Bloom

Bloom
My Love,
my Moon,
my Muse,
my wide Night Sky,
my sweet lotus flower—
O, sit ol' lotus,
perched upon your pad,
sit & stay with me
a while.

I want to watch
you bloom, under
the rays of the moon, watch
each precious petal
spreading itself
to embrace the Universe.

I cannot bear
to watch you 
hide inside yourself, 
within walls
you would build
to block out
the very light 
that makes you shine.

So be wise
my sweet lotus,
as you wander to ponds
old & new—
your head wants left alone
while your heart wants to roam,
but your spirit will carry you
home.

Blood Moon

My latest Moon poem, composed a couple of days after last week's partially eclipsed Blood Moon...

Blood Moon

My moon bleeds tonight,
not from harm,
but because nothing can stay
Full, forever; everything
must empty
lest it burst.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& I worship her
as I always do,
more so, knowing
tonight we dance
in shadows
so thin,
only I can see—
She feels
the sliver,
like black
thread dragged
across her body,
a taste of the wane
that is coming.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& She will draw me
to her & I will slide
inside & together
We release—release
the world around us
for the Universe
about Us,
release the heart
& the mind
for the spirit
We have been
neglecting,
release resentment
for Love.

My moon bleeds
for me tonight.
¿Will she bleed
for me, again?
Only Destiny
has that answer.
I only know
the moon
must bleed,
as must I,
as must we all.

Firefly

firefly

My Muse
is a firefly
& temptation tells me:
trap her,
capture her
in a jar, screw
on a lid pricked
with just enough
holes to let
her breathe—
trap her so that I can imagine
she fires for me.

But she doesn't.

Fireflies fire
from their desire,
to flee, to breed,
to be! 

So I keep 
my firefly free
of jars or nets
or any constraints,
& she flutters & floats
& flitters about
& she burns,
she burns so bright
she ignites the sky,
& sometimes I catch
her just within sight,
on my right,
& confuse her
for a meteorite—
shooting stardust:
memories
of a Universe
more ancient than gods.

My muse is
a firefly, free
to fire anywhere,
& my blessing is
that she chooses
to burn brightest
near me.

Night Falls

Night falls
& I rise
to meet her,
bury my mountains
deep, so deep
her stars burn me,
turn me, I churn
& erupt
in torrid ash clouds
& magnificent magma.

My Night erupts
simultaneously, 
pouring
forth liquid life,
cooling my fervent fire,
whetting my thirst
in rivers that flow
to form oceans
where only desert—
empty wasteland—
once stood. I would 
be nothing
without Her,
my Night
bearing the water
of Life
to this once
barren Earth—
her air fueling
my fire inducing
her water infusing
my soil seeding
her air until
Creation
has been acheived—
& I am relieved,
knowing She leaves
Me with the arrival
of the Sun,
leaves me
with reminders
of our love,
crawling, swimming,
running, flying—
filling me
until my Night
falls again,
& I rise.

Eight Blades

Eight Blades

You seek security,
safety, freedom
from the things that ail
the World. Would
that it were so simple,
so easy to escape 
problems inherent 
in probability.
 
I know You feel 
You might have found
a viable option,
the one solution
to making it
through this cruel,
cruel world,
& it lies in the arms
of another,
another who can offer
a simpler life,
a life free
of the concerns
the rest of us
have to face
head on.

Do You truly not see
that what You think
is security,
safety, freedom,
is merely an illusion,
a mirage made
specifically for You?

You will enter that oasis
only to learn, too late,
that you are trapped
in a desert,
condemned
to survive in a jail 
with no walls,
surrounded 
only by dry,
lifeless sand
for untold miles
everywhere you turn,
no water to bear
anywhere you stare,
no Life to share: 
a prison disguised
as paradise.

My Love,
my LOVE,
my undying love,
these are not my words,
these are prophecies
handed down by the gods
your would be jailer 
does not even believe in!

Eight blades. Eight
blades jammed
into the sand, 
into the Earth,
driven deep 
within my heart,
& You stand
fastened to one,
easily able to free
yourself, but only
by choice,
only by Will,
only by the wisdom
You try to deny.

Please, please
my Love,
my One & only
True Love, listen
to my counsel:
the answers You seek
will not be found
by looking
for Oases
that do not exist; only
within our own heart,
within your own mind,
within your own spirit,
never in the arms
of another 
too simple
to understand 
the complexity of You.

You know
I’m right. Denial
will serve no purpose,
except to drag
out  the inevitable
& expand the pain
someone will have to suffer
in the end.

The sooner You free
yourself from this
prison mistaken
for paradise,
this iron maiden
of the mind,
the sooner You can accept
that You cannot substitute
fate for Destiny,
the sooner You can begin
to be the difference
in this cruel,
cruel world,
& not just one 
of its remainders.

Alchemy

alchemy
I’m just the Fool, 
Nothing, Zero,
crying at the back
of the bus, Muse
blowing through
my head because
my muse is so far
from me, drifting,
drifting, still
drifting away,
& toward,
& the pain
weighs on me
because holding up
the sky alone
is no easy task—
ask Atlas—shrugging
is no option.

So I cry,
the Fool
at the back
of the bus,
& I hide
my tears
behind her mirrorshades,
wipe with a wedding
napkin, hoping
that I might
still have a chance
at that dream,
because that's what fools do:
dream the impossible.

Nothing is impossible
for the Fool whose
muse finds the Will
to drift back to him, 
finds the Words
to awaken him,
finds the Way
to infuse
her power 
with his—
power to transmute 
nothing into something, 
Zero to One—
to slay a Fool 
to make room 
for the Mage.

Cake

Cake

Let him eat cake.
Let him gorge
himself on that
sweet confection,
until his face
explodes
in streams of
colorful confetti.

Flour, sugar, eggs, butter—
Go on. Have another!

Enjoy every morsel.
Lick every last, lingering
crumb from your filthy, 
flaccid lips.
 
You’ll never taste the icing.

Cyclops

“Stranger, you are a fool, or else you know nothing of this country. Talk to me, indeed, about fearing the gods or shunning their anger? We Cyclopes do not care about Jove or any of your blessed gods, for we are ever so much stronger than they.”—Polyphemus

You’d like to think
me Οὖτις,
no one of consequence,
a mere Fool, lost
in the wilderness,
but you’d be wrong.

You are the one
unworthy to be
my rival, my equal,
my superior.

I may be Nobody,
but you are nothing,
nothing but an uncouth
cyclops feeding
from my crew,
coveting what is mine.

I pity you, Polyphemus
condemned to see
the world through
a hub, only fit
to cast straightforward
glances, always
missing the periphery,
blind to the Universe
outside of your myopic 
vision. 

Narrow vision leads
to a narrow mind.

& it will take nothing
but my guile
to intoxicate you,
to drive my spear
through that eye,
blind you so that even
your savage world
goes black.

Throw stones,
if you must,
curse Nobody
as if it were my name,
cry to the Gods
you have no faith in, 
shout for your father,
that wrathful Poseidon;
it will not help
your cause.

As you draw the spear
from your eye,
I will already be flying,
sailing back to my dear
Penelope. 

I will climb
the topmast
& reveal 
my true name,
you will know it,
and say it,
& curse Creation.

Cursed, perhaps
I’ll be, but I can’t
let you trap me,
even your father—
Tosser of Tempests—
can only delay
me. Nothing
can stop me,
keep me
from returning
home, returning
to the arms
of my sweet
Penelope. 

The Longest Day

Another Poem inspired by Nüt & Geb

 The Longest Day

How long must I burn
under this cruel Sun,
expose myself
to the light
when all I want
is darkness? 

I miss my Night,
cloaked in her blueblack
robe full of the infinity
of stars, spread
only for me, 
to show the Moon
glowing in her womb.

There existed only me,
& Her, & our lust. 

But Shu, in wisdom,
knew The Earth
needed Life,
needed to grow,
needed to prosper,
& He blew
us apart
with a promise:
Soon enough
my Love & I
will be reunited,
if only for a few, 
brief hours,
until that Sun,
that cruel, cruel sun,
returns to chase
Her away.

I already hate
the Sun,
& it's only 
the first day.

The longest day.

So I wait
for this day
to give way,
for this Sun
to drown
in the horizon,
for Night to descend,
to envelop me
as she once did,
to fill me
with her darkness,
to dazzle me
with her stars. 

Will this day never end? 

Won't the Sun
at least suspend
His cruelty long
enough for me
to simply taste
the bliss that is
my Night,
my Night,
my precious
Night?

Purgatory

Purgatory

I put You through Hell,
so I suppose I deserve
no less than purgatory.
 
I must climb
that mountain alone,
without You. 
There is no other path
to redemption,
to forgiveness,
no other way
to wash
these wounds.

So I will begin
by scaling Pride,
bearing the stone
of my own creation
upon my bare back.
I will stare down
on my way up,
learning to see
everything beneath me
with more clarity.

Envy seems easy,
as I have a generous spirit;
but here too,
there is work to do,
to roam with my eyes
sewn shut
until I learn to listen
to my heart,
to stop hating
those ready to take
what I’ve lost.
Ownership is
only arbitrary.

I will rise
above Wrath,
allow my meek 
nature to shine
through, not let
myself be blinded,
choked,
by wrath’s acrid 
smoke & seek
harm for those
who’ve caused
me pain.

I shall not be beaten
by Sloth, by my desire
to fold,
to hide,
to die
in the face
of each failure, 
to get lost
in perpetual mourning.
Rather, I must work,
keep busy,
keep moving,
keep living,
for death before dying
is a Hell in Life,  
a perilous prison
in whose residence
my soul would only rot.

I will glide
through Greed,
as my desire
for things, for riches,
for great gain,
has never been
debilitating.
My desires have always
lain elsewhere.

Nor am I saddled
with Gluttony,
being One of
moderation,
for the most part.
That is not to say
that there are not times
when temperance
is needed,
when I allow
myself to get lost
in the smoke
forgetting how Holy
the fumes are. 

Lust.
Ah, Lust!
How to even begin
battling those flames,
fighting the fire
that consumes me
for You? Here,
like Dante, I
will lie in wait,
afraid to face
my flaws.
Here, You must be
my Virgil, reminding
me that only in
risking getting burned
can I ever hope
to reunite
with my own,
beloved Beatrice.

& here I will summit,
each sin purged,
brushed away
by the wings
of angels.
I will summit,
reach Paradise,
find my innocence, 
redemption,
forgiveness. 

Yet I am full
of fear,
fear that for all
my climbing,
for all my penance, 
I will learn much,
but earn nothing:
No Beatrice to guide
me through Heaven,
No Love to fly me
over the hard,
cold rock I have
traveled. But I cannot 
allow fear to stop me. 

I walk this path to heal,
not to be rewarded. 
Your Love is a gift
which I must be prepared
to never receive, again.
But I tell you,
My Love,
MY LOVE, 
It is what drives me.

If You do ever offer
Your blessing again,
to feel Heaven again,
I swear to keep it
Holy, for Heaven 
is no place 
for the lowly.

Spiral

Spiral

I

know

right

know

it

feels

like

all

is

out

of

control,

like Life

is

just

spiraling out

from

under

You,

like

no one,

no thing

is

there

to slow

your

mad

descent

from

your

shattered

tower

into

the dark.

Not so.

The Universe never let you go.

Jealousy

Penelope unweaving her father's burial shroud

Jealousy

I’m not blind
to the subtle
changes: new
passwords,
emailboxes,
making certain
that your facebook
is always logged off,
your face
perpetually booked
into your phone,
the way your eyes
& lips smile slyly
when you’re flirting—
the way they once smiled
for me—
stories
that add up,
but don’t.

Subtle, except
in sum, & I expect
not as subtle to some
less dumb than I
have been of late.

& I find
myself
jealous,
not because other men can touch
you, I know they can’t,
but because they reach you
like I once could,
like I once did:
with a word
or a glance
or a smile,
because they can reach
you more easily than I can
with little more than a text.

So, forgive me
my baseless suspicions,
excuse my infinity
of questions,
ignore
the self-inflicted
anxieties laying waste
to me from the inside
out. I was the One
to make a mess
of things, the One
who allowed the suitors
to swarm
during my selfish
odyssey.

I will return
to hold the high
place in your heart
I once did,
& you will not
have to undo
the burial shroud
you shrewdly weave.

I will return
& I will see
your eyes
& lips smile
slyly
for me
again,
& jealousy
will die
painfully,
like each & every
one of Penelope’s
suitors. 

Nothing

This one was part of an exercise to complete the beginning of someone else's poem, in this case, Katherine Foreman's "Washed Away."

Nothing

Nothing's changed 
except me
& the facts
& the sadness
I didn't mean to start.
But it feels different
now you've said
it's wrong,
& I can finally feel
your point.

Everything you asked for 
I gave, save for the few, odd
fuck-ups—granted, that ONE
was huge—Pandora
opening the box big.
But were any so fatal,
so final to warrant
such contempt, such
abject disdain?
What can I do to get you back
in joint?

It stings
that I have fallen 
out of your favor,
that the adoration
that once shined
in your bright eyes
for me has dulled,
like fish dead too long
& knowing
that every word
I write for you,
every deed done,
no longer carries
weight. I might
as well be blowing
bubbles & watching
them pop
when they touch
your prickled skin.

Your love for me
has been tainted,
painted by my procrastination,
flavored by my apathy
& I can buy you
lots of pretty things,
& shiny rings
& gossamer wings
to complement
your angelic nature,
but none of that will change
how you feel, right now.
Nothing will change,
except me,
& the facts,
& the sadness.

Sky

Sky
Open the Sky for me.

Let me see the beauty that lies

underneath, the air of Life,

the bearer of stars.

I am not worthy of such glory,

a greater Fool than me

does not exist, but if the Sky

will let me peek

under Her glorious clouds,

my gratitude will be shown

in eternal

worship.

I Do Not Need & The Fall

I Do Not Need 

I do not need to kiss you,
hold you, fuck you.
I don't even need to touch you.
I only need you close
enough to smell that sweet
scent that reignites
the fire that has consumed
me during your absence.

The Fall

I am a leaf—goldredbrown
Drifting down,
Fluttering around
Until I hit
The ground
where I will lie
Until I dessicate,
Whither & dry.

I will become hard,
Brittle, resisting the Earth
That is calling me
Until the sky cries,
Her grace crowning me
King, & I swell
Full of just enough
Life to accept
My fate.

Less Than Self

How is One
supposed to Love 

selflessly
when all that One
has ever received
is love tied to strings
or grandiose things
or worship, which
is not Love at all,
but a need to believe
in someone, something; 

when all that One 
has ever known 
has been a lie, 
or little more 
than inconvenient truth, 
or love out of convenience, 
out of proximity: 
nothing from nothing 
leaves nothing, 

 or less? 

One can learn, 

perhaps only after breaking, 
often destroying, 
the only person 
to ever offer 
selfless Love, 
the one person  
who needed 
Love the most; 
but One was too blind 
& ignorant 
to even realize. 

In Love’s loss, in lost Love’s pain, 
the lesson is learned, 
but often too late 
at a cost that’s too great. 

The Jewel & The Shogun

The Shogun got locked up, again.
The Shogun’s spent quite a bit of his life
locked up, but The Jewel isn’t concerned
about this. The Jewel’s concerned
with how much of their time
together The Shogun will spend locked up.
The Jewel’s concerned with whether to pay
her gas & electric or her rent. She can’t
afford both.

The Jewel’s a sweet girl, sometimes
too sweet. A few weeks ago, her bestie
used $150 worth of her Food Stamp money
& never paid her back. The Jewel has a hard
time turning men down. This often gets
her into trouble. She knows this,
so she’s trying to stay celibate
for The Shogun. That’s really fucking
hard because sex is her favorite thing,
& there’s really nothing else
to do. She can’t watch TV. She can’t
use her computer.

The Jewel’s neighbor, The Yoruban, let’s
her come over to charge her phone. She
was fucking him, until he started getting creepy,
saying shit like, “This pussy’s mine, right?
Tell me this pussy’s mine,” & she decided
to stay away from him. Then she lost her power.

The Jewel recently
rededicated herself
to The Shogun, so she has resisted
the attempts by The Yoruban
to take ownership of her cunt,
especially after learning
that The Shogun will only lose
2 years, plus time served,
which with good behavior could end
up being 18 months or less.

The Shogun got locked up for selling $20
worth of weed. No big deal,
except he was still on probation
for that time he hit that cop. He’s lucky
he’s not serving the rest of his 20 year
sentence. The Shogun’s lucky to have someone
sweet & nonjudgmental, like The Jewel,
willing to wait.

The Jewel won’t.
Eventually, The Jewel will give
in to The Yoruban,
or to one of her many
other suitors. It doesn’t matter,
as long as The Shogun thinks
she’s true, as long as he has something,
someone to rely on, to lessen the weight,
to soften the time, as long as The Jewel
shines.

The Jewel can be honest,
or The Jewel can be true.
She can’t afford to be
both.

These Words Are My Children

Danae—Gustav Klimt, 1907

...written some time ago, between 2003 & 2007... ...found today when browsing through old journals.

These Words Are My Children

These words are my children,
floating freely in the lukewarm womb
of my mind, incubated
in the darkest valleys, fed
from my fears & frustrations,
my fury & futility, my fire
& foreboding—floating,
spinning, fighting, kicking
until it feels like I can no longer
hold them in, as if they were about to burst
forth in some great eruption of blood
& brains & meaningless verse.

These words are my children—
each one delivered to the world
after hours, days, years of hard
labor—the more I force,
the more they fight. I push
& push & they dig,
dig their claws into my skull. Would
that it were as simple
as an episiotomy to bring them forth;
I would slice my mouth straight
across & live
at peace with my jagged grin,
if it would promise to ease the pain.
Yet, at the very brink of despair
they ease out—precious
& unsafe. 

These words are my children—
infants to be molded & metered,
measured & mothered
until they have matured
enough to meet the world.
I am sad
when they leave me.
I am ashamed.
My children
lost in a world
where their power
slowly dwindles,
where they will be left
unloved, unappreciated, discarded
& forgotten—lost
in a world where apathy
reigns & truth is devoid of meaning.
& I, their once proud mother,
must suffer 
that pain worse than labor.
I must watch my children
die. 

These words are my children—
but alas, I cannot protect them.
They are doomed:

These words are not fertile
enough to feed you.
These words are not elusive
enough to free you.
These words are not intelligent
enough to teach you.
These words are not gentle
enough to touch you.
These words are not powerful
enough to incite you.
These words are not even eloquent
enough to express how much I love
you.

These words are just my children—
from my lips to your ears,
from my hands to your eyes, looking
for homes in your hearts where they might live
forever,
if not for the cold,
iron bars.

Saint Trayvon

Why Trayvon Martin’s killer may go free, & why that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

I started this article over a year ago, when the wounds of Trayvon Martin’s death were still fresh. I never finished it, in part, because the emotions were still so raw. There hadn’t been enough time to process what had happened to that young man who only wanted to get back home with his Skittles & tea and watch basketball, only rage and disgust. Then there was the feeling that nagged me, a sense that Trayvon Martin’s killer might get off. The rage and disgust are gone–not gone, never gone–subsided; but I still can’t shake that feeling.

Keeping up with the case, as presented so far, the prosecution has done a fine job of establishing many of the facts, but a number of the prosecution’s witnesses have played into the hands of the defense. Some of the testimony has bolstered their claims that, at the moment of the shooting, it was the killer who felt his life was in danger, that regardless to what happened prior to the shooting, the killer thought he needed to kill in order to survive.

Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter...

Read the rest of the story on my latest From the Bottom Up on The Urban Twist.

Moon Madness

Spring cleaning & I found these poems I started during Shirley Brewer's moon poetry workshop at the January 2013 MWA Baltimore Chapter meeting:

Rave

The music is so loud

it feels like it’s coming
from within, each bass
beat expelled
with my breath. I am
surrounded by neon soldiers
spinning, popping, rocking

nodding. They dance in dreams
fueled by ecstasy & immortality.

I am mesmerized

by the movements
of these modern

day whirling

dervishes, oblivious

to eyes

like mine.

Even the yo-yos

being spun, glowing

on fluorescent strings,

dozens of tiny moons

in awkward orbits,

beguile me.

Disconnect

Do you remember brighter days,

days  when I stayed
close, days when your extended
arms could not be wrapped
around me?

Do you recall those times
so long ago when you could climb
a mountain, and if your heart
was big enough, you could leap
from the peak & I could catch

you in my fullness?

Of course not. We were

so much closer then, back when

you worshiped me, revered me,

coveted my cheese. I loved you

then. But now? Now you have

grown up, grown old, grown

bitter & cynical.

I have become nothing

but cold rock to you.

Painting the Moon

I cried the night I realized
Gustav Klimt had painted

the moon. Before then

it was nothing more

than a ball

of rock, battered & broken,

sterile & lifeless.

And then came Yem,

a muse sent by the moon

itself—sent to show me

that its vitality lied

not in the presence of life

but in the weight

of our souls.

So, for Yem,

I went to art school.

I learned to see the life

in everything—nothing

existed in a vacuum

when I could make it all

breathe.

Like a willo’wisp

returning to woods

Yem winked out

before I could catch

her. Rumors were

she had to go

home, home

to money claiming

playtime was over.

So I mourned

for her. I climbed

to the rooftop and screamed

at the moon until I was raw.

I saw

it then, the face

was Judith’s;

tonight, she held

my severed head,

Holofernes’ rejected.

I cried.

I cried for Yem.

I cried for myself.

I cried most now knowing

everything had life,

everything

but me.