the warriors still walking through it.
For the ones holding it together quietly.

💙 This one’s for you.

"I hail from a sunburst on the north shore,
Nile waters drip from my fingertips,
they glisten from my pouty lips
and baptize my shadow before it even hits the ground.
And the ashen calloused heel as it stomps the earth?
That’s a good vibration to my ears."

From "Good Vibration"—this is ancestry, rhythm, and presence in motion. I carry the sun, the river, the weight of generations, and the sound of every step. The earth hums beneath me, and I hum right back.

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ConversationPiece ConversationPiece – A Sonic & Literary Journey by John “Gold E” Early ConversationPiece isn’t just a book—it’s an experience. A collection of 30 original works, this project peels back the layers of a

I love my room, it has shape and boundary
My thoughts stay in place there
I can let them out, they dance about
but always come back to my head.
Sometimes I watch them float around
passing in and out of my mind as if
they exist but I don’t.
But this; this is different
this lets my thoughts escape,
I try hard not to have them so they won’t leak out
and be gone with the wind

Fom "Chime" 2008

"The sky don’t always promise blue,
but here I am, standing—
in the gray, in the haze,
with my feet planted like roots,
like I forgot how to run.
Storm clouds got a language of their own,
whispers stitched with thunder in the sun,
raindrops talking like they know my name—
but I don’t flinch.
I’ve learned in my many years
to let the sky do what it do.
I don’t need sunshine to prove I’m alive."

From ~Footprints in the Pause
JEarly 2025

"In the rain, I see their faces, feel their presence, but they are no longer here to hold me up when I stumble. Their laughter, once a shield against the world’s cruelty, is now just an echo, faint and distant. The burden of their absence is heavy, but I carry it, because who else will?""

From ~Eternal Downpour

JEarly 2024

I ain’t no knight in shinin’ armor,
just a brother wrapped in midnight,
with dreams that wander like jazz solos,
trying to find their way back home.
But every time I step out,
they see me as too strong or too wild—
a storm they can’t predict,
a fire they can’t tame.
But love?
I want it just the same."

From ~A Black Mans Blues

A whisper of Light

As I assume it is with most artists, I try to look at the world in the spaces between breaths, I see light bending and slipping through the fingers of dawn, like the soft exhale of the earth itself. I look for beauty in the quiet dance of shadows along the water’s edge when the sun reaches over the trees to kiss the dew, turning the ordinary into a moment suspended in gold.

To the passerby, this scene may seem ordinary—a fleeting glance, a moment quickly forgotten. But to an artist, this is a masterpiece in motion, the pulse beneath their feet, the heartbeat of something ancient and unspeakably beautiful. I love to listen to the rustle of leaves as though it were the first language, we watch as the morning light dances across the still water, holding in its rays the promise of a thousand unseen tomorrows.

Yes I see all of this passing by in my car. When I do, I try not to miss the opportunity stop and capture it so I can admire it over and over

He is a prolific poet, whose words
dance like liberated autumn leaves, each
stanza and verse painting the triumphs
and tribulations of being Black in a
world colored by contrasting hues
of understanding and ignorance. His
unsheathed pen a weapon of metaphor
pierces souls and ignites the flames of
change. His prose, a brush upon the
canvas of humanity, leaving vibrant stains
of wisdom and empathy...

From ~Renissance Man

A wise woman knows the importance of speaking life into her man. If she truly loves him; believe in him encourage him and be his peace. She lets her love be the fierce force that demands

authenticity, growth, and the courage to face his inner demons.
She takes the time to learn how to challenge him, how to push him beyond his comfort zone, all the while respecting who he is and who he is destined to be.

She holds the unwavering belief that he can rise to any occasion. Because a wise woman knows, deep in her bones, that love isn't about molding a man into someone he's not. It's about celebrating his true essence, flaws and all, while fanning the flames of his potential, helping him to become the best version of himself.

It's a delicate art, this speaking life into a man, and she wields it with the grace of a seasoned alchemist, transforming doubt into confidence, fear into courage, and a flickering ember into a roaring fire.