I watch the yellow grasslands growing slow,
safe inside my window frame where heartbreak can not reach.
I'll remain the captured queen silently content with my small space.
My conscious clean, no blood to stain.

The golden beast of the sahara soaks in the open fields.
Afraid of no one and nothing but hunger.
Crowned long ago, his reign will outlast the wars, the floods, the drought.
Hands enormous enough to ****, gentle enough to love.

I remain, eyes fixed on the beast as he belts a roar.
The sound vibrates my glassy outlook, coaxing a scream of my own.
Salty tears and shuddered cries, break the crusted lips.
Pain erupts, long lodged deep in the gut.
The broken wail of majesty, shakes lose the inner me.

Hungry.

In the silence,
of this afternoon,
they arrive, ready
to feed children who wait
in nest high above.
Their high whistle dancing,
pierces the soundscape
These mejiros--yellow with sharp white eyes,
Comb through hibiscus bush
Finding a meal
Hidden within
Like  parrotfish
Munching through coral reef,

I sit under tree listening,

Abruptly
The seashells to my mind
Fill with shrill sounds
Of mothers scolding monsters,
A quickening--
Their white eyes dart like fearful
squid flying through
brushy undercurrents.
Underneath,
The small lion cat
Stalks the
Hungry sounds
In the bush

the Hungry looking for Hungry

I was painted to be-
A majestic lioness
With a hungry heart
And beauty resembling art.

I was drawn to be-
A muscular manifestation
Of swift and stable poise
A roaring constant noise.

But I am no prototype for prejudice
This lion, is loyal to herself
And belongs to the savanna,
The rich mud in the Ghana.

I do not care for gold
Or for my pompous title
I shall not use my claws
For such a petty cause.

I have never felt right,
writing this poem.
They keep saying
that I'm "strong".
I don't feel strong.
I feel...

like ripping off my skin
wouldn't be enough
that breaking my hands
couldn't help

I feel lost.
The lion has left me.

You are a lion.
You can get up from here,
No more lying to yourself.
Love, you're a lion.
Let them hear you roar.

She is often misunderstood-
as a ****
as a strong lover
as a sharp-toothed romantic.

The fire in her eyes
does simultaneously,
warm and scare those in her presence.

If only they would see
The loyal
And the caring
The complex
And the daring
flames that light her floral face.

And she is healing too;
she shall soothe the deepest disorder
that plagues her grassy companions.

The sun beams echo her roars
which burn the skies orange in her blazing gaze.

Leon was a lion.
He lived in a pool of lava.
Never was he ever disturbed.
Leon was a bird without wings.
Leon was a runner without legs.

Leon was a lion.
Leon cried, all day all night.
Leon looked at the sky and asked God.
"God, what do you look like?"
And cried every day.

Leon was a lion.
Leon was cut, bruised, scarred.
Leon never had nobody, ever.
But one day, Leon heard a sound.
It was God.

"Leon, my small child.
Let your soul run wild.
Live a long, great life.
While you are still rife.

Let your soul run free.
You are who you'll be.
I really love thee.
And now so does she."

Leon was a lion.
And so was she.
But she looked like God.
And God looked like her.
So Leon cried no more.

Leon was a lion.
Who lived with a beautiful family.
In a beautiful house.
And Leon cried no more.
For she had found a home.