"enclave" poems
My bathroom,
the bedroom,
my living room and
the kitchen are all
spying on me daily,
seen my nakedness,
more than enough
to describe every
bit of me,
records my every
moment and daily visits,
day and night.
I'm not ashamed to display
my nakedness even
**** without decorum.
My bathroom mirror is the
first to see the show of
my new dance steps,
and i allowed it to see and
record the secret of my life.
So shamelessly I displayed
my secret acts in my bedroom,
doing all sorts of stuff,
things my mouth cannot
freely talk about.
In there in the closet
of my beloved bedroom
I committed all sorts of
crimes that even you will
be ashamed to watch if
you know what I mean.
In the privacy of my bedroom
no holes barred.
What do I say about my kitchen.
I became an alchemist
and a herbalist taught,
groomed and approve
by my mother.
On the cauldron as
a herbalist I mixed up
all kinds of herbs and spices
and come up with my alchemical concoction to help entertain
my family and friends and also
to feed and condition my body.
My living room now turned
into a theatre where I became
an actor to everyone who cared
to watch me display my prowess.
All these I do in quietness of
my small enclave where
my bathroom and Kitchen,
the bedroom and living room
witnessed and spy on my follies.
Did I tell you about Palomar the parrot and Kelly the German Shepard.
They can tell you my story if you
asked them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
My train of thought takes me to an ethnic enclave of pride located in my dystopian head. Outside of this head of myne is a pink butterfly trapped in a grey cocoon. I’d leave this cocoon and finish my metamorphosis if I weren’t trapped in a spider’s web, this hideous cocoon is my only protection from it’s pain inducing bite. I’m always on high alert to defend myself. I must always keep my defences high and never let my guard down or it will take advantage of my vulnerability. The word stress is an understatement, I feel as if this web is draining me of life, as if it loves the taste of my misery. I am bewildered and overwhelmed with the weight of my ever growing responsibilities. Soon enough this spider’s patience will die out and I will be the one to take advantage of its vulnerability. Until then I wait.
END
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
Dice the dead mans diligence like a Dillinger or Challenger,
He gained a Dodge Wrangler like a sad handler of emotions;
Perhaps all of this is more potent than potions or consumer hand lotions plus alcoholic haphazard;
Yet I consider the price of anything to be lice on everything,
Like a fat woman’s sullen song,
The sounds still ring in the lingering enclave of my eardrums,
Which breath waves like air into my lungs.
It’s sundown,
And therefore, I’ll see you soon;
Yes, I’ll see you soon, moon.
So very soon.
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
Down in the ghetto, real
****** stand together
Me and my 2nd in charge had an
alibi that breezed us on through
Sued the NY Times and their racist news
for they had no clue about us
The judge winked us both off and
later was paid what he was due
Corrupt, corrupt judiciary
The reasons for this are mostly monetary
No questions ... it’s just customary
While the Judges, Lawyers, Popo’s, too
Lookin’ for a way to make a few extra dimes
They were askin’ ‘bout, tryin’ to cash in, all da time
What judge or man wouldn’t agree ‘bout raisin’
a little bread on da side
No questions ... it’s just customary
I then asked a judge, why doesn’t the NY Times
take a bribe, so they don’t need to report all da crimes
I listened with intrigue and right away I saw the signs
Then my eyes closed tighter, as I hear what he describes
Judiciary started callin’ and Popo’s started fallin’
Shhhush . . . it’s just customary
While the Judges, Lawyers, Popo’s, too
Lookin’ for a way to make a few extra dimes
They were askin’ ‘bout tryin’ to cash in, all da time
What judge or man wouldn’t agree ‘bout raisin’
a little bread on da side
No questions ... it’s just customary
Well the New York Times is owned by the Irish
and not by a wealthy enclave of Jews
I think I just made my very last mistake
He fired a pistol from under his robe
and shot me to da ground
And I heard him sayin’ “Never **** with da men in da gown”
Corrupt, corrupt judiciary
The reasons for this are mostly monetary
I’d asked to many questions ... it’s just customary
While the Judges, Lawyers, Popo’s, too
Lookin’ for a way to make a few extra dimes
They were askin’ ‘bout tryin’ to cash in, all da time
What judge or man wouldn’t agree ‘bout raisin’
a little bread on da side
No questions ... it’s just customary.
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 7:11 AM UTC
In the freshly seared hours of the morning
there's a hot, bothered growling
coming from beyond
the rose-studded chipping fence posts,
sick with the stench of stained mattresses
and mounds of cage-less garbage-
tossed willy-nilly
into a smoldering, contorted
**** of stacks.
Here,
in this spot of dawn
-in today's un-showered
moist enclave-
I find, syncopated
by the vrooooming scooters
and gassy buses,
a fresh hope diffusing faster
than the steam from drains,
-subtler than the soft soju snores
of last night's curb cuddlers-
slinking up, down, around convenient stores' corners
past every security camera,
bouncing off rib cages,
tickling the barbules of the songbird
perched in my utility wires
in a nest neater than my bed.
This is summer, Korea.
This is Korea in the summer.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
I used to wonder each and every time,
Whether all his acts were false pretense or simply divine.
It was hard to believe he could ever lie,
Yet! The toughest thing for me was to bid him goodbye.
What I saw in the start was love and care for me,
Later I realized, it was a camouflage I couldn't foresee.
The moment I was on the verge to open my tight shut eyes,
There he was standing with another disguise.
I tried really hard to unveil his mask,
Thinking it is finally an end to this task.
What I found there was the shock of my life,
There were more masks beneath this mask of guise.
I ran away from him and thought of never seeing his face,
Just a flash of his memories reminded me of all those days.
I stopped myself to take my steps backward,
Not realizing that I was going back to a coward.
I knew I was making a blunder,
'Cause to him I was going to surrender.
I was too weak, that from him I failed to save my enclave,
But couldn't fight back as my greed for his love had made me his slave.
This self-revelation brought a start to another set of pretense,
Surprisingly! It was not him but me following thence.
Ignoring all his faults and lies I had ever known,
I moved forward with him, in selfish motive of my own.
Money or fame was not the reason,
Why then my heart longs for this person?
The question I used to ask myself every now and then,
The only viable answer was maybe I can relate to all his pains.
It was really long I fell for someone so fast,
I knew I was gonna go away and this ‘relationship’ is not going to last.
This realization was enough for me to forgive all his faults,
Call me selfish! But this was the only way to untangle the knots.
Maybe it’s not pretense, something I can’t understand,
Whenever I needed him, he stood by me as a friend.
So, what encouraged him to lie and betray me again and again?
Fear of losing people, makes him think only about his gains.
Digging deeper and deeper into this matter,
I forgot I don't have much time and I can do this later.
Few moments that are left, I wanna live with him
Sooner or later, he'll find his true self within
Lover or caretaker, whichever form he portrays to be in,
I can still find a good person in him,
So, when my love for him is so deeply intense,
Then, why not I live in another false pretense?!
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
Seasoned Love's silent discourse,
Dusk of the long distance,
Beneath the mantle of lament
The peak bloom, gnawing decay,
Obscure
The weight of favor;
Annealing fire, moulded by
Winds of duration
Unfastening the raw surf of sorrow.
Incipient caprice, theft of occlusion
Colored by common defiance,
Vile tremors of privation-
Native enclave,
The province of
Vacant, age-eaten elucidation.
The tangled weave, pathos and ethos
Vested
Interior acquisition,
Furrowed paths of countenance
Evincive and drawn,
Affinity found, inhabiting the palisades
Of Immersion.
A furtive glance harbors
The trained gaze whose
Immanent flame-
Emergent
Serous source,
Imbued piercing latency;
A taste of
The fountainhead.
Unprobed theater of the absolute.
Thin supple pith
Identity sealed in skin
Perambulator of meaning and
Lineaments of cure.
Bearing the image of ubiquity
Perceives in the other,
Immortality.
Sacramental Eros,
Subsumes the
Capacity to treasure.
©2013 W.S. Warner
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
How come your body of warmth
Boulder of boldness and hope
My limbs in vain, fold
In and out of its hold
Smoothness and strength
Making me hang stealthily below
As the muscles in your arms
More than tickle, grip, supporting my back
Frolicking, commanding every enclave
Exploring this landscape with precise measure and expertise
Cherishing every arch, every curve, every carving
Like the greatest monument,
You guard me against all elements
And every time you press this lips
Cautioning against the unleashing of nirvana
Tinkling with mere existence
There's a launching of infinite catharsis
Even when this land becomes regimented and bound
Enclosing every possible escape
Encroaching, expelling the very efforts to liberate
You pause in front and gaze into the power of my eyes
Extracting every trace of repression and restraint
Canvasing, surveying the infinite value of this place
The conqueror, the lord, the trustee of this land
Has come to stop pondering the chase
He's built the greatest monument, he never planned
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 11:15 PM UTC
I've fallen
into a torpor pit
swirling blackness
seals my lips
I close my eyes
but all I see is me,
Disengaged
Deranged
there is no reason
for this smothering gray.
I feel your hands
but they don't penetrate,
Your breath is sweet upon my face,
laughter comes from another place,
this silence remains my only respite,
My words are stifled
in my chest,
My poetry shoots blanks
where ever I tread.
Motivation is a thing
of the past,
Desire's gone at last,
Being is all that's
left within my grasp.
Lavender love in
technicolor plays
out on a screen,
Life travels on the
wisps of Monarch wings -
Breathe heavy and
hot,
Breathe light and cold,
My words they freeze
when they hit the snow.
I know dances unfold,
But no dance partner knows
the darkness that's become my
trembling soul.
It is to this enclave
I go
from time to time,
the winds outside
still howl my name,
While demons
bang on the walls
of my shame.
Call it a mood,
Call it a funk,
Call it the blues,
Sometimes
these holes just open,
Inside I go,
No ladder
only a shovel
wouldn't you know.
Doors without keys,
Echoes without sounds,
And all there is
is
the
darkness
I
have constructed
all around.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
“RENDEZVOUS SONNET”
“The long day wanes the slow moon climbs,
My pale enclave inspires me to write,
That of our midnight love rendezvous,
As well as awful dreams of life’s hardships,
All can be forgotten of travesty’s that followed,
As I easily compare you to a light of stardust,
Traipse of her breaching my mind of that day,
Thinking of your prompt nobility fills my days.
My love for you is the dedicated anamnesis,
Our heated times of past frolics of seasons,
Our summertime on the immense sleepy hollows,
The sounding furrows for my purpose holds
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down,
The prudence labor loving procured slowly,
Whisking your rugged ways and thro's endings,
Subdued only to thro’s closure of laudability,
Ode to my rendezvous sonnet”
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/14/2018 ©
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
i dream of you i dream with you,
following the musings of the aching poet
blathering hyperbolic verbiage
into subconsciousness
where we leave entwined mortal bodies
for the impalpable enclave
we have created.
i dream of you i dream with you,
in sleep our minds meld
over aching bodies
and lift our spirits
to the ethereal nether-realm,
where we roam
for eons
sauntering through the fields
of ecstasy.
i dream of you i dream with you,
where the groans of the spirit
and its insatiable yearnings
find solace in the vastness
of the tangent universe,
existing outside our mortal guise,
alluded in our mind’s eye—
it’s heaven
built by you and i.
i dream of you i dream with you,
in lucid dreams
where we know we are asleep,
but we just laugh whilst
walking through the gates of eternity
flourishing in the eternal splendor
we have created.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
1.
There once was a couple of cats
Who engaged in continuous spats.
The result was a tie
When each scratched out an eye –
An old-Biblical *** for a tat!
The cats awoke bleeding and weak
And half-seeing the havoc they'd wreaked
They discarded their clothes,
Their backsides to expose –
A new-Biblical turning of cheek!
2.
There once was a man, oh so brave,
Who would sleep in a hole, called a grave ...
Well, he being the host
To so many a ghost,
He arranged a big bash, called a rave
3.
In days of Neanderthal knaves
When the men ruled like kings in their caves
And not being too keen
About keeping them clean ...
Often took on some wives, called them slaves
4.
There once was a man with a stave
Overseeing a holy enclave ...
Well, maintaining a grin
While absolving the sin,
He assessed wicked tales and forgave
5.
There once was a monk with a wave
Who desired a head with a shave ...
Well, the barber was such
That she cut back too much
Thereby leaving his globus concave
6.
There once was a man in the nave,
Although pious he could not behave ...
But they paid him no mind,
’Cause his name was maligned,
Being simply a sinner to save
7.
There once was a man quite depraved
A voluptuous life was thus craved ...
Well, continuous sin
Ended doing him in –
On his tombstone they carved ‘Misbehaved’
8.
Antoine is a Vampire Ghoul,
Quite barbaric, bloodthirsty and cruel,
With a fang in your throat
He’ll **** slowly and gloat
With a smile as you whimper and mewl.
9.
There once was a raven haired Shrink
Who had orange Juice Tequilas to drink.
Well her scarlet souled Beau
****** her tinted red Toe
And she paled when he tickled her Pink.
10.
There once was a travelling sage
Who yet lived to a very old age.
Well, becoming quite senile,
With problems (yes, ******
He packed his wee trunk in a rage.
11.
There once was a Nun and a Druid
Exchanging some ****** fluid,
When along strode the Father
Who heard all the bother,
Lost stickum while coming unglu..ed.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Never wear the same skin too long
Lest you get caught in your own death
The eyes were scalped from the skull
Teeth torn out and thrown to the deep-sea
Along with severed fingers for prosperity
Always leave forensics questioning
And wanting more
My hope is to one-day settle down
Make the world disappear
By looking away for a minute longer
Suffering anxiety and questions of why
The scorpion is bottled alive
Jazz on the quivering ocean
In the enclave of a cave
A watered sepulcher
Sometimes mortality is hard to ****
Like a tragedy
We’re meant to be together
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:52 AM UTC
Reach out
Extend your palm
There is so much love
Soak it in your fine lines
Reach out
Shine the twinkle in your eyes
There is so much detail
Awaiting your appreciating gaze
Reach out
Smile
There is such a vibe
Let there be a field
Enthusing positivity
Reach out
Hug your brethren
Let the goodness
Through your embrace flow
Reach out
To life
Feel its fullness
Bask in its grandeur
Even the dark canvass
Enlivens in a purple patch
Happiness lives in small enclave
Just peep down
And find its sparkle
Touch it then
To make an astounding miracle!
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
*The drums of change are sounding
the willing Hearts no longer astounding
Yes,change has taken longer than we wished
and in that gap there's so much for which we've wished
the dreams we once had and forced to kiss goodbye
the unemployed and poor loitering,
orphaned Children as they cry
Little wonder we all want to partake what change is offering
We've seen them all over the streets, the black mambas
Yet that won't deter us from turning up in numbers
I only have one vote, so do you and remember
the warmth of dawn in the night unless you light an ember
can't be felt, so play wisely with the hand you're dealt
Don't waste that vote, unless you
do trying to make our country better
You have seen with your own naked eyes
How many a mother helpless in an abandoned hospital lies
you have once or twice hit a *** hole & hurt your waist
heard promises every other term but nothing happened
Be glad a new door has finally opened
You still have the key to change, a vote you shouldn't waste
Try change, conservatism has but failed
Nothing changes, trust me if nothing changes
don't be the reason why even future generations are jailed
Don't sell your vote unless they are paying a generation
don't listen to their prattles and unclear history narration
let them not throw jargons such as enclave
and in excitement you make your country their slave
the time is now, you have one vote don't waste it
We've seen them before, the black mambas
We're not afraid anymore, we shall turn up in numbers
this is the road to a new beginning and we shall walk
enough is enough, we no longer have time for mere talk
my vote is the seed for the future shed of a palm tree
For God,for God,for God and my country*
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
The day is done—
Clock strikes 4pm,
And it’s time to walk home, again.
It’s raining and cold.
I lock up my desk,
And head to the elevator
Ready to leave, say goodbye to this place;
Down 34 floors, exit to pavement’s freedom;
I pass the larger than life
Plato blue abstract statue,
Cardio up the hill,
Sadly, smell human waste
Coming from a small enclave
Of trees, where the homeless sleep.
I usually hold my breath and count my blessings.
I realize that any of us might easily become homeless.
I am grateful for my life and a place that keeps its warmth.
Then, I walk across the bridge,
Rush hour traffic stalled like a clogged artery.
Many cars, lights, and skyscrapers line the distance.
I like to think of the city as a heart in human body,
And the closer you get to its core, you can hear its blood flow.
Once past this point, I feel I can breathe again as the cells
Spread out more to my neighborhood, gentrified;
Pass the latest construction with a sign that displays,
“Affordable Housing for All.”
I have yet to see it.
Marijuana streams drift out windows,
There's the school overlooking to mountain's peak;
Just three more cross walks and I’ll be home, free.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
I arrived anonymous,
Mother's tongue raising no eyebrows in this town of travellers.
Settling together in our disparate roles,
We gingerly trade skills and share tales.
Our alien conventions lack legitimacy here,
A tender fog cushioning idiosyncrasies.
In hometowns,
Once-tranquil homes become restless.
But in this enclave,
Foreigners feather new nests.
...Until Basel is where we belong.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
It’s a **** shame
No it’s absurd
How the gentry
Are changing Williamsburg
And if you need
The concrete proof
They’ve raised the rents
Right through the roof
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear
The indigenous people of course
Were first
In time it became
More ethnically diverse
And then an enclave
For artists and the arts
With dirt cheap rents
In certain parts
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear
Everything changes with time
Except the memories in the mind
The Williamsburg I knew and loved
Is the Williamsburg I always think of
Artists held a funeral
I here tell
And sounded off
The last death knell
They gave Williamsburg
Their sad goodbyes
And wiped the tears
Away from their eyes
Everything changes with time
Except the memories in the mind
The Williamsburg I knew and loved
Is the Williamsburg I always think of
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
And it’s for this I shed a tear
The Williamsburg of yesteryear
I dream of Williamsburg of old
The one only my memory holds
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
your body is my habitual enclave,
I know the roads, the routes, the rails,
the way it sparks in the night, how it creaks with the sun.
I coast your body like a map,
the compass in my palm quivers, the needle
whirls and swivels, disoriented, north left behind.
instead I will globe-trot through your anatomy,
with no concerns of foreign lands, with languages
of gibberish and people unfamiliar.
first, I will plunge into your shoulders,
gape at the brawn, the vastness,
compare them to the beautiful mountains seen in Colorado.
next, I will huddle in the wool of your torso,
stealing a quick snooze,
submerged in the berceuse of your coronaries.
afterward, I will drift among your hands,
skipping among the grooves,
stumbling upon the calluses.
then, I will float among your lips,
stealing speckles of salt while playfully
greeting your lingual.
and, and, and, my darling, this adventure
will exhaust me.
so I will traverse back, through your lips, your hands,
your torso, your shoulders, until
I come to my favorite monument.
they are waves full of sapphire, clashing among
charcoal thunderstorms, dancing along
fields of jade.
two orbs of magnificence (and mine)
you will smile, and ask how the journey was,
and I will reply, as always:
“unforgettable”
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
MLK Day poem.
January 16, 2012
It speaks as if rainbow was a color.
A prism pyramid, built by a union of bricks.
Brick by brick, it stands, a structure, with the purpose to deliver a message.
A message as simple as that it stands there, as a structure.
A message, which promotes we, over she, he, it, they, or them.
It stands at the door of indifference.
It lies asleep, in an enclave of humanity's mind.
Awaiting its great awakening, the rainbow has always been there.
But no matter how much you may search for it, only we can find it.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
my origami,
a thin line of sunshine and a private war.
the nucleus of an extinct thought, gathering believers
on the outskirts of nearby.
the wrong thing...
a more dead husk than a fresh ****
or a new joke.
[ my long night. the covetous murk of a bright lie. ]
my only calling,
the mute jawbone of an expert hermit.
determined to offend ought
but the sermon
as the enclave denies. the right thing.
a more rapturous con
than a new deal
or old smoke.
a song's blight. luxurious cirque...
denial
and out
lights.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
“Life can have its share of tears and heartaches,
Malady and demise dolefully follows us in our lives,
Our souls exist with love laughter family and faith,
Life’s secret of caverns like the songs in your mind,
The enclave of sand rock and lichen reflects well,
Of that was formed ever so enchanting the abyss,
Of the stone with its furtive outlets afore the deep brine,
As it passed by your name a fiery flower than created,
The arduous waves rose like a barrier in the Universe,
A canticle now well beloved all things ode to love,
Earth time sea island life and tide are subsequent,
The sea is the mouth to the universe and tells all,
Flowers on the now spring unfold afore our eyes,
Observing us as if our passions are now in the begin,
Arduous waves of the brine are now burgeoning flowers,
A courtyard now surrounded with passionate flowers,
We were alive together on a macrocosm heretofore,
Yet not alone when the hour of our demise befalls us,
Our love was harvested as that of the fields of grain,
I the knowledge of the sea and you with gold lividity,
Mine exists in the caverns of the soil and sand
Fear not my blossom of life the fire of our love,
Soon loving kisses will join as our mouths,
Cleave perpetually”
By Andrew Guzaldo © 11/15/2018
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
We're bored like monks
in the margins
of ancient scripture.
We want to leave behind lazy hieroglyphs
and accidental red herrings
feigning illumination
rendered by the deviousness of time
in its enclave,
running a brush of flaky gold paint
over delicate decadence
and sprinkling dust like a fairy--
we are to believe it is all
some ancient treasure.
We prance in the ether of the material world
in junkyards where we sift through the wreckage
coddling memories like drying uteruses,
realizing our generation will not leave behind artifacts
worthy of nostalgia's ensconcing embrace.
With that realization we weep and
We continue to dig.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
*
I am your obedient, prettiest slave ;
dwelling in that celestial enclave.
Reading your curves on your palms,
Allow me to recite your holy psalms ;
Embracing you in my strong arms,
Allow me to dwell in your dreams
*
**
By
Williamsji Maveli
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC