reality is
that plants and man
go hand in hand
that plants mans
right hand man
that mans hand
is strengthened through
plants.
plants blood
feeds man.
mans bones
feed plants.
no plants no man.
the relationship is
symbiotic.

reality is
freedom is a birthright
of all born.
freedom to do as
one yearns, pulled toward.
concrete somehow tricks
our feet into believing we are free.
though we do not hear
the message of the beat
the tune of the heat
emanating from the earth.
we miss steps, tricked by concrete.
our egos need a check.

reality is
all are symbiotic relationships.
no you no me.
I only see me because
I can see me next to you.
same with plants.
life is not linear
or clean, the dirt you sweep up
is meant for you to breath.
vibrissae deal in exclusive ways,
only allowing nutrients
and B12 in.
mysophobia is a dis-ease of the mind.

reality is
we are cut off from our home.
from our air
from our dirt
and our plants.
they too miss us.
the wisdom of life is long
the proof to **** linearity.
the trees call us to honor our bond
to sound the alarm
calmly, in the dream state
so all touch the vibration.

they call to us always.
their dreams need our ears
our hands release the inspiration
of us, together, symbiotically
creating.

She awakens from her slumber
in December… days before winter.
una siesta corta.
perhaps a new normal
arrivals of color and buds
preparing for spring,
bubbling with excitement
perhaps confusion.
more likely a form of
adaptation. perhaps it will take
us longest to adapt.

She awakens to a streaked sky
clouds of new normals
that funnel and vanish
before your very eyes.
causing me to think, I'm losing my vision.
but they actually vanish before your eyes.
I've been watching clouds for
a while now… perhaps a new normal.

She awakens to new smells
senses chemical reactions in the air
that may be confusing her.
or they themselves
are changing her climate.
producing new mixtures,
the chemistry lessons of space.

I wonder what the trees
in the desert are experiencing.
is the Mesquite wrestling
with whether or not
to send that energy to her leaves,
wondering if her dears need her seeds.
I wonder what our friend thinks,
and I see what she wanted me to see.
the energy of the populace
continues to fade
so my sensing keeps improving.

She's waking up here…
I welcome her presence,
always.
this is not a poem
of discontent.
yet a message through my
sense, as it grows,
I just need to get this up off my chest!

electromagnetically
feelings occur,
responsive to going ons,
pineal gland awakens the senses.

and almost every woman has heard it
"you're so emotional."
so electromagnetically aware
and we don't remember this,
now,

the womb,
the beat maker,
she tunes the
energy of the babe.
mothers wave of
waves fractionally
lay a deep foundation
of the babes waves.
I tell my children
if they can't find me
to look in their hearts
I reside there…
my rhythm, my beat, my heat
lives on.

my womb
charged that spark
that started the parting
of molecules
fractionally
creating its imagine
time and time again, (as we do)
until, begin again,
a new life.
rest your head upon my chest
child
for a recharge.

in our civilized world
we send mothers to work
in a make believe cycle of need.
babes heart searches
for mamas tone
she only cries short
cautious of overspent energy
first dose of sickness.

and EVERY woman has heard it…
"you're so emotional"
notably more so
during some part of her
moon cycle.
so obviously the moon
is more electromagnetic
than we guess.

and women are more emotional
because we are the heart
of the species.
we co-create the heart
of the species.
we require the emotional
antenna
to summon the essence of the heart.

we didn't come from a rib…
our ribs vibrate the
harmony of life through our time!
our hearts beat
the pulse of the
sun
and the dark side of the moon
and infinity.
we are electromagnetically
inclined to emotions.
systematically processing
the energy of existence.

perhaps the first title I will accept
a claim upon my being,
the feminine sensitive.

Hey, I don't mean any offense, but man,
your lyrics lack essence!

Walking disasters with their gang signs and excuses
of artistic freedom spit out words
and pass it off as lyrics;
with their rebellious attitudes,
rhymes from ******* to *******;
addicted, afflicted, constricted, predicted.
Please.
Words you produce
are misused, overused.
With twenty-six letters and endless combinations,
your lyrics sound more like quotations!
I've heard those stories before.
If you want to stand out,
stand up
and walk through disasters.
I want words
that stir,
that move,
that breathes
a different air into these lungs
who's tired of clones and copies,
words that no longer shake this body.
I want words of liberation,
acclamation of passions,
filtration of frustrations,
words of sensations,
plantations and gestations
of hope and light,
strength that will keep me in sight
of the goals in the Fight.
Now that
is artistic freedom.

*—S.C., October 2, 2014

Chains on my heart, squeezing
Chains on my legs, chaffing
Chains on my mind, breaking
Chains on my soul, crushing

Babylon is my prison
Shared with my reggae crew
The keepers all bald
My visitor: you

My poems bring freedom and fat reggae beats
A ***** island boy, I walk these streets
On my street, I see baldheads: curse those neats!
They can pay big rent, mines late 2 weeks

I get home and water my tall herb bush
Its heavenly branches provide me with kush
I pack up the bowl, sip smoke from the chalice
I feel close to  JAH  he erases my malice

My chains are broken, dust in the breeze
The only way to stay free, smoke more trees
My liberated spirit rises up as I cry
United with JAH we Touch the Sky

Green is the eye of Venus, though now tightly shut.
Ancient music drums,
Trees viridian-hued.

The night has settled, dark as fear.
I rode a stallion-
Jet-black he was,
Against an array of foliage,
Emerald green,
Into the dead of night,
He rode.

Sleeping, I am?
Or am I living within some land of the surreal?

Lost within a valley,
I lie amongst tall reeds.
Water showers down upon me.

Skies turn mauve, purplish-
No calm before this storm.
Struck by lightening,
Branches are fallen by the wind.

Upon awakening,
As day breaks,
The ancient music’s melody is arrested.
A sibilant voice whispers to me:
“Sleep amongst the dead,
And depart from the living.”

As I nonchalantly gaze at the rising sun,
I wave “goodbye” to Venus,
And as she falls behind the horizon,
She waves back at me, and winks at me,
While ancient music begins drumming again…

Claudia Krizay