water comes hot from the tap
for the first time in what feels
like a century.

the cup is rinsed, letting it fill
and overflow, the warmth runs
over swollen, arthritic knuckles
held there for a few minutes more

despite the rising mercury,
the water rinses stale coffee
and pain away

the powdered creamer
like the dust of ground bone,
is added and the black blood
of truth becomes chocolate
and is that much more palatable
like the day.


*

-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016

I crushed a flower
      in my hand.
It felt good.
It felt right.
Felt like I was
      absolutely
      in control.
Petals and stem juice
      stained my hand.
I make a wind
      and
       blow
        them
         away.
Just like a judge
      presiding
       over a trial,
I am the voice
      of justice.
A bloated bulb
      of tremendous
       distance
        begins to roll
         over to me.
Misguided hand,
you must know,
      that what
        you
         began
          will come to pass.
Morphine eyes
see shapes and
      shadows
that flicker briefly
      before
        floating away.
The hand can
try and hold
itself in power,
      but
       in
        the end
         can only
          move as required.
I am as crushed
      as the flower,
       staining
        the palm
         of my demise.

I missed him not in raindrops,
But in roaring tidal waves.
We were wild.

I missed him not in breezes,
But in dizzy hurricanes.
We were crazy.

I missed him not in a bouquet,
But in a maze of flower gardens.
We were lost.

I missed him not in a cloud,
But in the heavens above.
We were ethereal.

I missed him not in a rain puddle,
But in the lakes and seas.
We were deep.

I missed him not in the new world,
But in historical lands.
And up to this day, it's still the same,
We are classic.

Till you can’t walk
Till you are sore,
Yet still smiling
from the thrilling experience,
Till you are sweating pleasure
from every pore.
Till your breath murmurs
my first name with every inhale
Till my voice is the only sound
your ears need to hear.

i would
rest my head on your breast
and listen
Enjoy the sweet tunes composed by
every noted word you harmonize

Tales of your life stories before they became entwined with mine
Narratives about your dreams
About who breaks your glassy heart
And what tickles your eye-ducts
into opening a flood of tears.

an inner world of wishes
she deserves beautiful things,
The Nubian Queen,
Sunflower Child.

~ New-Black-SoUl #NBS

Love reveals you
it makes your soul crawl out
from where it's hiding
it is stored not in photos
but in certain smells, textures,
food and times of day
it's a memory that never fades
Love is a reverse addiction
it will consume you
all the parts of you
even those you didn't know existed
it's like if you fall in love with a voice
you'll never want to hear
anything else, ever again.

Poetry is the heartbeat of life;
Each poem develops us from existence to experience.
It is the answer to all forms of strife,
For every single word written
Delivers an unspoken truth by the giver.
It acts as if it is the logic behind literature
A fire driven by the desire of every creature.
To make up the pavement on the road less traveled by,
To not just gather roses but make use of them,
To realize that the fault is not in the stars, but in us,
To not be resigned in living a life of quiet desperation.

Robert Frost, Robert Herrick, William Shakespeare and Henry David Thoreau,
They are noble men.
They are poets.
They have understood that poetry sustains life.

Poetry is a noble pursuit.
It is needed to sustain life
Thus it develops us to a greater form of humans
We are slaves to its will
For we merely not write poetry;
For it is poetry which writes us.

An Ode To Poets,
To honour them for their noble deeds.
An Ode To Poets,
To live by their noble deeds.