"headdress" poems
And if you think I'm oppressed,
covering my hair with a silken headdress-
And if you think I'm forced,
beaten, to lengthen my sleeves and elongate my shorts-
And if you think I'm afraid,
cowering under the protection of black linen shade-
You 'most certainly take note of the society's improprieties,
that the abaya I wear is thrusted upon me,
that the niqab my sisters practice is only for he;
No. My hijab is my personality, my promise to honour my femininity,
to never allow anyone, any man, to use me;
I am a woman, a human, a feminist:
no man will control me.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
Society has good intentions Bureaucracy is like a friend
5 years ago - other furies other losses -
America's
trying to control the uncontrollable Forest fires, Vice
The essential smile In the essential sleep Of the children Of the essential mind
I'm
all thru playing the American
Now I'm going to live a good quiet life
The
world should be built for foot walkers
Oily
rivers Of spiney Nevady
I
am Jake Cake
Rake
Write like Blake
The
horse is not pleased Sight of his
gorgeous finery
in the dust Its silken
nostrils
did disgust
Cats
arent kind Kiddies anent sweet
April
in Nevada - Investigating Dismal Cheyenne Where the war parties
In fields
of straw
Aimed over oxen At Indian Chiefs
In wild headdress Pouring thru
the gap
In Wyoming plain
To make the settlers
Eat more dust than dust
was eaten In the States From East at Seacoast Where wagons made up To dreadful
Plains
Of clazer vup
Saltry
settlers
Anxious to ********** The Mongol Sea (I'm too tired in Cheyenne -
No sleep in 4 nights now, & 2 to go)
9.1k
Sleep, darling
I have a small
daughter called
Cleis, who is
like a golden
flower
I wouldn't
take all Croesus'
kingdom with love
thrown in, for her
---
Don't ask me what to wear
I have no embroidered
headband from Sardis to
give you, Cleis, such as
I wore
and my mother
always said that in her
day a purple ribbon
looped in the hair was thought
to be high style indeed
but we were dark:
a girl
whose hair is yellower than
torchlight should wear no
headdress but fresh flowers
6.9k
Just as dark rolls back and the sun rises nigh
And dawns light can be seen in the eastern sky.
From his forest home comes carefully and shy
The deer with his headdress held proudly so high.
His keen, bright eyes look sharply and true
For danger learks but that's nothing new
For the experience he has his rack does shew
Ten terminating ends that his antlers do
He steps forth, onto the grassy clearing
Sensing no threat that he need bewaring
He continues farther out, more bold and daring
Making sure the grass is safe before sharing
And just as he is about to feed
On tender grass his most favorite indeed
It hits his side and he starts to bleed
For it has pierced him causing dire need
Unable run, to the ground he does fall
He coughs on his blood, losing it all
And in the distance, hears a cheerful call
"Hooray! I got him!" From a tree so tall
What remained unknown to the wise, old buck
The threat in a tree, such bad luck
Waiting to tie a deer to the top of his truck
A hunter, by who's bullet, the deer was struck.
Please don't think that I am against hunting
It's just the facts of life that I am confronting
Because you'll see me here quietly munching
On a deer steak I fried and am now lunching!
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
Feels like slavery
With weight our shoulders
Havent We endured enough?
From One Bolder To The Next?
Like needles draining our blood for energy
The White Gold of Saturn
Using Led from congress
Our Spring Streams Have Run Dried
Directed into a Different lines and Process
Guarded by Projects With Capitalism at its finest
Racism and favoritism.
The Collective Body Shivers .
With stretch lines on her skin with her magnitude of her tears.
The stages of legions unleashed.
Souls in battle using a leash.
Things have been disowned and blown.
The Headdress will take its throne.
The Shield Into El-dorado that is known.
Grids awaken from the Amerindian parts of the jaguars tradition.
Collective religious cultures unleashed from its disposition.
The beauty that brings a new position.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 7:10 PM UTC
The headdress danced in the sun
On the Indian's hollow
And eyeless skull.
It was framed in feathers
Brightly-colored serpents in the
Salty air flames licking at
Dancing and ***** bare feet.
Dark-skinned, tall, high cheekbones
And solemn eyes full of
Wisdom--he surveys the
Badlands, Moses's rigid face
Blank and silent in a
Heatwave desert.
Beyond the teepees and the
Black bonfire smoke and
The buffalo rhythm, the plateau has
Risen, bleached bones
Litter the plains as a constant
Reminder.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Children of the Moon!
Abandon your worn shoes
And frolic freely, barefoot
In Her midnight light;
Let down your lovely locks
And bare your ashen skin
To allow Her celestial lips
Kiss your collar bones;
Let Her blanket of shadows
Drape over your shoulders,
While She crowns you with
A headdress of night diamonds.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
I stood in line
to be weighed
in the bathroom
of the nursing home
Anne crutched herself
behind me
you haven't
got a chance in hell
of winning
that chocolate bar Kid
she said
I've seen more meat
on a butcher's pencil
stuck behind his ear
might win
I said
might fly
she said
the kid in front of me
got on
the green metal scales
and the nun
moved the weight
along the top
not you Malcolm
she said
the kid got off sulkily
I got on the scales
and the nun
moved the weight
I looked at her
black and white
headdress
her pinched features
not you Benny
she said
I got off
and walked away
Anne awkwardly
got on the scales
holding herself
on her one leg
the stump
of the other
hanging there
best so far Anne
the nun said
told you Kid
you didn't
have a chance
guess not
I said
as she crutched herself
along side of me
not to worry
if I get the choco bar
I’ll give you
a quarter for being
a good friend
no other
in this **** hole
gets a look in
we went along
to our rooms
come in Kid
she said
I hesitated
come in
I want to
ask you something
I stood swaying
uncertain
what if
one of the nuns
comes along?
what if I don't give you
quarter of the choc bar?
she said
I followed her in
to the girls dorm
no one else
was there
just she and me
she closed the door
with her backside
right Kid
I want you
to do me
a favour
favour?
I said
sensing uncertainty
hit my gut
yes I want you
to sneak along
to the kitchen tonight
and liberate
some biscuits
liberate?
I said
biscuits?
yes you know
what biscuits are
don't you
those hard things
with cream in the middle
or chocolate
on one side
I know what biscuits are
I said
but what do you mean
liberate?
take some
from the big tin
they have
on the shelf
in larder
take?
I said
you mean steal?
steal
take
liberate
whatever word
you want
to use Kid
what if I get caught?
don't get caught
but what if I do?
Anne sighed
sat on the edge
of her bed
I thought you
were someone
I could rely on Kid
not some cowardly custard
yellow belly
I looked
at her leg stump
sticking out
the other leg
reached to the floor
if you're really good
I’ll let you touch
my stump
she said
no need
I said
I'll try tonight
sneak down
after lights out
good Kid
she said
she took my right hand
and lay it
on the stump
and held it there
it felt warm
and soft
she let my hand go
good huh?
wish the rest
was there
she said
off you go
and don't get caught
I nodded
and backed out
of the room
seeing her cover
the stump
with her dress
and smile
see you
I said
you bet
she said
I walked away
thinking
of the big steal
of biscuits
unthought through
by my 10 year old brain
as yet.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
There Is Only One Race,
The Race Of Reality
There Is Only One Race,
The Race Of Humanity,
Someone's Color Does Not Bother Me,
It Is There Heart That Matters,
They Could Have Skin White As Can Be,
But A Heart That Is Black And Battered
Race Does Not Exsist,
It Was Made By Humans To Create Control,
I Could Be Racist,
But The Only I Color I Judge Is That Of Ones Soul,
I Don't Mind A Headdress,
It's Simply Just Clothes,
Im Tired Of Peoples Heartlessness,
Over What Someome Else Chose,
If Someone Speaks Another Language,
That Is Fine With Me,
English Is Average,
With Words I Don't Know All I Hear Is Beauty
You Should See The Beams Of Hatred,
Towards Anyone Of A Differnet Color,
Good Friendships Wasted,
Or Maybe Even A Lover,
I Don't See Myself As White,
I Don't See Myself A Caucasian,
I Don't See My Self As Light,
I Dont See Myself As American,
All I See Is Who I Am Inside,
I Wish Other People Could See It Too,
I Wish People Could Confinde,
In The Person Inside Of You,
Behind All The Clothes,
Behind All The Skin,
Or Whatever Comes And Goes,
Just The Person With In,
I'm Not A Hippie I'm Just Saying,
People Should Ignore The Faces,
And See What's So Amazing,
Ignore The Races,
And Stop All This Creating
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
comely, maybe
but not beautiful
my features are as round as vowels
and I carry the moon in my hips
I am an unpolished beauty
smooth pebbles resting at the bottom
of a cold clear stream
with an empty purse
imagination
my only currency
in this world
I am a shrinking violet
occasionally a rose
february-white
caught in your button-loop
long-stemmed red roses
stalk runways
hollywood bombshells
are bubbly as champagne
and full of flesh and light
but *** sans love
is still an empty bathtub
whatever happened to pin-up girls
long cigarette holders
and muted photographs?
I am distorted
in the fish-eye view
of the modern lens
in my fantasies
I am no longer sand and loam
I glow like a tall slim candle
though I am often numb and dumb
and my girls are as absent
as long lost unicorns
I am the bohemian princess
I travel through foreign lands
clothed in exotic costume
a jewelled headdress, and
indian pyjamas coloured sapphire,
turquoise and cayenne-red
my feet are near bare
and my hippie hair
is a mass of blonde curls
I take a sojourn in
southern california
warm desert air
soft against my skin
I surf in the salty sea
held buoyant by the waves
a sunset stains the sky tangerine
the palm trees
black against the orange light
click teasingly in the breeze
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
sing my song.
use the angels tone as you remember our hands touching like
the feathers of a dove.
hold on to the fact that this isnt love.
this isnt lust
this is the human holding on to the strings of its own reality .
the ideas of hate fading into the background.
use your hands to craft amazing things.
but use your voice to proclaim your stunning ideals.
make me fall for you.
like the feather of a dove i will soon fall away.
dont give me the memory of your hand if you plan to pull it away.
because as the feather falls it might soon be picked up to be put into the headdress of women with just enought time to make it fit.
but our shared emotions might be enough to engulf me in the passions of flame more powerful that the strength of my frail form.
and nobody wants a burnt feather in there headress.
if you plan on extending your hand to me. then do so knowing that i am a fragile feather, attached to you, because every angel needs a set of wings.
When you grow tired of me, make sure to let me fall slowly. so that when i am used in the lining of someone elses memories, they can use me as they need.
I am a feather. something that is used for other peoples needs and desires.
when you grow old and remember me, just remember to sing the feathers song.
it starts with your name.
and ends with mine.
sing my song.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
She ***** on a milkshake through a metal straw. Strawberry.
The place, Tom's on Western, is bare. Ash falls outside. It's
sticking to the glass windows. Glass and steel frames
and white paint and white chairs and ash outside.
A taxi cab goes up over the curb. A black woman in a headdress
gets out and tosses money, red money, blood money.
I'm here too sitting by the bathroom, noting the length
of Strawberry Milkshake's boy shorts. Is this objectification
or object reduction or reverse personification?
The siren in the distance winds down, sounds like it's melting.
Do sounds melt? She, Strawberry Milkshake, doesn't
seem bothered by what's going on outside. I want to sink
my teeth into her shoulder. Ash sticks to the glass, and a
kid, eight or nine, runs by, newspaper up over his head.
He's crying. I can see this, but I don't hear this. Water
starts leaking then pouring then falling in sheets. Ceiling
tile and insulation float at my feet. Strawberry Milkshake
pulls her wet hair back into a ponytail. I clear my throat.
She raises her middle finger. I walk over and tell her
there's this song she reminds me of. And a bomb hits just
down the street. There goes the glass, crashing all around
us, slicing past forearms and skipping through empty space.
The steel frames bend. She puts her hand to my face. My
face becomes her face, her hand my hand. She and I half-hum, half-sing
"Oh Destructo, you're so destructive. You're so destructive to me."
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
i am in an intelligent concrete room
while familiar silhouettes switch direction in the balmy wind
there is a dim stone portal spending a light
so still and small and dissolving into the sunless wall
under the scattered ruin of the sacred world
its gaunt mind studies beneath hieroglyphs
and into oblivion
it is later in the night and i am riding on an unsettling
crucifix doused in drugs and hammocks and the
blind face of eternity is wearing a headdress
filled with plumes of indecipherable intellect
and she has transcended my ego
with holy dreams
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
come on darling take a chance with us
our meat is on the seams of a blue-blooded funeral
a **** body burial, and the volcanoes laugh
the thumbs shake
as the fingers dance
makes the rain pull its roots on
for the showcase the generic plants
will perform a feral routine
every **** a command-stop forwarded
the nucleus inside of a vitrified half-assed colon
and if they shiver they will find their saw
tailored to the head of that aurulent god
a caterpillar reads the braille and follows my wrist
he condescends, and breaks notions causing new alarm
they are all special, green feet and orange sinewy lines
he casts his blame he curses across the myriad storms
gold minarets in the distance
serpents living under man-made rocks
counting down the seconds on armageddon's clock
a lion counts his livestock
he puts his socks on, he wears a headdress
in the shape of a flame
just outside the shadows of an autumn day
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
The next time you want to ban
brown skin from your white land ,
consider the crimson floods spilt
on burnt clay from red flesh.
You want brownfolk in this country
like we wanted pox in our quilts.
As our history is ripped to tattered patches
and replaced by a white silken sheet.
But this is the land of the free
and this is the home of the brave.
And when I say brave
I don't mean that caricature
drawn on the front of a baseball jersey,
with buck teeth,
a bird feather
and a tomahawk motion.
I mean the brave souls
that took a last stand
against the Custers
and the Mayflowers
and colonial white powers.
I mean the Sitting Bulls and Geronimos
who’s histories are rewritten
in Old Spaghetti Westerns.
Where John Wayne is always the hero,
and our people aren’t even cast
to play our own roles.
Hollywood won't stoop to blackface
but red face is PC.
Perfect Aryan models advertise American Apparel,
one authentic-looking headdress
and fifty-dollar native design
crop top tank tops
are like spoils to the victor.
It's enough to make one sick.
This is America,
where they steal your culture
and sell it back to you
at ten times the price.
Those faux hide moccasins,
**** on old tradition,
turn centuries old struggle
into a fashion faux-pas.
I once had a conversation with a girl
whose skin was made of privilege.
She said, ”I thought Native Americans
wanted to live on reservations..?”
Let that resonate. Repeat.
as if we were getting a room
at the Four Seasons.
It was called the trail of tears
not the trail of whimsical wonder.
But in this white washed world
invasion is called settling
genocide is industry
and poverty is tax-free.
Our heritage is endangered,
our veins are booze-diluted
but at least we have those scholarships
which, I suppose, we’ll use
to cram our brains
with a history
that never belonged to us.
Perhaps, all of those centuries ago,
we should have thought to build a wall,
you know, to keep the immigrants out.
We could have stood at the border
with picket signs of self-deluded righteousness
lungs filled with hate
for a different colored human
shouting, "Go home, Alien,
your dreams are illegal here!"
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
You found me staring, hair full of sand:
I had tried to embrace the water as my blood
and was reprimanded by a wave for my daring.
Around us the thick grass like palm-sunday fronds
and the path of boards lifted from a painting
dissolved into steel wool. The rest of the scene
has been redacted, smeared from my mind
with an inky thumb.
You found me between sleep. I am still
waiting to be returned to , or
wherever the quarter-light carved your back
into soft photograin beneath my childs hands.
You said, "
", words warming me
with the bloom of a chrysanthemum beneath my chest.
Does the crown of petals still ***** like the cigarettes
off that balcony, overlooking ?
I burned my body into your imagined contours.
The space between ours folded over and
again, an origami figure slowly taking on mass and attitude.
It sat on my shoulder, Incan headdress grown solid one day,
stock right foot the next. It cleaved and cleaved.
We joined at or maybe , in the rain.
Or was it? My face was wet, and hands or moths
fluttered against an aquarium window.
If dreaming, I awoke when : the train
flattened its memory like a penny.
Here it is, squashed between my fingers. The face pushed
like putty, smoothed like the faces of and
and of course , who remains
only as a scratchy, juvenile voice.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC
Arapaho Bride, Chieftains Dearest.
Early Fortnight, Gros Ventre Headdress.
Indian Jubilee, Kindred Lavishment.
Mornings Noontide Oluksak Pulls Quiet River Streams, Terrapins.
Unabated Vas deferens Wedding Xyris Young-begetting, Zea mays rugosa.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
Fluorescent flickers illuminate the stained cement floors of the hallway. Your slippered feet music an uneven pad and scuff. This ***** city is home, whatever that means. This ***** city holds you like you're someone else's child. A burst of joy and music reaches for you through the window; someone bangs a door and you turn on the tap. As water sputters onto your toothbrush you catch a whiff of Dakota Jim's racist southern drawl, a puff of his ketamine breath.
You walk to the window, toothbrush dangling.
[Oh London, I know you love no one, but nights like this I feel your heartbeat in your embrace.]
History swells beneath your feet. Your eyes land on a seated figure, his grand headdress of feathers overpowering the tableau, his gaze calmer than the other mad happy swirls that make up the crowd. It makes you wonder what he sees. Probably nothing. You will learn that when he seems profound it is usually an accident. You are penned in by jagged skyline hieroglyphics. History swells. Your heavy hearted story is a speck consumed in all this history. All the history you were taught in school was death, you remember your mother bemoaning this war generals and battle dates history. You wonder at how much death this place has seen, how many lives the city has birthed and eaten, hungry mother staving off starvation.
We all write our stories on other people's bones. Of course the greatest cities would leave the greatest scars. And what did you come here looking for anyway?
[Hello Momento Mori city. I see you. I see your rooftops straining to **** stars. Do you mourn for your dead? Are they heavy in your belly? Are you going to eat me, too?]
But now, if you drag your little mind back from the immensities, everything around you is alive. Everyone is dancing, happy to be caught in her belly. Or her womb. Not one of you knows which, but there you are. In the courtyard, the small, steady figure of Freddie Stitz brings a lit cigarette to his lips and smiles up at you in the window.
Wipe that toothpaste off your face, you look ridiculous. Go back to bed.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
I like that girl in the cutoff jean jacket
who always goes out with intent to make a racket
All that tribal black light paint
that you'd think would look cliche
until you see how well it illuminates her face
I want someone who still makes me feel young
Who isn't in a hurry to be all grown up
She's not afraid to say yes
to rock a neon headdress
and she always thought it cool to stretch her flesh
She rocks the shutter shades down in her V-neck
All summer long she's on the festie trek
She likes her wooden spiral plugs
her pieces shaped like bugs
and her most favorite thing is to give free hugs
From Triple Rock back to The Cabooze
Electric Forests and Bonaroos
She doesn't think that she'll ever grow old
with music, friends and stories to be told
Hemp and glass are her silver and gold
However, I am not quite like you
I'm just biding my time with this rowdy crew
I haven't yet committed to keeping my youth
and that's why my skin's still clear of tattoos
The longest lasting scars, forever proof:
You were once wild and young but afraid to face the truth
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
He was in hospital
for a short op
a one day event
and then home
the nurse said
if you could undress
Mr Hawkins
and put on that gown
on the bed
and so he looked around
and got to the bed
and she drew
the green curtains
around him
and he stood there
and began to undress
and folded his clothes
and put them on a chair
and put on the blue gown
which did up
at the back
and stood there
wondering what
to do next
how long would
he have to wait?
he lay on the bed
and opened the book
he'd brought to read
his back ached
his hips too
how long would he be?
a nurse drew back
the curtains
and said
I need to take
your temperature?
can you tell me
your name please?
he looked at her
in her blue two piece
like a motor mechanic
rather than a nurse
what happened to those
neat uniforms?
he wondered
name?
she asked again
Mr Benedict Hawkins
he said
she ticked her list
date of birth?
he told her
how much
do you weigh?
she asked
he told her
she ticked her list again
she put a thermometer
in his mouth
and took his wrist
and looked
at her watch
he looked at her hand
her fingers
holding his wrist
the thin white fingers
the pink nails
he looked
at her ears
not too small
or large
no earrings
no small holes
where they might
have been
he studied her lips
wondered who
kissed them
if any
she took out
the thermometer
and shook it
with a lovely
wrist action
and gazed at it
then she put it
in her top pocket
just above
her left ***
or impression of such
and she looked at him
you're 3rd on the list
she said
OK
he said
and off she walked
her swaying behind
like some gay mechanic guy
going back
to the pits
no lovely
neat uniform
or black stockings
encasing cool legs
or black
sensible shoes
or tidy white
headdress
to set it all off
just a trained
nursing mechanic
in the blue two piece
nothing to inspire
another look
so he opened
the pages
of his child
psychology book.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
Sweet Catherine Eddowes,
Second lady one of two,
On a night of grisly finds in the square of the bishop's headdress,
In London's not so fair city,
On this the Sabbath's tragic night,
'Kate' tragic shrew was tamed, not by Petruchio,
This murdered lady from tragedy of night walk,
Tatooed lady, hazel eyes and fiery auburn hair,
Bonnet left on after death, protected her beautiful hair,
Perhaps the ripper cared,
Kate filled usually with vile temper,
Her temper not apparent on that sad night,
Appeared to put up no fight,
Her beautiful face was sliced to ribbons,
Cruelly disfigured by this evil,
Usually was a jolly gal, loved to sing and dance,
Unable to make a flight to escape the merciless wrath of this mystery man,
Carotid artery slashed and dashed,
No blood left on the ground,
Smeared foul faecal matter all around,
As ripping evil stole, her bowels,
Lain, like sleeping naturally ,
Still warm corpse discovered,
Fellow passing by saw a woman pass,
May have been her with a chap, fair haired,looking shabby,
Different description from the others,
Poor Kate left family of three behind,
A daughter and two sons,
The sun had set for the last time,
For their poor dear mother.
The forth ripper victim!
By ladylivvi1
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
I wish to one day be interesting
But what is it I should do -
Perhaps I'll wear a vibrant headdress and stay here as my skin burns away in the desert and my bones deteriorate
My face will remain in the shape of this gaping half smile, trying to lure you in
And my eyes will be lost in this wild attempt
And you'll be lost with them, as you stare into the darkness that was once their home and realize this is all that I ever was
Would this intrigue you
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
The structure of pillars are built
left and right Thirteen Thirty One
Terminal tool of the sun
The Moon together as One
The Ownership of the flag and the headdress in the middle of the tent of the one
Constructed and process of this hidden process
Fallen and risen, both hands as they go.
Chains balanced thru the crosses
Past foundations built placed into this process
Linguistics of stages
Past memories of this address in phases
Wheels that protects and repairs its course
Used variables from this source
Spheres reaps from their plantation.
Authorized application
Sensation of this automation
The red bird that flies that sights its location.
Squared into existence that creates manifestation.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 5:40 AM UTC
And when I molt
you make a headdress of the selves that
have fallen from me with time.
Like you, they are colourful and cautious.
And as you carefully creep skyward,
I throw myself down in the cool grasses
of your lengthening shadow.
I was tired. It made sense to rest.
And so we played with feathers and inches
as children do.
Running in circles and circles until we fell asleep holding hands.
What were we,
but our love?
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
i.
Thither soon
The harvest Moon;
September, mine month of birth
Me and mine Reyna shalt swoon.
ii.
Asunder the leaves
Through the fall lit tree's;
Me and mine dame
Shalt gyrate the amour that we bleed.
iii.
The moon to be red
Ourn eye's to giveth vision's;
Of me and mine sweet Jane
Making love in celestial kitchen's.
iv.
On the grass
In the sea of thought;
Ourn affection unearhtly
Not to be store bought.
v.
Ourn headdress
Made from peacock quill;
A medicine woman and man
shaman of autochthonous skill.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC