"assaying" poems
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
"And he created out of one man every nation of men, to dwell upon the entire surface of the earth, and he decreed the appointed times and set limits of the dwelling of man." (Acts 17: 26) (New World Translation Study Edition)
When I look in the mirror, a doughty warrior, an oracle, an Olympian gazes back at me. The caramel-tinge of my skin tells of the colored pedigree from whence I came. Every ebony-tendril that bursts from my epidermis is as impregnable as the Sacred Lotus.
The history of my Mind's Sky has been tried by the Ancient African Sun of my ancestors. It is my hope, that I have passed the trials decreed by the ordinances of the Moon & Sun. Moreover, the Arbiter of Fates, Jah, dawns upon our fleshly vessel at each twilight, assaying our entities. (Isaiah 60: 19, 20) (New World Translation Study Edition)
So many intrepid souls have compassed me about. The Chalice of my Heart burgeons with esprit d' amour. The meaning of life is ne' er about intellect, is ne' er about achievement, is in part, about creativity; wholly, about Love. (John 13: 34, 35) (New World Translation Study Edition) For this reason, strength cascades upon me every moment as I witness the brilliance, the resilience of my beneficent matriarch, Stacy Amanda Foulke.
In life, I have learned that being a person of color in America is not only a wonderful privilege, but a responsibility. Why? The afflictions brought upon this skin only make it glisten brighter after convalescence. Our people have suffered inordinately so, but this is conducive to cultivating surpassing empathy. Therefore, I believe that history, as begotten through the colored legacy, shall be one of ultimate victory.
If and only if, we unfetter ourselves from the onerous burdens of the past, then Monarchical Wings shall burgeon from our Astral Chrysalis. "For though the tribulation is momentary and light, it works out for us a glory that is of more and more surpassing weight and is everlasting." (1st Corinthians 4: 17) (New World Translation Study Edition) Se' lah.
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 6:54 PM UTC
Coffee Shop after Club 16 Fitness
listening people assaying the content
of the messages, against the background of noises
like layers,voices upon voices,
but there is one voice, holding court with herself,
staring through the floor at my feet, finding oneself,
I would hope,
among the chorus in the coffee shop,
among the chorus in her conversation,
under her white and blue striped scarf,
her wrinkles cause twinkles at the corners of her very sad eyes,
if she had stopped talking even for a second, I would have been surprised.
The erosion of her has begun her cheeks have permanent fissures where
the tears and rivulets have run for ages.
Her small frame and skirt fill the chair,
as it seems there are others there,
she is so lonely and alone, her skin
tone fits the surroundings well,
how long she will talk, time will tell.
I wasn't rude and did not eavesdrop or interrupt,
I am sure that would have meant an abrupt
halt to her flow, of prayer for ones like me, a by product,
of my own invention, as she resembled Mother Theresa,
with her conviction of non-stop prayer, from her chair.
©DWE122013
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
fruit come
fruit, no matter
the kind.
hides its tongue
inside.
sweet, bitter or
both--to the kiss
of taste.
lift it up, offer it
to the sky--then
hurl it to the ground.
with a force that'll
free its tongue--assaying
juice for flies
and ants.
that come to indulge like
clear words.
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC