He cast off his clothes
and his soul he laid bare
as he knelt with his nose
to the floor in prayer
then someone mistook
his crack for a rack
and parked the front wheel
of their bicycle there...

Have you tasted
A campfire?

Have you seen
Polaroids fade?

Have you felt
The sand sparks?

     We howled at the moon.
          Our youth in full bloom.

               Our collective pasts
               Biting at ankles;
               In strength we held fast
               Denying shackles!

           Demons will come soon.
     We’ll conquer at noon.

Have you heard
Our trumpet?

Have you smelt
Victory?

But, more import
Would you like to?

Calling Kettles

                  'Come little children
            The night is for you to play
            Thy zeitgeist of tomorrow
                  Is thee spell for today'


                  Kettle Late Brewing
                   Petal Fate Stewing
                      Flora & Fauna
                  We Calling To You


               Harvesters With Scythe

                     Reap, Sow, Rise


                      Glory Of Rule
             Compassionate Or Cruel
                Dionysus and Gordius
                    Be Calling To You

              Choose, Midas, Choose

                  Green Flame Burn
                   For All You Yearn
                    Grab Our Kettle
                 To Test Your Mettle
                 Dire Desire Within
                   We Beseech You
              

              Torture He Adores You
                              In
               Dungeon de' grimace
                (In) Fortitudes Feast
             (We) Replete the Fittest
          (Go) And Challenge Our Rule

                    Fall, Harlot, Fall

                Under The Sun of Rot
                     Thy Within Skin
            Grace Our Markets In Soul
                 Grace Here Is Cheap
                  Fresh Souls To Reap
        
                  Rise, Harvest, Rise

             Thy Blessings Churning
              In Yesterday's Learning
                All Things Crawling
                 Filthy & Squirming
                    In Turning Fruit
           Plucked In Your Yearning
         Our Kettles Be Calling To You
         Our Kettles Be Calling To You'

I do love my little egg cup,
His brother much the same,
He holds my egg so perfectly;
Boiled eggs are not a game.

They bounce about for 4 minutes
Before they take their test,
They need a place to hold them straight;
My egg cups are the best.

When the soldiers are awaiting,
Those buttered friends of mine,
I need my little egg cups
To keep them all in line.

They come with little cosy hats
To hide their eggy heads,
I take it off and just like that;
Prepare for eggy bread!




© Karen L Hamilton, 2013

Momma brought me up to fear
all of those four-letter words.
Two times two combinations that
stirred my interest and made me wonder.
Four-letters that I would
string together and spout off
louder and prouder than
a freshly lit firecracker
spinning and spitting on hot July pavement.
The same four letters that
slapped my fingers, flicked my lips,
lathered my mouth with bitter bar soap
and coated my tongue
with crushed red pepper
until there was nothing left
to touch
to speak
to chew
to taste
but my cautious curiosity surrounding
a apprehension of language that I refused
to acknowledge.

And when I grew up, like most little girls do,
I kept my nose in my books
straitlaced, like Momma asked,
and I learned
about my freedom of speech
and his freedom of speech
and her freedom of speech
and the same freedom of speech
that celebrates our right to use all words
in any order—
four letters or not.
In those same books, I learned that
freedoms come with their own price.
And trust me, I’m no stranger to their
single-syllable ugliness.
It’s their power to elicit such reactions
that makes them such forbidden fruits—
such juicy, delectable flesh at that.

In that same vein, I read the bible too,
and I know
when Eve bit into that apple,
homegirl wanted a little more than to just
keep the doctor away.
She wanted her own mind.
She wanted the same freedom that comes
with those four-letter words,
and she wanted the power
to fire them at Adam as she saw fit.
After all, her mother didn't
give her that mouth—
God himself did, and He knew
how that story would unfold.

But now I’ve grown up
and read a lot of things,
I understand those freedoms.
I respect them and use them
to color my communication as necessary.
I weave them into poetry and stories,
paint them with lush inks
and let them drip down
from once naked pages.

The truth though?
There may be one four letter word
that I’m afraid to speak,
and it has no mother-given stigma at all.
Anyone can tell you, its four letters
have more power than
any curse or swear ever conjured
by the evercreative tongue of man.
I keep it hidden in the thick of my throat;
locked away
until the L
the O
the V
the E
sheds its skin
and transforms into something
that I won’t refuse to acknowledge—
until I find my freedom
to scream it without a care
for its never-ending consequences.

Yeah, Momma should’ve of warned me
about that one.

****.

--------------------

When red ran from the sand.

From the depths, rose a creature quite old.
Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold
It anchored itself, and gave no expression
The strength of its shell, shook in depressions
Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection.
Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections.

The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name—
Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed.

--------------------

When red ran from his hand.

Trees are felled, and the humans displace:
Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space.
Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief—
The sounds of its guests, find little relief.
For its pride is valued, and cut for a price
Hard decisions made—it is life’s device.

Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh.
Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh.

---------------------

When red in hand and land.

Oceans to flood, new depths to behold
Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!”
She tires of our, meandering session;             
Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions.
Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection!
As humans propel, in that direction…

In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame.
Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same!

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