Don’t make homes out of people because they always leave and take everything you own with them.*
Home doesn’t feel like home without you and because of that I’ve stopped building homes out of people.
But I saw the beauty of the world in your eyes and it always gave me hope.
I’ve been feeling homeless and now I’m always home a lot less because of you.
You are as beautiful on the inside as you are on the outside and that’s why people are still drawn to your aura.
Depression hit harder than the recession, it had me regressing and constantly questioning my level of progression.
Purple jacaranda petals spread all around my feet as I patiently wait for my heart to make a sound.
This hopeful romantic knows that hearts get broken like mirrors, records and promises do.

All the jacaranda trees in Pretoria still remind me of the beauty that is you.
When the relentless heat of the sun drove me crazy all I could think about was your smile and those hazel-brown eyes.
I spend some nights drinking my favourite wine by myself but this bottle of Pinotage will always taste better in your presence.
I still want to hold your heart like the lonely autumn trees hold the fragility of clinging leaves.
But you’re no longer mine to love and the thought of you being with someone else kills me.
Hearts fall to the ground like jacaranda petals do but unfortunately the view is not so beautiful.
Purple jacaranda petals spread all around on every street as I patiently wait for my heart to make a sound.

Under the blue jacaranda that swayed in the soft spring breeze
I breathed in the scent of her lavender blossoms, recalling the moment in dreams
Before me were rows of her sisters lining the old town streets
Ringing their bell flowers, calling me in - my blue jacaranda trees

In the gardens were flowers and trees of the world, exploding with colours in glorious hues
Lit up by coral trees’ fire like glow, all through the city where ever you’d go
The pink of the silk trees, mimosas of white
Jasmines of yellow that shone in the light
Flames of the forest that Cook brought so far, burning bright orange and seen from afar
Flowers like birds and their scents filled the air, Angels Trumpet the Lilies on show everywhere

Under the blue jacaranda, I savoured the views in peace
Her leaves were like fern and her shade cooled me down as I sat in the warm spring breeze
And dreamed that one day I would travel her way if over the seven seas
Ringing her bell flowers, calling me in. My Blue Jacaranda trees ...

I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I’m fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.
Without a sound, the city’s jacaranda petals fall effortlessly onto the ground.
As they fall, I begin to realise that we are all living in a world where the minutes are working overtime.
I’m reminded of the days when you and I devoted our time to the art of rhyme.
I no longer know where you are in the city but I hope you’re doing just fine.
I’m not where I want to be at this current moment but please give me time.
It’s within our simplicity where I discovered how beautifully complex we are.
Our circles might be smaller but our hearts are much bigger now.
The circumference might have drastically changed but the love hasn’t.  
It’s no mystery why my aura will always long for the company of yours.
Even though I’ve got two left feet, I still want to slow dance to the rhythm of spring’s heartbeat.
In the capital city, October skies glow with a shade of purple.
Went from breaking up, breaking through to breaking new ground.
So even though I’m hurting now I know I’ll eventually be safe and sound when summer comes around.
These pages do not have enough space to describe how phenomenal we are.
It has been a while since we’ve seen each other so where are you now?
I value all you taught me about life and the importance of true friendship.
The circumference might have changed but the love between us hasn’t.

I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I’m reminded of the days when you and I devoted our time to the art of rhyme.
I no longer know where you are in the city but I hope you’re doing just fine.
I’m fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.

I woke in the early hours to find
My head between her thighs,
She hadn’t been there before, I swear
And I’m not a man who lies.
I’d seen her out in the Public Bar
Of the ‘Jacaranda Tree’,
Halfway along the Outback Track
On the way to Wendouree.

I’d seen her dance on the table tops
I’d seen her prance on the bar,
I’d said to Lance as I saw him glance
‘I don’t know where we are!’
He shrugged, to say that he didn’t care
As long as she danced that way,
Her stockings, down at her ankles and
Her skirt in disarray.

‘Now there is a ***** to turn your head,’
Said Lance, with a burst of pride,
He’d been out on the verandah, then
He’d turned to go back inside,
She’d joined him there for a moment,
Just brushed by for a quick connect,
But he hadn’t noticed her eyebrow raised
In a sign that said, ‘Reject!’

We both had our eighteen wheelers parked
Outside in the hotel grounds,
I was headed away up north
And he to the lights of town,
He offered to give her the sleeper cab
While he drove the star-filled night,
I looked away and I thought it sad,
But the trucks both looked alike.

I heard him leave at the midnight hour
And thought she was gone for good,
It wasn’t often I hauled this way
Or stayed in this neighbourhood.
But then I clambered into my bunk
Above, at the cabin’s rear,
And fell asleep like a hopeless drunk
Till the morning sun drew near.

I made an offer to buy that pub,
The ‘Jacaranda Tree’,
But only when she agreed to stay
And dance on the bar for me,
I asked if she’d meant to go with Lance
And she looked at me with scorn,
I sleep the sleep of a new romance
And the pillows keep me warm.

David Lewis Paget

Harrowed eyes
beckon
from the
shades of
jacaranda branches

it is
almost poetic
how false
true pain
can
shine

almost
like a
lip
bitten and
hacked
down to
the
stumps of
flesh
trying to
pursue
a mimicry
of joy

'oh hail'
'oh hail'
the sunshine
bellows
from the
gallows
the glinting
rusted
metal
so alike
your eyes

'oh rain'
'oh rain'
'Tis not
rain but
mellowed
waterfalls
falling from
the heavens
with the
most
regal
of graces

'oh mine'
'oh mine'
the haunted
quail
of a
hunter
beneath
jacaranda shades
rattles
and hisses
like the
exotic beast
within her skin

'oh do'
'oh nay'
is the echoed
tantalizing
that never
lets up.

How far can we get moving closer to our dreams without living in regret?
Have another sip of that glass of red wine then slowly take a deep breath.
When people ask, tell them that you found love in the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
When people ask, let them know that you found love in a place that was previously deemed as hopeless.
Let them know that you found love in the hands and heart of a poet who pledged to spend the rest of his days as your muse.
It’s hard enough finding love in your twenties yet you managed to find the balance and stick to your decision.
Haven’t had the pleasure to kiss you yet, but somehow, I have the taste of your smile lingering on the tip of my tongue.
You’ve made me fall for the poetry of purple blooms and now I can no longer spend spring without you.
Like a painter admiring his exquisite muse, I can’t stop looking at every colour of you.
How many of these poems will I manage to keep writing without driving my loving heart crazy?
The answer to that question is something that I do not know yet, but I do know that my heart beats for you.
Let me tell you more about my version of events while we listen to Emeli Sandé on any given Sunday.
Haven’t had the pleasure to kiss you yet, but somehow, I have the taste of your smile lingering on the tip of my tongue.
I’ll be patiently waiting for you on Jacaranda Avenue so that we can both make our dreams come true.

Part One
Nascent Craving

The insular heart unsealed; pearled eyes
Breach parapets of stone— periled shield,
The sweetest ****—
A threatening wonder and irrefragable synergy,
Nervous routes of cognition  
In this nascent, amorous craving.
Locked and abased,
Dissonance lends pathos — euphoric and onerous,
Disconsolate cries curb sublimation,
The regnant bleed diffusing — fervid lust
Fondled, tactile surfaces in throbbing anticipation.

Sullen, aft a veil of laughter,
Visceral aftermath, out of
The ardent ash,
Burns a thirst;
Insuperable numbness and ache.
Efflorescent intimacy,
Table for two
Enraptured in new alliance,
Élan vital (psyche);
Urgent dialect petitions
Equivocation, jocularity blending
Provocation with indecision,
Noted lilt of descending inhibition.

Adrift, the incessant Now;
As occasion inexorably diminished;
Resonant simpatico tending,
Numinous amity;
Heard conversant, cognitive idioms—
Lassitude, time-eaten pangs of the unhinged heart,
Wounds axiomatic,
In disquieting synergy,
Nibbling, the circumference—
Misery’s permeating truth;
None immune, all trundle incongruously past,
Facing intrepid savages.

Licitly felt, reverberations of Amor
Whence the heart behaves;
Measured cadence, pulse elevating—
Treasured lover, contemplative muse;
Undulating clasp, inflated bone of absence;
Incarnation — a woman,
Beyond prosaic;
Ineffable adoration pours in certitudes of verse,
Elenita, enclothed —virtue unvarnished;
Reservoir intrinsic, poised advocate of the innocent:
The crooked lines of insolence,
Brazen culture of neglected youth.
Perceptive blue stare, sensitized tears—
Plaintively, evincing her injustice ago.

Part Two
Tendered Senses

Siren silence, eruptive blush, ampler between phrases
In dulcet tones — stirring discourse;
Foments rebellion, the strife beneath— his ****,
Out of its vast reserve,
Penetrate the narrowed ambit, vaguely announced.
Groping hands, migrating the sensual member
Stern faces grimacing— mirror in abrasion,
Under the blind surf of consent;
Burrowing ambiguity, emerging torsion,
Plunge, enlisted and content in the sea;
Subsumed in the nonverbal cue,
Persuasion’s plea,
Quelled in the post cerebral assent.

Piercing eyes parallel crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe.

An untouched portion of his awareness remains aloof,
Palpable in the subsequential quiet,
Obsequious and febrile, they sinned on sofas;
Peregrine predilections quenched and viscid—
Serenely requited, the room breathes her presence,
Limp, figures *******, mantled in adolescent torpor.

Erudition in bloom, trust undoubted,
Illuminating, satiating; tempest calm—
Under canvas
Terrain soaked and sodden,
Postliminary — rains of invalidation.
Allowance and permission
Recalibrate, salivate, shortly only—
Initiate, obliged consecration, appraising
Curvatures of the spine,
Stuns him obeisant, her femenine pulchritude,
Propinquity inciting vigor,
Emergent allure, the updriven
Tower of wood sprung from the blanket.

Suffused in ether, purring streams of remembrance
Vaginal honeyed dew, sung into
Orchids, remnants of remember;
Drenched down the cynosure of devotion;
Succulent view, diaphanous pantied bottom;
Halcyon mist, saporous wine — compliance of the will,
Freed fires wander,
Pliable rind, twin plums dripping,
Abject confession, dispatching doubt
In tendered senses,
Pivotal tree, lavender Jacaranda holds the key,
Unfurled, cindered vulnerability.

Half-denuded skin invites confessional savor
Acutely bubbled rear, fleshly furnished denim;
Sultry visit, San Ramon Valley in the fall,
Strewed limbs splendid, flowing filmy;
Imagination yields—
Bursting silk congealed
Across deft thighs, ambrosial thong draping ankles,
Grazing ascension, the curvaceous trajectory
Nose inflamed with fragrance,
Inhaling, climb of acquiescence,
The ****** weal, amid the globed fruit,
Focal intention — ploughed lance thrusting,
Absconding, the ancillary perfume of essence.

Perceiving avid validation,
Swimmingly, amid the monstrous gaze.
  
Humid skies simper dank, set swell the incense of Eros,
Surge of poetry engorged
The flame levened shaft,
Nimble ******* flounce, spill the harboring mouth;
Moist hands merging, unfettered,
Weave in supplication,
Vicinity voicing, enmeshed diversion;
Supple and spherical behind
Posterior arch, milky-skin against the lip—
Ripeness jostling their complacency;
Lapped the mooring, ridden decisively;
Recapitulating— spumed forth, bellied over hips warmth.
Abandon the dirge of self-pity
Late under ego’s trance.
  
Part Three
Present Tenses

Tempting trespass across sacred gardens,
Flowering, scandal set luminous: attachment—
Consensual, their corresponsive fear;
Protean manifestations— evocative, perpetual
Unutterable contention in a fictive resolve,
Deliberating the merits of their widely disparate tastes in coffee,
Amorously touring wine, let’s drowse through the gnarled vine.
Sundry deficiencies pale, once contrasted;
The beatific vision—
Material substance unaccompanied,
Imperceptible, tear-streamed cheeks in synch,
Ventral kiss, peak of carnal perfection,
Reminiscence— flesh violent with Love.

Fiction knew to meander the innominate rift,
A tincture of irony soften misdeeds
Immense as the sea.
Insolvent beast stippled with sapience—
Unmasked, the fabric of delusion;
Dependence smothering the disciplined heart
Resentment put up for release.

Waste of residual years
Fate’s apportion, scars bleakly observed;
Chastened by heartache, engulfing fervor
Too faint to recapture.
Vague glimpses dry—
Hypervigilant his defenses,
Veritable suspensions, embers lit linger;
Slender walls of solidity, the horizoned self,
Faith and reason in concert — stone levels of elucidation.

Fractured bones of distance, emanate a rigid salience,
Another ponderous night of absence—
Lingering, cauldron of dearth as indifference ushers,
The quotidian coil of contrition.
Tearful pallor, sequestered —ciphering time and solitude;
The unkissed mouth, his restive brow;
Suspend in the approximate span.
                      
After Lucid alliterations are spoken
Devoid of her face, his lover’s nudge—
The man nurtures his hurt.
Anxious as seldom unscarred,  
Venus’s susurrations,
In present tenses,
Kissed by her serenades of integration—
Notwithstanding metaphysic intrusion,
No chain stays unbroken,
Postponed drifts of deferment left unspoken,
Reverberations of amor.

© 2013 W. S. Warner

Take me by the hand
And lead me to
The violet Jacaranda tree
Where she took your
Heart and whispered
Sweet words into your ear.

You were afraid to come
Back here and show
Others the hurt
Some little girl has brought
Upon you.

She spoke no truth
When she left you with
Simple but painfull words
That ran through your
Mind at night.

Take me by the hand
And lead me to
The Cherry Blossom tree
Where you first fell in love
With me.

violet-blue tropic blooms
popular for landscaping
jacaranda trees

Blue Monday**
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her *******  
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens  
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.

Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling  
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.

                     You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.  
                     I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name  
                     is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.

                     Monday is the first of the week,  
                     and I think of you all week.  
                     I beg Monday not to come  
                     so that I will not think of you  
                     all week.

You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal  
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin  
and my face, the blue of new rifles,  
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,  
and my *******, the blue of sand,  
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;

there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or  
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.

                         Love passed me in a blue business suit
                         and fedora.
                         His glass cane, hollow and filled with
                         sharks and whales ...  
                         He wore black
                         patent leather shoes
                         and had a mustache. His hair was so black
                         it was almost blue.

                         “Love,” I said.
                         “I beg your pardon,” he said.  
                         “Mr. Love,” I said.
                         “I beg your pardon,” he said.

                         So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street

                         Love passed me on the street in a blue  
                         business suit. He was a banker  
                         I could tell.

So blue trains rush by in my sleep.  
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.  
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.

If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,  
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.  
It is blue.  
It is blue.

The Blue Jacaranda

I don't wish to make a home in you
or hold on to your heart
like a fragile Autumn leaf
but sit with you under
the blue Jacaranda
and breathe your lavender deep
recalling those dreams you did dwell.
A stranger but more familiar
from some other sphere.
Under the blue Jacaranda
hold my hands with no promises made.
For a while, let me believe
you're still not a dream.

Purple sheets of petal,
Softly glowing in the dark
Of almost night.

Softly touching my cheek,
the enveloping cloud
surrounds me like a neon cloak.

I can see your face
reflecting in an overflowing
purple pool of mist.

And petals gently plopping,
enveloping the image
of your loveliness.

(Jacaranda madness)

My next door
neighbour has a tree
that looks like jacaranda.
its branches reach right over
here and stroke at my verandah.
if you boil it's seed pods up
and steep a cup of tea,
the brew will mend
a broken heart
i've heard
apparently.

25 | 31 Poems for August 2016

A few months ago you didn't know that I could write or recite like that.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
If my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished then just know that I wrote from the heart.
I know that love is a beautiful thing but sometimes I feel like its main intention is to tear me apart.
So don’t be too surprised when I tell you that I’m slowly falling to pieces.
The ocean in my muse’s eyes reminds me of the colour of the sky and how I want to dive into the depths of who she is.
The world has made her feel like an abandoned church but in my eyes she’ll always be a cathedral.
She will always be a cathedral and you can say hallelujah or amen to that.
We are from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
Went from breaking up, breaking down, breaking through to finally breaking new ground.
So even though I’m hurting now I know I’ll eventually be safe and sound when a new season comes around.
I’m still fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.
Reading the lines on a woman’s skins is poetry and too many men are illiterate.
So they will never truly understand the fact that liberty begins with literacy.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
Even if my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished I will always write from the heart.

24 | 31 Poems for August

I need a sky to read from and a star to write on.
Traded in graffiti spray cans for poetry and a microphone.
People are often left in awe when they see me in my zone.
Ever since high school, I’ve been lost in the world and I often wonder if I’ll ever make it on my own.
I want to write my poems on the sun so that you can feel the magnitude of my love when it shines.
I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I want my words to heal the wounds that never heal but always bleed.
My kind of love is kinetic, never stationary.
I’ve been blinded by love but still I remain visionary.
I want a sky to read from and a star to write on.
I want the splendour of God’s grandeur embedded into every one of my lines.
I could write poetry forever with the inspiration that life provides.
Maybe I could write you a haiku or two.
My mind has been thinking about you.
My heart has been asking about the pulchritude that is you.
You are the unforgettable muse.
I still marvel at how God’s love consists entirely of summer, autumn, winter and spring.
It can never escape me even when the seasons change.
Maybe I should write you a love poem or two.
My heart beats only for you.
I wrote my poems on the sun, you’ll eventually feel my love every time it rises.
I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I need a sky to read from and a star to write on.
Traded in graffiti spray cans for poetry and a microphone.
People are often left in awe when they see me in my zone.

i want everything ahead of me
one day to be behind me
am i asking for too much?
if so, then—
i don’t want to leave
having not seen every beautiful thing
let me see
the jacaranda
the Maine sky one more time
the bougainvillea my mother planted for me bloom violet
i want my feet to know their home
i want fear to become a stranger
am i still asking for too much?
if so, then—
i do not want to wonder whether i was loved
i want the poems i leave behind
(my life)
to mean something
every day i have left
let me soak it in gratitude
give me more words than what i can say
more stars than what i can see
if i cannot ask for more time
more heartbeats
more life
give me then
more sun
more rain
more laughter
more poetry
more possibilities
is this still too much?
give me then
just more
let me say these words
i am full (of life) i cannot have anymore

I found seashells and driftwood,
Cans and bottles and much more
Like diapers and picnic stuff
While walking along the shore.
I found cigarette butts and bags
And those horrendous soda holders
That catch on sea life and twist them
In their middle or at their shoulder.

I saw palm trees and jacaranda
Waving in the balmy breeze
And broken plastic lawn chairs
Leaning against the lovely trees.
I found six-packer carriers sitting
With all the beer bottles inside.
I saw pieces of bicycles and big batteries
And I swear I almost sat and cried.

But I had too much to do right then
Gathering up all that random junk.
I carried them to a ******* bin
And I threw it all in, kerthunk!
I wondered for the hundredth time
The parents these creeps had
That let them grow so ill behaved,
And so embarrassingly bad.

What kind of selfish brat can come
And look out on this lovely scene
And throw their ******* all around?
How can they be so mean?
It makes me hope for recompense;
That what goes around come again
And we can stash these human pigs
Into an appropriate kind of pen.

Have you ever come to my country to Russia?
It may be nay or yes, but Russia is a strange country,
It is people are funny and lively, with strong sense for success,
Those from Moscow are tall and confidently walking in a bounce,
Those from hinterland Russia often display inferiority on the face,
But conventional Russian has a keen nose for property and success,
A scientist in Russia is a beacon of interest like a pastor in Africa,
All Russians are somehow intelligent with humour and strong success motive,
Like once the case of a Russian barren woman, in the city of Moscow,
She was a Muzhik by class disposition, but proselytized into Bolshevism,
By the then Bush fire of Vladimir Ilyanov Lenin through his song of workers,
She was thus a dear comrade or comradess? Her Name was Sofia Ludwickfna,
She had been barren, o no! Childless for generations and generations,
Her marriage had been on-off and on-off due to this misfortunate pale,
Of inability to bear a child at most a son to be name after Lenin,
Every Russian man condemned her after a short while of marriage
To public distaste whenever it was discovered that Sofia was barren,
As usual, Russian men hinge their love manners on the native wisdom that;
Bogy Vysoky Tsar Dalyko; meaning God is far a way but the tsar is near,
But one day when Sofia had celebrated her menopausal day of 40th birthday,
She realized that something like a lump is felt in her tummy,
She rushed to the medic at the high street Moscow
For clinical service lest the lump grows in to cancerous tumor,
But to her stark surprise; the medic declared her pregnant,
In fact two months pregnant, and nothing else,
She asked if the pregnancy carried a boy or a girl,
For she feared to sire a boy as it was only a peasant,
That mated her in the fields during the previous full moon,
But the medic declined a comment, as his technology was not fit,
To establish the fetal gender, may be she better tries America or Germany,
But any way, she walked home happy, whistling her best lyrical
Perhaps a sonnet to the revolution and Vladimir Lenin,
The ninth month came, and Sofia delivered peacefully,
In fact a bouncing baby boy, with strong jaws like a Moscow Muzhik,
It was a moment of her joy as the gods of Russia had remembered her,
The baby grew and developed so well, it suckled and swallowed with sound,
It kicked nicely and waved its spatulate hands; a young son of Russia,
And indeed the joy of the baby made Sofia to grow fat and fat,
She named the baby four names; Tsar Alexander Tolstoy Vladimir Lenin,
On one warm after noon, Sofia chose to have a nap under the jacaranda tree,
To feel the breeze as her baby suckled, light slumber over took her nerves,
Then she fell into a deep sleep, the baby was on her teats suckling and waving,
Making soft nice sounds of thaa thaa thaaaaaaaa!
Sofia began dreaming; she saw a very huge African man,
Utterly naked with bush hair on his deeply black ***** skin,
He was not circumcised; he came unto her making stupid sound,
Like wild Russian swine chasing a rhino, he came straight to her,
She began fighting and kicking the ***** away,
She kicked mightily in the style of Russian woman,
But the ***** was strong; he began biting off her *******,
One by on, he was biting and making gnomish ***** abracadabra,
She jumped at the *****’s kneck, she began strangulating him,
She pressed tight and tight, the ***** began making stupid sounds
Like a chimpanzee, again and again as she pressed hard into his Adams’ apple
Finally Sofia managed to **** the *****, and then she woke up from her sleep,
Only to realize it was not a ***** that she had killed, but her baby, it was dead!
She was a arrested by the KOSMOSOL and taken to the judge, accused for infanticide,
She recounted the ***** story on her defense, the judge and all Russians were agog,
They uniformly blamed the misfortune of Sofia on the increasing number of Negros in Moscow,
The judge ruled that all Negroes to be thoroughly beaten and chased out of Moscow,
To be confined in a more remote bushy area in the hinterland beyond the prison of Siberia.

Down the dusty grey gravel road
Violet jacaranda trees blossoming
Under the clear blue skies

1 | 31 Poems for August 2016

Before I put my words and wishes in a poem, I put them in a prayer first.
Luyanda once told me that I don’t always have to rhyme every time I write these words down.
She also regularly told me that I need to smile twice as much as I frown.
I have been a loner, way before my peers began smoking marijuana.
Sitting in the local park or standing on some dodgy neighbourhood corner.
But I can’t judge them, sometimes I want to get lost in those same clouds too.
They all get so high to the point where they cannot even see the ground.
I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms, but I’ve told you before.
Spoken words filled with so much truth, I had to reiterate the quotes I wrote back in my youth.
You need to know the value of life before it gets taken away from you.
Will you be a victim of the past or pay homage to your mother’s womb?
View the kaleidoscope of life through the perspective of a spoken-word poet.
Freedom and love are like finding forever and I hope that everyone in my life knows it.
Let’s all meet in the pages of a story where the ink always holds us together.
Every poem of mine is written from the heart so every single word you hear is guaranteed to be a pulse.
I have been a loner, way before my peers began smoking marijuana.
Before I put my words and wishes in a poem, I put them in a prayer first.
Luyanda once told me that I don’t always have to rhyme every time I write these words down.
She also regularly told me that I need to smile twice as much as I frown.
I’m Lonnie Lynn with the poetry and maybe that explains why we have a lot in common.

Do not abandon me,
No do not leave me,
To the wilderness of my mind:
A veritable tundra, a savannah,
Cold and dry and arid.
My soul pants and thirsts for a cool tall drink of somebody.
Give me a man,
Tall, strong, beautiful,
Let him hold me in his arms and croon to me
and sing of star-song and moon dreams
under the blanket of a velvet night.
Let the warm winds come with the salty whisper of sea,
of jungle-scent and overblown jacaranda flowers,
or snatches of arctic breeze
and the high keening cry of the albatross.
Only,
Do not leave me to myself,
For the scent of jungle then fades to mud,
and the jacarandas wilt,
and the arctic spaces chill me to my bones,
And I drown in the unfathomable darkness of emotion
In the lullaby-rocking motion of the sea.
And I cannot see you,
And I cannot find you,
And the night becomes a terrible blackness
And the stars intimidate
And the moon remains impassive.
No, do not abandon me.

Tired on the train
I listen
A young mother on her mobile
solemn faced but beautiful eyed
angrily confronts
her daughters father
with a maternal mantra
How do I tell her
When I have all her tears and questions?
I guess he keeps hanging-up
or the signal is lost
The words repeat
almost verbatim
and repeat
and repeat
No-one looks
everyone listens
And then in the vestibule
a smiling South African
recounts with passion
about the Jacaranda
turning Cape Town purple
around this time of year
...he missed his stop

Now swings the jacaranda
with the joy that had ceased to glow:
from the depth of dark blue times
comes violet sweet-singing like old;
the tree never will forget
even in its brightening dreams
the ash-smoke story of how
it once lost all of its leaves:
each a tear: for fond memory,
goodbyes stolen by suffering's thief,
autumn giving no notice
of winter dressed only in grief;
standing lonely in the night
as winds whistle your sad tune
looking up to not believe
while in your spirit's June:
stars are silent explosions
at peace with the still moon;
you are not the moon or sun,
the stars are what's left of you.

It's summer here in Miami, Florida.  The Jacaranda tree has violet flowers that fall and float on the tops of the moist jade grass.  The Gardenia bush with bent branches is heavy with fragrant white flowers.  Parsley, basil and dill are tall and flowering with bees pollinating them.  

Numerous plump cherry tomatoes, with all their tingling flavor, hide among the leggy bushes. Green and scarlet bell peppers, smooth and crisp, hang on neighboring branches.

Several new baby birds are fledgling from nests while their parents protectively hover nearby.  Two families of scarlet Cardinal birds greedily eat from our outdoor feeders.  A flock of fifty Cherry Head parrots with their crimson shoulders and heads  crack open black sunflower seeds.

Toads at night call to prospective mates sounding like broken air conditioners.  Black wiggly bodies swim in clusters in the canal feeding on algae waiting to grow their legs and hop through the tall grasses.

Global mangoes growing and ripening on trees are large enough to sweeten the palette .

The sun is smiling warming the earth--the animals, plants and people.  Steady rain quenches the thirst of all creatures.  Nature is here for us to enjoy.

Blue jacaranda flowers
spread all over
the drive ways and walking paths
advising onlookers
that the spring has sprung.

The scenic beauty of lalwns and backyards
instill more delight in the autumnal hearts
which were let down with heavy snow fall
and wind chills withno way to goout
toget things done in scheduled manner .

The geenery all around masquerading
the withered blues of winter trees
slowly disappeared from heart and soul.
================================

Of distant dreams that call in the silence of dusk,
Their resonance in tropic humidity
Calling to me through the jacaranda and palm
past the swirling spanish moss
Their melodies resounding like bells in the lilac evening
And the chorus of crickets that drifts out to a harvest moon sky
O distant dreams that calm my sadness
and wrap me in their warmth
on passing ocean breezes,
Meander through stirring branches of twilight forests
to greet my Summer desolation,
sweeping me to your fabled lands,
beyond evening's gateways.

7 from Geo-Bestiary

O that girl, only young men
dare to look at her directly
while I manage the most side-long of glances:
olive-skinned with a Modigliani throat,
lustrous obsidian hair, the narrowest
of waists and high french bottom, ample
******* she tries to hide in a loose blouse.
Though Latino her profile is from a Babylonian
frieze and when she walks with her small white dog
with brown spots she fairly floats along,
looking neither left nor right, meeting no one's
glance as if beauty was a curse. In the grocery
store when I drew close her scent was jacaranda,
the tropical flower that makes no excuses.
The geezer's heart swells stupidly to the dampish
promise. I walk too often in the cold shadow
of the mountain wall up in the arroyo behind the house.
Empty pages are dry ice, numbing the hands and heart.
If I weep I do so in the shower so that no one,
not even I can tell. To see her is to feel
time's cold machete against my grizzled neck,
puzzled that again beauty has found her home in threat.

it was only a little house,
two bedrooms, small in space, a kitchen, bathroom
and living area..
some woul call it quaint,
others run-down and dilapidated...

...but it was
a happy place....even if it
sat alone ...bar a jacaranda tree...out in the middle of
a drygrass sea...

on the outside, the paint
had peeled and the boards
had begun to warp...
the yard was dry brown
grass and dryer red dust,
the roof, corrugated tin
was dull with age....

the door, was once painted
a bright hopeful blue
but now faded like old
denim... on the verandah
two chairs a table.....and
an old cattledog....
the bell, a suprising ******...


but inside that ramshackle
house... that stood by luck
and will alone....

was a home....filled to the brim with love....
the old couple who lived there...
still held hands ....still looked
at each other with love and
longing.....still danced to the old record player most nights....
still slept wrapped in each others arms....
still bickered and fought
then made up....with a lasting passion....
still wished for, more days
together in the sun....

these are my memories
of my aunt beth and uncle
wilf.....
and the house,
they made a home....
out in the middle of nowhere....