Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
there was no poem neath my pillow

no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch

nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child

two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces

thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them

the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity
of what is a love poem
for me, to me was

always cyclical
first noun
then pronoun
then nothing

noun loves me,
pronoun loves me not

noun loved me last week
prounoun loves me not this week

noun will love me evermore,
pronoun, poe-no, nevermore

a name is a noun
a pronoun is a substitute

for matters of love I announce forevermore
only call me by name
no substitutions

even cycles must end,
only call me by noun-name,
forevermore
left my phone unlocked
on the taxi’s back seat,
won't be the last time

called it a few times
finally, the driver picked up

he had a fare immediately after mine,
and was now headed way downtown,
and would call later
when fate returned him nearer my office

and so it came to pass,
very shortly thereafter,

we met on the street,
he rolled down  the window
and with the greatest smile of pleasure,
as if he had won the lottery
beaming,
handed me my phone

I had two $20's to cover any expense he might have incurred,
neatly folded in my hand  
and offered it right up, right away;
but the driver repeatedly pushed my hand away
as I insisted,
saying:

"No sir, no no, not necessary!

Allah sent me a fare
that took me soon back close to you, so,
  no loss of time did I suffer,
so your offer is kindly unnecessary!"


to which I replied,

"exactly!
Allah sent you to me
so I could reward you!"


and with an equally, beaming smile continued,

"our ride and meeting today,
together was pre-ordained it was


Inshallah!" ^

something he could not dispute...

  we parted ways
   each believing,
   each receiving
a heavenly check plus,
each, credited with a mitzvah^^
on our
respective trip logs,
our humanly divine balance sheets,
kept by the
single
supreme taxi dispatcher
Arabic for ^"God/Allah willing" or "if God/Allah wills," frequently spoken by a Muslim


^^a meritorious or charitable act in the Jewish tradition

FYI,
NYC taxi cab drivers are suffering economically by the explosion of ride hailing app cars, many unable to pay their bills, earn a living, have committed suicide over the past few months
https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/sixth-new-york-city-cab-driver-dies-suicide-after-struggling-n883886

true story, poetry is there for the taking
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,


the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
somewhere between the fourth and fifth
load of laundry
sometime after breakfast~lunch, now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company

the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs refilling
for the fridge has decided not to help by automatically refilling the pitcher,
and I,
besides,
need two hands and teeth
for folding
sheets

my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap

“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”


with select-led fingers he lays me down,
bids me to slow sleep, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands on my *******,  
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s ****
and his granddaddy’s eyes and mind

there, is where, they find us, dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 6pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own
nap-ster master

<•>

p.s.  and they call me by my other name
to wake me,
momma
the laws of physics, meet the laws of human nature

spinning plates
are always white unblemished so their breaking into pieces
is more visually enthralling and definite

been a spinner magico for so long, you’d think I deserve some
gravitational dispensation

it doesn’t work that way

when you learn to be a spinner, they teach catching too

but that was so long ago,
tho the endless spin slowing,
obedient to the laws of physics,
the human laws of the physical
give time power over gravity

making the eyes weaker
the hands tremulous
the arms woodenly worth less

so a crash is a forethought, imagined, inevitable

time is the most powerful force in the universe

the laws of physics, meet the laws of human nature
how does one describe a slow dying
“the pleasuring words”


~
are not of necessity singularly complected or of one nature

know them by many other names, colorations, languages,
throat growling purring, pretty soft and stern, singsong,
begged borrowed stolen, barked and pleaded

but when the eyes quietly say,

come to me darling

in manner unspoken,
the pleasuring of the silence
greater than if sullied by a vocalization,
the wild sounds my heart commit
pounding mounting ever louder
requiring no translation, repetition,
though they grow louder
with every heart throbbing

the pleasuring words are spoken
by silent eyes when you

call me by my other name

— The End —