Where we shoveled coal into the furnace was an inconsiderable door. Behind it held ***** chubby cherubs with cherry tomato noses, whose job it was to keep the fires of our parent's liquor cabinets full. This they did to keep them from constantly beating us, but the happy distraction did not always work. So, we would pluckily go. Go to the scuzzy pond at dusk with kerosine lanterns and listen for croaks. We tied forks to the ends of canes or stakes and would gig bullfrogs for dinner. It became only momentarily mortifying, but was always a choice way of ridding our sisters and other clingy girls of our company. We'd fry the legs in cornstarch and pepper flakes and be allowed to share with the adults their beer if it was a good catch. Usually, it was. Most of forever we waited for teaberry season, always the best time of the year. Though it was hotter than Beelzebub's bath water we'd go swimming in that **** pond to reach our favorite teaberry patches. This ensured our riches and fame throughout our Appalachian village. Everyone would eat teaberry ice cream and sing our names and no one beat us on those days.

when the proficient poison of sure sleep
bereaves us of our slow tranquillities

and He without Whose favour nothing is
(being of men called Love)upward doth leap
from the mute hugeness of depriving deep

with thunder of those hungering wings of His,

into the lucent and large signories
—i shall not smile,beloved;i shall not weep:

when from the less-than-whiteness of thy face
(whose eyes inherit vacancy)will time
extract his inconsiderable doom,
when these thy lips beautifully embrace
nothing
          and when thy bashful hands assume

silence beyond the mystery of rhyme

I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day, too bad your schedule
is fully booked, but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees, for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put, not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand, my resume is absent of
razors and pills, poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths, here are my sums

If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones, my unsolicited ******,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command, by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...

If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself, parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011

Glancing around that neverplace, the airplane cabin,
indulging that edge-of-time feeling,
your head resting on the cool window,
you see her.
She rolls a piano onto the tarmac.
You wait to be bused to the takeoff starting line.
She's fuzzy in the distance, a soft shape getting softer,
in a blue hoodie and blue jeans, perhaps barefoot.
No one stops her.
You feel like someone should.
A dry swift wind beats across the flats.
She stops pushing, the piano in a suitable place.
A man in an orange vest drags a row of stairs behind the piano.
She sits on the third step, lifts the fall board.
You cannot see her hands. She's playing now.
A noisy collective boredom surrounds the cabin.
And yet this. Just outside.
From your vantage, it's not music, nor is it spectacle.
It's suppressed beauty, a dimmed surprise,
and your hands ache and you long for the wind,
for her bright song, for a brief dance
beyond this inconsiderable window.

Perhaps
what was lost
was never meant to be found

And after all my efforts
to forget
Here, now,
you stand before me

No longer
do I desire you
more than I do to exist
No longer
do I need you
to be with happy with my every decision

Heaven before me,
yet I remain untouched.
Considering
what I know to be inconsiderable.
Soaking in the moment
thinking of the potential
Smiling,
and then walking away.

Sating my broken desire
on this innocent moment of insanity.

My chest explodes with
joy and pride, that is,
if pride is the right word
for a sense of wonder
that seems to dominate
both my most quiet, dark moments
and shatteringly sunny seconds.

Staring at the blazing blue
of the morning sky, and the
counterpoint of cottony white,
I wonder why so much gas
and light somehow came
to inspire rather grand words in
an inconsiderable and small
speck of carbon such as I.

How can I explain the way
I see the space around me, that is,
Without pretense of creation
and acceptance of insignificance,
in a way that wouldn't offend
and could inspire even the most
singular minded mortal?

I am of only humble understanding
of much but was taught some words:
that any lost feeling of awe
cannot be nourishing to a
mature peace of mind, nor body,
nor soul, if you call the way
all things connect as such.

And if I had a thing
like a soul, mind,
at this moment,
it would be
soaring.

The brother said he had rhythm

In mind I was imprisoned with suspicion
that he had played me as if he had rhythm

Inbetween them sheets my intention was to go into a ****** dimension

(Prevention)

that's what I forgot before I found out I had a infection, no protection

You had had me then you had bag me going in I knew he was a felon,

but that attracted me and rated him to be my lucky number seven

He was curious so we agreed that this secret was going to be victorious understandably I am seductive and he was more then just impulsive he was destructive

So he that inconsiderable wannabe thought he was gone be runner up for my nominee,

But that would never happen he had ****** me with venom so I shown him door to get out and never let me see him or his so called rhythm

In my mind rests so many words of repent, of remorse and regret that never went through.

Times where it's been just Me for you, & I wish I could've explained how terrorized I am by the idea of living with another someone to lose.

Traumatic memories can lead to irrational caution, repellant actions that seemingly can't be prevented or contained.

Flashes of past nightmares during my happiest days, guess the losses of my Dad, brother, and cousin led me to push away sunshine filled companionship for lonesome walks in the rain.

My impulsive actions are precaution of loss, can't allow another person to mean so much to me, cause I don't think I can withstand another cut to my core that deep, it's still sore.

So because of that I feel less and fear Lord. Give myself excuses like "her parents made more." "What would she even look my way for?" Victim of my own my mind, holding my inner gentlemen captive to free an ******* and I push away the same girls I used to pray for.

Even though Bella's fingers fitted in between mines as if that's what they were made for.

I know there's no way to take away the pain I've inflicted just like I still feel the pain of my own losses.

Mature enough now to realize my methods were addled by fear & emotion, & if I knew where you were Kennedy I'd tell you how sorry I am, realizing that it was selfish of me to vacate unannounced just to be cautious.

Tears always consume me thinking about the well being of Imani & if it's my fault. Blunts darken your bright soul, stress has dampened your smile & I'm so sorry my behavior made me inconsiderable to come dry tears.

I'd tell Ariel she made me forget my fears, that everyday I counted the piercings in your ears, that my reaction was pure caution after discovering you had kissed him, & I felt a pain as if I had held you in your bed for years.

I'd apologize to Rachel just because, just for the mix up in a terrible time for her. Id tell Amanda that I forgive her for playing with my mind, for saying she wasn't ready to move on & then kissing him in a club. Guess she'd say I got attached to quick in attempt to sucker me.

But I'm proud of that due to my often and recent inability to attach at all, & I regret the day  Abbie looked me in my eyes only to see I couldn't say I loved her too, that no matter how many times she lifted me to my feet I couldn't force my heart to give her that luxury.

Every night when my spirits are low & my eyes close to watch horrors,  I just feel the tears in my soul filling up from the hearts I've broken because mines lay in fractions.

So to them all, the Angels sent to me as I stumble through hell looking for the next hand to guide me, my deepest apologies for the ache, for time lost, & any unjustified distraction.

Two beautiful colors make something.
But taking your overbearing hand, and putting it over a rich, compelling movement of an innocent heart, and insecure, unsure man loving another.
You’re not as sure of love as he is.
So you will take your thought, and insecure mind, your voice that is still lingering for what it may be.
Your little comments are clearing out of your breath, day by day, and your inconsiderable conscience feeling the fatal thought of how he just may be feeling and what he just may do to himself, because a person like you is scared.
You’re not of sure as he is.

Each and every person who was born and descended into this world,
was raised by presumably different kinds of sentimental treatments and served by disparate acknowledgement of love.

A baby comes out of the womb not knowing anything at all.
How a human was treated in the times of past, what he has witnessed, and what he felt deeply -  matters in times of present.
It was almost too difficult for some people to be considered worthy and quite deserving of love
Perhaps the insecurities were total agony
But if it were agony
Why do they feel it all the time?

I suppose there are people in the world who were taught the importance of affection
And what to do about loving another
and how to construct love to be real
And there are people in the world who weren’t
There are people who are doubtless convinced about what to make of loving a person
And there are people who do not know what to do with it

Many times I lost sleep to thinking,
What do I have to give, to make a person believe the love that I have?
What quality do I have as an individual to be seen beautiful and content, therefore I can fullfil another?
Do I have the tenderness that I never witness from the way my parents loved each other?
Do I have the patience that my mother was less likely to possess?
Do I have the humane, gentle, practices of love that I never had to see?
If I don’t, would it be easy for me to present my love completely?
Do I really need to demonstrate the way I feel about a person, so that I can be trusted?

The answer is, I believe I have what it takes to love and be loved, whether I have or have not witness the act of great love in my past.

I have ears to listen to whatever uttered by another;
To listen to raspy voice in the morning,
and to weary voice at night
To the sound of whirring spoon in the thick of milk and coffee,
and to the sound of, sometimes, slashes and beatings against the door
To hear what sort of sound do kisses make
and what sort of pain does shouting bring
To recognize the noise of a cheerful laughter
and the tone of mourning weeps
And I have eyes not for looking,
but for paying attention
to every details of such vulnerability that perhaps I cannot fix

Though I do not have the divine nature or impeccable qualities of being a decent partner,
My difficulty and persistence in loving
is why I consider myself as genuine within reason

When I love,
I love with my soul
and give with my soul by all means
I hope my tendencies of being humanely difficult
and my willingness to offer mildly inconsiderable pieces of myself
will be enough to make love lasts for once

I fear in your mouth a single thought of power
An uncertain word yet so vast for me to ponder
An inconsiderable adverb you began to consider
That at a certain time-frame  I will ease or suffer

The thrill and suspense rising
Anxiousness and nausea in me boiling
My sleepless nights never ending
My broken mind always just thinking

Have you no mercy for  a feeble creature as I?
For every word is Provident as you let them fly
My poor soul aches, agony and anguish combine
In my mind helpless thoughts divide

For what may have been done is an answer
Of uncertainty and forsaking with crooked laughter
As I asked if I can have you forever
You said SOON so now I'll restlessly wonder

Just let it be,
let the earth be,
you have truly
done enough.

You will never
remedy the scars
of its wound
inflicted by your greed.

Don't add to
its bruises by
any selfish act
of your ignorance.

It is that
complicated even
when you try to help,
it doesn't need it.

The inconsiderable
abuse has made it
to be insensitive
to your feelings.

But it will recover
and never forget
your labour of love.

For your name is
woven into its fabric
and indelably etched
deeply into its heart.

It speaks of you
to the whole universe
about your sacrifice.

Love it is
that bonds you
together to dine.

With grace and
compassion it
communes in favour
of you.

Extending the hands
of fellowship,
to form a nation
through you. 

Because of you
sudden providence
and resources from
its source of bounty
descended.

For it is now
an extension of you,
as above,
so it is below.

As it is
even so are you,
a reflection and
exact replica of
its multifaceted image.

And as the joy
of bliss returned,
know you have
more than enough.
©2020,Nnaemeka Mokeme.