Columns of red lights
And headlights
Of slow moving vehicles
Some roaring, some howling
And some, comfortably blowing
The air reeks, the road
The road persistently
Seals the wheels
And the drivers, the riders
Barely visible
Hound the maze.

I go back to that place

Through the green door
Enter the red brick house

Mikhu is still the little fairy
My eyes look for
And still my shyness
Forces me to look away
In her mother's presence

In the faraway attic
She furtively cooks me a meal
We make love
That brush our skin faintly

When I come out
She stands at the green door

Then upon the here
She is no more

From the rooftop
I see the houses sleeping in moonlight

(My chance ascent to the roof
for a space to be aloof
begets this poem)

I know this stillness is deceptive

behind the half glow neon panes
or the wooden ones shut tight from light
beyond the dumb walls of white
tears and smiles are flowing
also grunts of despair
moans of flesh upon flesh
stopping at the skin
or going far down to that misty spot
and even far past all them
two hearts holding the flame
of years buried on the bed
a child still in their head
or there but really not there
somewhere too wide to build a bridge

(Thirty minutes past nine
the toy houses in the moonlight shine
in their chambers holding life not seen)

And I atop one such house know
it's time to go down the stairs
to take up the script again
and write and act and write
for the length of night.

I Sense your
morning movement
as you wrap
your sweetest embrace
into my cold heart
bringing heat
to my uncharted
territory
I surrender…

I rave at your arrival
as you drain
my pool of
longing then
satisfying
my hunger
forever
I remember…

To: the nineteen year old version of myself who's falling in love right now.

Love him.
Love him with all your heart, lungs, liver and kidneys too.
In fact, just love him with your entire existence.

Love him even though he will not love you back.

And it's okay because I need you to do that for me so I can grow.

Love,
Me

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

When I was a boy on the farm in
Missouri slaying dragons and
making swords out of sticks,
my Dad got me a coonhound pup.
He named him Festus.
Dad was a real Gunsmoke fan.
Festus grew, as I did, and we
traveled every inch of
that 120 acres.
There were two streams that
ran through our land,
and a pond south of the house.
We had 60 head of cattle and
several calves.  Festus would
help me chase them.
When I went to bed for
the night, I heard crickets and cicadas,
and always Festus, way off in
the distance howling and barking.
He didn't mind touring the
farm with me, but he
did his best work on his own,
late at night.
Now that I'm an adult, and
Festus is long gone,
I wonder if anybody can
hear me howl in the
darkness.

By the lonely
corner of this
beautiful forest
i wish to live.

Where nature speaks,
where the solace
from the quietness
and silence of
this exotic place
run free.

Where the fairies
and the elementals
grant wishes.

Where the beauty
of solitude is displayed.

Here undisturbed,
the angels
came to dine.

At this lovely
lonesome moments
i rediscovered
my true self.

This is where
nature gives life
a meaning.

At this instant
in my aloneness
and quiet moments.

Profound revelations
are made,
ushering in a new dawn.

Henceforth let
no man disturb me.

I've found
the true gold,
the philosophers stone
within as promised.
©Emeka Mokeme.