In a dream a spider swallows a snake and
smiles
like  a
giant yellow sunflower being  kissed   by
                                                                ­ bees
                                                            ­     who
dance  wildly  with the  wind  as  it  turns
white
with
anticipation.   The  snake  charmer   plays
                                                           ­         his
                                                    ­              tune.
The  spider  dances,  rising up,  stretching,
elongating.
Her  legs
disappear, drawing   into  her  body where
                                                           ­         they
                                                   ­                 turn
into a flickering tongue that protrudes from
her
lips.
She wriggles in her dance; her tongue waves
                                                           ­         in the
                                                             ­       air to
the melody, begins  to sing a  sultry,  hissing
song.
Then
the charmer's flute begins to move, undulating
                                                      ­                  to her
                                                             ­           song's
cadence.   And the charmer is himself charmed.
He
sits
in a trance as his snake-flute wraps itself around
                                                          ­                    him
                                         ­                                     and
the  spider  looking  li­ke a  snake swallows them
both.

In your day we know the sonnet was the rage
but I can't write in rhyme or formal verse.
I feel constrained and locked within a cage.
In fact, I consider it a curse.

Now I find I'm being asked to do it.
"Just write," he says, "the form won't hold you back"
maintaining that there's really nothing to it.
"Just write to find out if you have a knack."

Though it's an assignment I have to do
I'm not sure there is a purpose for
this convoluted rhyme you used to woo
your listeners in days of yore.

How hard did you have to work to do it well?
Or did it come easily for you, pray tell!?

She sees him
from afar and sighs.
He’s easy on the eyes,
this man by the sea,
as he contemplates,
who he is and who
he wants to be.
She wants to wave,
as she raises a hand,
like how the ocean
greets the land,
but then wonders if
she should turn
and walk away,
and leave him
to his day.

Our words are
powerful spells
from the soul.
The words you
wrote down on
that parchment,
those words you
uttered with your
mouth come from
the world beyond,
from the world
of the spirit.
What do they
even mean,
the words in
your stories.
They are powerful,
let them be spells
that conjure,
let those words
transform you,
they say what
the spirit feels,
they are words
of the spirit,
with the power
to translate you
to be anything.
Your words can
make the impossible
things with ease
to be possible.
The heart understands
what is in the
mind of the spirit.
Let your words
be the spells
that can awaken
the sleeping giant
within you.
Let those words
conjure the power
of love divine
to possess and
heal our world.
Let it bind
our wounds and
repair all wrongs.
If you are not
completely captivated
by the unique
exceptional nature
of words,
and the ways
like the spiders web
your words can
weave everything,
even the invisible
things to manifest
into our reality,
you should then
keep quiet.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Men don't look at me with passion and love.
They look at me with lust and doubtful eyes,
because of my round hips, and small shoulders,
that I inherited from my mother,
and her mother before that.
Fourteen years old, i'm no longer just a skinny girl.
And growing up all I've ever heard,
is I'm blessed to have this body, to have this face.
As if that's the only thing I've got to chase.
As if that's the only thing I've got going for me;
so I was taught that beauty is the only thing I've got.  
27 years old, my family wonders why
I've got no boyfriend,
no husband, no family of my own,
when all my sisters, when all my cousins are all married
and i'm still alone. 27 years old, i'm crying in my room.
Men always seek a pretty face but never a soul,
that's what I tell them, after being repeatedly
asked why i'm always alone.
And I refuse to give up my body,
to give up my touch, to anybody that's more attracted
to my face than my
whats inside my head.
I'm more than just an over sexualized body, I'm more
than just a pair of big eyes and a pretty face.
I'm a hard working woman, who's gained consciousness
through her soul. I'm a late night on a roof top looking at
the stars and writing about the moon.
I'm a long conversation about the universe,
sipping wine underneath a black sky.  I'm all my broken
hearts and all my wishful dreams.
I'm a woman with a heart and soul like no other. I'm
everything and I'm nothing at all, but please never just
lust and fire.


*Sandoval