The years add up
But you never truly forget  
Just cover it up
with leaves, some brush
an old sheet or blanket
A drive
a new route around
Sometimes an old box in a closet
or under a bed work fine
to hide the time

until the winds of seasons change
bare it all again

..and there's never any tissues around

She was a plague of desire
a dance of syllables
just out of the reach of his tongue
a name that was a prayer
written on the skin of his heart

a language he couldn’t speak
except when  lost in the trance
of a dream boiling over
with the lust running mad in his blood

a fever burning inside his bones
to feel her tremble against his lips
and wandering fingertips
that travel the forbidden paths
along her spines skin of pleasure

the quite hush of gods making flesh
to be blessed with the secrets
of honey and blood
to be poured over
and flow from the pulse
and the rhythm
of the lost art of making love
while dancing in beds
made out of the shadows of sin

a quite lullaby roaring
from under his pillow
that made his ears desperate
with longing to hear
the songs that play
from within the cage of her ribs

a place of hunger
that could only be satisfied
when left with wanting more
of the blood and the flesh
and the body of her rapture
when lost in the euphoria
of finding love under blankets
woven from lust
and where no pleasure
is stained with the guilt
or definition of sin

I will stumble over my words
while I stumble
into you.
Show me where you are wicked,
and I will show you
mine.
Let me taste the pitch black
ink as it drips from
your lips,
and you can read to me
the thoughts you hold
close.
Take me to the place within
where you are not pulled
into a thousand directions,
that one place where
you are still,
that one place where
you are home.

There comes the disbelief
and the day
when a daughter comes to tell
the matter

And she knows you can't help
She knows there's no way
to convince
that afternoon to think about it....

No way to stop the fire in the leaves
of the driest April in twenty years
as it blackens the acres
and blurs the eyes
to all but its own emergency

Before it
the hay of last year's weeds
and all those buds that hope conceives

the flight of all that lives...

The plight before...
...The fire-line...

forces every hand
to the pure product of heat and light--
then to ash
and not to ask "This once was living?"

A senior class wrote their friend good-byes
...could not bring herself to...
...bring herself there....

She had to bring the mourning home
to make alive
to raise the sun--

"He slammed the medicine chest
And saw....
walked through the kitchen
opened the frig for the zillionth time...
Then walked a mile
in the woods behind his house."

Warm for April
short-sleeve warm

"...And I keep thinking
how the sun must've felt on his face and arms
He must've been swinging the jug
and--
WHAT WAS HE THINKING?

They found the empty amber
a hundred yards behind....

I keep seein' 'im put the handful to 'is mouth...
...Then the jug...
He must've had to swallow hard
They say you could tell
...where he stumbled...
...by the leaves...
...found 'im    on 'is side    with the jug
...just beyond    'is hand...

Oh Ma!  
I CAN'T!  I CAN'T!"

...So I--
"Maybe he was mouthing the words to a song.
...anyway the birds went on
and he was still warmed by the April sun

when they found him."

The magic of once upon a time
has gone out of the garden of which
man was made to tend and to keep.
The mysteries in our world meant
to lead man to the miraculous
disappeared by the hate filled life
of our heartless way of living.
Our way of life are so full of greed,
that man become so empty,
for we pursue the mundane things
outside the glorious treasures
hidden within our consciousness.
Driven by the unreasonable
frivolous emptiness of a
quick silver lifestyle of the lost ones,
many have wandered away
from the castle of the valued
and treasured precious mysteries of
creation hidden within the heart of man.
Man can always return to the exulted glory,
for the paradise is not completely lost.
As simple as it is,
all that is required is to love one another,
and that magic lost will gradually come back.
The glorious heart of the exulted man,
the intelligence of the mind of man knows,
and understands this truth.
He only needs to step into the place that centers him within to fully enjoy
the joyful tenderness of an exulted being.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.