Do not listen to the preachers.
Do not listen to the non-believers either.
Here's a piece of advice from a revolutionary,
a soldier and a slave for love;
Don't say you're in love,
unless you want to wage a war against every doubt, every dread on your lover's racing and raging heart,
wielding your sword against their anxiety,
never minding your own worries,
unless you are in dire passion with changing the course of their history,
spilling your blood or covering it with art,
forgetting about your own sob stories,
unless you aren't having sleepless nights from planning for strategies and fine-tuning your tactics so you can put your best foot forward and your Achilles heel before them,
unless you aren't willing
to die for their peace,
unless you aren't willing
to live to see their freedom,
don't proclaim yourself
to be someone who's in love.
If you're enthusiastic for the worst,
When words doesn't make sense anymore,
come and be my land forevermore.

does not
correspond
with other poems
who have angels
looking over them.

This poem is as ugly as I am
try as I might to add glimmer.

This poem was born in Egypt.
It borrowed trouble from
the Beginning,
but still wants you to
lick the little dewdrops off
its weedy leaves.

Sara Fielder © Jan 2021

I will never be
ensconced in
charming lace
valentine
            hearts
candypink encased
You will not see me
withering away
back of hand
          upon brow
in fainting stance
in a flowing silk dress
swinging on a
           perfect bough
For I am a river
wild and true
sometimes quiet
sometimes
roaring and
             soaring in
shimmering hues:
Blues and greens
mixed with shades
           of earth, of fire
bespeaking emotions
in tones of desire
My river can get messy
can flood over too fast
because my heartstrings
                       get pulled
by the strength of
                        the blast
It can bring up
colored stones
in its undertow
fish and otters
spinning
in voodoo
          overflow

As the colors rise up
in this heated coolness,
                          this deluge
the influx overwhelms me
with a power so huge
and then I need
     some metallics,
flecks of silver and gold
to soothe
passion's piquancy
                when it gets
                   particularly bold
                      Specked within rocks
                    to ground me, keep
               my feet on the soil
             prevent my heart
          from slipping
       down into
     a choking,
         hot oil

Bronze minerals reflect
peaks of sadness,
     searing pain
        from rawness of hurt
          with no one to blame
             Yes, it can be a balm
                         and also a burn
to be so linked
by spirit-threads
to another, in emotions
that churn
just on the brink
but never truly there
to experience the
         fullness of rush
ripe culmination
abundant and lush

and that's when the
river turns
into molten
              lava...
and I must dig
deep under
layers of ancient strata
seeking relief
in coolness of earth
as my spirit
             again undergoes
              a kind of rebirth
For when we
grow to love
strange things
happen, indeed
       In the core of
my essence
you are the root
of my
        seed