The music inside my head
Never goes away
Sometimes it's a lovely melody
Sometimes it's in disarray

I never quiet my mind
Because that is where she lives-
My creative self,
Her home for all these years.

But lately she has been silent,
And I do not know why.
I wonder if she's broken,
If she's still alive.

I miss her everday,
Every beautiful moment.
She's been with me forever,
My own special poet.

I hope she will return,
She made me feel alive.
To my creative self-
You don't need to hide.

I want to feel alive again,
Writing poem after poem
She had all the words for me,
She made my mind a home.

I watched the morning newscast
and found my mind straining to
get out.
Out into a widening desert,
sky open and black above save for
the piercing light of billions of stars
like holes in a living room curtain.
You can call me crazy for it,
but I thought I saw Ginsberg
looking at me through the window
with a sunflower behind his ear.
In fact, I'm almost certain this was anything but an hallucination as my cat pounced at the window
(she never liked my poems either, Allen)
and startled me back into reality.
The television, right, the newscast.
Nuclear bombs and
tariffs on Mexican goods and
oh look, the president is playing golf with the Queen.
I turned it off when I saw he hit a bogey,
parted the curtains, and thought, "That's it, I'm pleading insanity. See you in Bellevue, Allen."

every now and then my pen runs dry.
i forget how to swallow the words of others, as if any thought can be truly organic.
why isn’t there a farmer’s market for ingenuity?
how much to buy a phrase that could finally satisfy me,
a phrase that would finally make me stop after years and years of
nomadic poetry tried to string together meaningless events into a story
that actually made sense?

every now and then,
my pen runs
dry.
i spit all of my words out in search of answers to
questions i shouldn’t ask.
i was parched.
i have so long been parched.

one day
i will set my pen down
and one day
i will look up to the sky in this desert of my own creation
and i will stop trying to put the pieces together
( there are none that fit)
i will close my eyes
and let the rain fall.

I prefer to write
when the world sleeps - it's such a
lovely waste of time

2:38 AM
1/6/19

Poetry is the direct cause of death of boredom.
Spoken words exist to excite the human soul
and to crown artistry with the nectar of wisdom 
Poetry has more decibels than the Superbowl.

Poetry is the Ganga of the human soul.
It induces a beautiful feeling that stupefies
and leaves the mind dazed like a drunken fowl,
yet it delivers results that really satisfies.

Poetry flows from the fountain of Wakanda
and permeates the arid soil of Timbuktu.
Poetry is the vault to the treasures of Zamunda,
where Mammy Wata guards the Kane of Mobutu.

Poetry is the language used at the creation.
When earth was young and everything was dark,
The great arbiter called out light and put things in motion.
He used spoken words to tell Noah to build the ark.

Poetry is life and life is in coexistance with poetry.
Before ancient Africa and the pyramid of Egypt,
Poetry was cooked and stored in God's pantry.
Ready for use in the Garden of Eden's script.

  

  
#IvanBrookspoetry ©️
#Bassapoet✍️
5.24.2019

Yellow journal
Aged in fondness
Worn by the weight  of powerful words
Forgotten upon the shelf
Neglected despite your cheery shade
An artist leaves a piece of themselves within their art
A fateful discovery
Thats exactly what you are
Beaten up, broken,
torn weathered-
By years of dry land and drought of inspiration
Made alive by Christ
And awake in its pages
Your cover is worn
Your pictures dilapidate
But once you open up
Magic careens
Unveiled under your dusty pages is joy
Romance
Poetic trances
Art of divine nature
That is exactly what you are
Worn yet beautiful
Aged and reminiscent
Evoking fond warmth
You are the yellow journal
Beloved yellow journal

goddess
nurturer of all things 
mother of creation 
we are born from the mother 
she nourishes with her breast 
bestows love and creative mystery 
oh simple mortal man, 
a competitive brute 
he is nothing without a goddess 
the gods spoil us with the feminine
the beautiful women of this earth 
man is lost without them

Dreams swelter into far off lands
Crushed or frozen
Alive or broken
Dreams liquify upon these brazen hands
Almost missing grasp caught by their last strand