Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...

I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****!

My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.

I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.

I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!

I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!

I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!

So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.

No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.

And yes,
Music is indeed food to the soul!
I devour, in view- the next meal...


© Raphael Uzor

None would imagine,
a benign imp,
blithe, light footed
triggers a surge
of aesthetic spasms
******* of the brain,
moves incognito
on this high podium
beside your chair
when you
read your poem
just like when you're
in a creative reverie

Every time it's a mystery
how she sets music
within every word
how then a rhythm
in progression
is unleashed
flowing in to your
poetic musings
to create an image concrete,
correlating to the wave
beating in your brain

Heart, soul and spirit
merge in to one
poetic words to mark
what your being gathered
from spring flower fields
and scorched earth alike

all the poet  gathered
at the receiving end
of the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune,
is set in tune,
all of you gathered here
for the poetry session
walking through the labyrinths
inebriated by poetic wine,
munch yourself bit by bit
in the cadence of poetic beats,
as past, present and dreams
in many small instalments
pour in from the beginning.

What the poet offers
takes, each one listener
to a world different,
one begets many
images proliferate.
They will relish all this
and be born again
within themselves
later on, leisurely with light
peeping out of their eyes,
an alchemy none can explain

How do you handle the jealousy?
The hurt within the truth.
Lies the lips has used to utter,
"I don't mind."
I do, in fact,
I do too much.

A weird melody,
an empty tune,
Struck twice and no more,
Heard as the wind blows,
Bled hearts through and through.

On the porch I lie,
Let the water runs,
and when my skin dries,
I'll go on.

You're not my “something real”,
not my “wish upon a star”.
Even as you lay here with me
my mind complains and my heart
disdains.
You are not my drug nor the White Rabbit
from such tales.
Even now, as your lips touch mine
the breathing of my brains holds static.
You warm hands exploring every inch of
my **** body, however, those tell a different
tale.
Every hot spot on my flesh you slightly caress
makes my nerves erratic.
Beaconing to me with luscious promises
the only way you can stir my breath.
See?
Just a hobby, only a pastime.
All we seek based on carnal sin.
You are not my treasure, nor am I yours-
and yet we choose to linger entangled within
these sheets.
We seek the comfort of compassionate hands,
of accepting lips, God we are insane.
All we come to find between us is but a
way to **** the void of Time in our shriveled
little hearts.

In tis universe wide
In its unknown glide
from the cupids bow
stiriketh the arrow of love
eyes sparkled with tear
Uncertain in its fear
yet tis pleasure to melt
beating heart of love felt
striketh the arrow of love
from the cupids bow

I felt your skin,
barbie-like ,
clammy waxy-smooth
plasticy as I imagined
appealingly
shiny in the darkness.

I tasted your scent of earth and ocean
the wood tones creating charmingly,
an appetizing lightness
musk melody
fixated on my neurons,
as I breathed you in.

Your doughy hands
baby touch,
enlightened the panic in my face,
dissolved the numbness.
Tingles
surreal, whether I opened my eyes
or held them closed.  

What ever came next

Your lips stiff and sweet
as an apple's core,
I felt
rising against my back
like a lump in your throat.
Arms thunderous
logs bundled in blankets
clumsily avoiding skin contact.

Each exhale of saucy yearning,
summoned me a little further
to where I felt the insides of your desires.
With each exhale, I grew more restraint

I felt wonder trickle down my spine
and fade
with your breathing.

waiting for a connection that never comes hard
you remember that sleep is just like forgetting
and not even the tenderest hearts keep hurting
once they stop their wide awake circles

morning won't dawn when it comes today
even light has regrets placid and useless
and morning always always comes
muted muting snow grey to abide

here, in this place, in this light,
in this laden love

I gaze into the portals of your soul
And get lost in the depths of my imagination.
Navigating images of elevated limbs and
    Blended flesh entwined into one.

I breathe the aroma of your essence
And float high on the ecstasy of your presence.
Bringing chills that travel to secret places
    Triggering spontaneous pleasure sighs.

I want to pull you near and taste the sweetness
of every inch of your body.  
Embarking on a journey to devour you slowly.
Steadily taking you to your limit as I simultaneously
show you through the warm rhythmic flows of my body
Just how much
   I
          LOVE
                         YOU.

© Tina Thompson

A forest fallen flat
in to the water bed,
of this extended lake
gives him a feeling of surreal
and yes, an immense sense of peace.

he sits there alone, quietly
peering at his cold narcissistic face
now, broken in to pieces by fish
curious to look at his face
by swimming around his reflected one.

After many cold winters
when at last one finds out
that mere reflections all are,
the face thought to be real,
and the reflection on water plane,
on the pool waters of time
that drains little by little,
liberation wings in like
a white dove, the harbinger
of the last good news.

The cuckoo
in the bamboo grove,
swaying from one side to the other
as the bamboo moves in the hands of wind,
on the clod water sheet, sings without sound,
the forest that grunts
like a wounded animal,
observes grave silence
in the other reality plane-
water spreads.
He watches in alert silence
a recluse in parallel realities
           he has awakened.