Down in the bayou where the mangroves grow
There's talk of black voodoo, like Marie Leveau
The Swamp Witch, is legend, she has magic so black
That those who have seen her, have never come back
There;s tales of the noises that come from the dark
Of werewolves and zombies as rough as the bark
The mangroves are sentinels, to where the magic resides
Where even a longboat has no room to glide
Bodies go missing from the graveyards most nights
And there's always a fog shading the fireflies lights
The Swamp Witch is ruler and Queen of this world
Where souls are all taken and spines can be curled
They say that she came here from Canadian lands
She was a metis they say, from the Western Tar Sands
A mystic by nature, a dark witch by blood
She lives deep in the swamp, protected by gators and mud
The gators respect her, they do as she bids
They keep watch on the waters, they're her reptillian kids
She keeps zombies as gendarmes, collecting bodies to turn
Just how black is her magic, no one can discern
The Swamp Witch is legend, she is as old as all time
The air in the bayou is as thick as the slime
The cajuns say voodoo is the core of her heart
They avoid fishing where the mangrove trees start
The Swamp Witch, a legend ? or is she truly the Queen
She's the Louisiana Witch, no one survives once she's seen.....

I am here, risen up
from dust
and I sit in the sand
beneath the mangroves
as fruits fall around me
thudding softly in the
strewn leaves.

We sit here,
where I am,
these fruits
and these insects
and small reptiles,
watching the clouds roll in from the east,
where the ocean sprawls,
lavishing the beach with delicate hands
under the phosphorescent moon.

We all sit here,
the fruits,
insects,
reptiles,
the ocean,
and I-

We watch dense clouds roll in
as distant flashes of light
and gongs of thunder
grow more frequent-

we sit-
we watch-
and we wait-

for the rain.

Weave through the roots
Mangroves alike.
A foxtail, catch it quickly.
The birds sing for you help.
Grapes fall from their vineyard.
You have run too far.
Don't give up.
A cacophony ensues.
The nesting hens are disturbed.
The fox is gone and along with his prize.

Let's row into mangroves?
Run by sandy shores
?Let sea wash away?
The salt in our sweat.

Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.

The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.

The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.

Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.

My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.  

Daddy is a shaman.

He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.

I watch him inhale.

                          His breath
                                               stiff
                            as a braid of mangroves.

                      He exhales a ligneous cough.

                              I don’t mind,
                                                   much.

My body burns to rove far from man-made
buildings, prisons for the modern soul.
I need to traverse the frontiers white man stole
from those who made it their home.

I've been down to the Everglades of Florida.
Fan boats flew through the estuary lines with roots
of mangroves. I've been to the Hoh Rain Forest of
Washington where fog descended on the shoreline
and married the sulfur smell rising from hot springs.

I must experience America's coast to coast beauty.

Every spare seconds I spend luxuriating in the
sun, thinking of all the places untouched.
My list of desires grows as the glaciers
of Glacier recede in Montana, beckoning
me to the Rocky Mountain Peaks.

Old Faithful gushes, surrounded by wolves and grizzlies.
Someday I'll cross Yellowstone's expansive mountain ranges.
from Idaho to Montana to Wyoming. On the arches of
Utah I'll face my fear of heights and find solace at
the tops of time-layered sandstone towers.

Descending the Grand Canyon I'll study beautiful
colors exposed by years of erosion. In winter
Death Valley will be braved. The lowest and direst point
will exhilarate me with scaled creatures as sand
dunes whisper my name with every hot breath.

The Badlands of South Dakota will hope I come
backpacking through prairies to watch precious bison roam.
California Redwood trees and I will stand side by side
as friends. Yosemite will call me to her cliffs and I will chase
waterfalls and sequoia groves until I've seen it all.

I ache to explore the terrain that bears
my name, the country I call home.

Despite the moon, the mood
     And stars on foreign skyline,
From having seen the Earth, this world, teeming
With life, with breath, and breath Almighty,
     And spirit in things which are perceived,
Still, I feel a deep longing, a chasm,
The feeling of missing, the want
     For reliving a lot of things,

Like the beaches on the South,
Sagada, Batanes, the tarsier,
The reefs, and the mangroves,
Our fellow Filipinos eating Adobo
And the so-soft fluffiness of rice,
In celebration of our heritage,
     Our famed resiliency,

I am a tourist all my life,
I remind my self,
     Until I found you,

For they are all yours, all finest things.
     You are the islands of our country,
And all these call me
As though to take me to you,
As though you were calling out to me
     For an embrace.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Somewhere in the lake
of deep sleep
is an island, dark and mysterious,
entangled mangroves here,  resist movements
where I snake in like a thief
excitedly breaking in to own house,
pretending to be an alien
and find
a body double living there
acting out one's secret-
fantasies and voluptuous desires.
I won't dare to speak aloud here,
where, the overpowering smell of
too ripe fruits of indecent passions waft.
The dark chamber,
the smoke filled ***** den of my mind,
is to  take secret refuge and be one
with a dream that flies me
to the border lands of psyche.

Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs  sprayed all over the everywhereworld.

"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.

And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.

These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.

While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.

Rise softly, rise gently, waking dawn
And let the drowsy sun yawn a while
Beside me, my love sleeps in peaceful bliss
With crescent eyes and a crescent smile
The morning breeze may tease the blooms
That wait to unfold with the sun's blush
- But softly, blow gently, oh morning breeze
Let the wind chimes be still, quiet, hushed

Rest your melodies, singing birds and bees
And cease the fluttering of your wings
The hum, the drone, the medleys
Quiet the rustling and the whispering
Why gurgle so loud - river- change your course
Flow far away, past the mangroves
For how lustily you gush, bubbles and froth
Shhshh...love sleeps - eyes closed

But alas - the river stays, making its music
The birds from their songs shall never cease
And the morning breeze breathes free
Tinkling wind chimes, hustling leaves
Rise - the sun shall and burst in gold
And the world'll be in daylight's warm embrace
My love will waken yet I still revel -
For sun lights the grace of my love's face

~~Overwhelmed by the raw talent and emotion with which my students think and feel and write. Thank you, A.N.--Chuukese woman~~


Early in the morning
When the dark cloud covers the light
And hides my brother from seeing the light

I woke up along shocking news
That glazed my face with sadness
Brought tears to my eyes

I heard an awful voice
Coming from the mangroves
Just right after my brother
Hung himself with a thin rope

The voice said that
He had to find a hat
Before Uncle Priston
Forced him to drink the poison

I smell his perfume
When I start to feel the pain
In my heart

I feel the cold air
When he appears in my dreams
And he touches me with his cold hands
Apologizes to me

We cry to each other
Among the mangrove trees
Hugging each other
Talking about the truth

I lost his warm hands
And his warm heart
That blocked the cold air
From entering our house

His love and his memory will not be forgotten
But I hide it in a secret place
Because his love was exactly like a fire
That makes the people feel warm
As they come closer



by A.N.
representing Chuuk, Federated States of Micronesia

Lazy days and choppy waves
Upon a copper sea,
A breezy, warming westerly
Is blowing down on me.

Sunlight striking wavelets
Below clouds of cotton cool
And seagulls hang in squadron lines
Aloft from oyster pool.

Road signs judder in the breeze
Ripples weave amongst long grass,
Mangroves bend in unison
And asphalt bakes in molten glass.

A parasol of brilliant blue
A picnic basket brimming high
With lemonade and icy beer
Whilst sausages and onions fry.

Two barking dogs cavort with joy
Chasing ******* sandy beach,
Leaping high in summer air
Running, fetching, ***** to each.

The lazy summer saunters in
Engulfing us with solar heat,
The pretty girls wear tiny shorts
Which breathless boys find such a treat.

Pohutukawa’s bursting forth
In waves of rich and scarlet red
Which juxtapose dark olive greens
Of leafage midst each flower bed.

A sky of brilliant powder blue
With salt spray aura in the air
As swimmers splash in gales of fun
Hot sunlight baubles kiss their hair.


Marshalg
Port Waikato beach
15 November 2011

© 2011 Marshal Gebbie

We walked along the ocean for about an hour
Lost in conversation
I suppose it was needed after misunderstandings six months ago
We encountered lots of things on the way
There were mangroves and wet sand, hot coral, dry sand, sea ****, couple dried up sea urchins
A bunch of other ****
Just things the tide had dumped
We stopped for a while to watch the sun
Which was setting, and do you remember how you said
It looked as if, far out on the horizon, this great orangey-yellow ball that was suspended in the sky with invisible ropes
Was slowly being lowered into the ocean, sinking
Never mind me, you said, I’m not making any sense
I understood what you meant, I think, I wanted to kiss you
Waves were breaking, gently crashing into our bare feet
And I noticed this cut on your foot, just a little one,
I think you hadn’t even realised it was there
But I kept quiet, didn’t say ****
And all your toenails were painted blue
And the waves would break over them and slowly retreat,
Leaving your feet wet and toenails glistening,
It was kind of a pretty thing to look at.

I don’t know how to be romantic
I don’t know how to write poetry
All I know
Is that you are a mermaid
And I am drowning,
Will you save me?

Sara L Russell, 27th Oct 2015, 00:50am*

I send you out into the world my dear ones.
Here is light and shade; and I see that it is good.
Here are the waters of life poured forth in shimmering splendour
all for your delight and to nurture your thirst;
behold, here is a paradise of sunlight scattering
diamonds of fire on the ocean,
sunlight filtering through the leaves of tall palms and little olive trees
in splinters of dappled emerald light and shade;
here are dazzling white sands and shady mangroves
it is all for you, for I love you, my children;
you belong to me
and to all of the earth.

I send you out, dear ones, amid the steamy jungles,
out to swim free in the dancing liquid light of rivers and streams,
I set you free in a garden of plenty.
Here are fountains and waterfalls overhung with intoxicating
  swags of white jasmine and scarlet hibiscus
entwining with vines heavy with ripened grapes.
Flamingoes and bright parakeets fly out of the
greenery before you, in a flurry of rainbow fire.
Rejoice in this life I give you
and take care of this beautiful domain.
Keep it safe; make it last
and you in turn will last;
safe in an infinity of peace.

I send you out into the world my treasured ones,
free to walk naked, resplendent in the satin of your skin;
needing to conceal nothing from the sun's nurturing rays
or the eyes of beasts, or each other's loving gaze.
Behold, you are pure and untainted with shame;
you have the freedom of earth's bountiful beauty
and you are lovely as the flowers that carpet the forest floor.
Taste freely of the berries and the sweet delight of earth's nectar,
Let the pollen of the lotus bring you dreams of deep serenity.
Only touch not the fruit of the tree by the dark
fountain sealed. The Tree of Knowledge
is mine to know and yours only
to behold in silent wonder.
Mark this well, my children,
for it is my only rule.

ONE day,

a log
said to the bog,

"you're all mud
and you ever survive,
i am all wood
but i always die."

the bog spoke,
after a long sigh,
"it is transformation,
which you deny.

I turn into nothing but soil,
when it is too hard to toil.
the sun smokes up all water,
i become a happy crater.

then comes by, the rain,
fills my bowl once again.
i see wild weeds,
some dormant seeds.
water lilies, papyrus, mangroves,
are all that come to me and grow.
i laugh with them, they sing with me,
castaway afar, but glad are we.
together we live and fear not fate,
that is how i live ahead!"

I tried to walk
About in the woods
And dense evergreen forests
That are filled with monsoon
Which would've hit it moments back
And before the roots could actually seep it all in
The mangroves witness the shower again.

I tried to romanticize
Scribbling about the way he'd curl up
Beside
His fingers in my hair
Each strand longing for his affection
Longing this magnetic attraction
Between my hair and his stubble face.

I tried meeting people
Having interactions in my head
Portraits of people and learning
About their cultures and
Means of existence and more.

I tried to write
I tried to write impossibly
Of the things I'd never lived
Witnessing is an act,
Living is a dream.

I tried dreaming
I tried dreaming of all that could be
Could have been;
All the intricate fallacies
The make believes.


I was trying to write impossibly
Of the things I'd never lived
And then reality struck me.

“Sundar means beautiful,” the natives write—
The mangroves of south dance beneath daylight
With the flair of a gypsy drunk and bold
Swirling her skirt of salt. And callous gold
Prowls the swamp after trotting prey in flight.

The sentinels of south guard through the night
And push and pull against the windy might;
Behind their sieving shields, beliefs still hold—
Sundar means beautiful.

The men of south venture without invite
For honey, wood and fish into the plight;
The wives, like fortune, wait at the threshold
Praying and cursing gods foreign or old
As sleepless children scramble to recite—
Sundar means beautiful.

It took fog to realize
There is no use in growing
Things that grow will always be cut down
Dew on the grass, peppered by spider webs
Hills full of red angry fire ants

It took fog to remember
That I could always go back home
That I could skip the canal
And pick an orange straight from the tree
Peeling it with a rusted pocket knife
Would you sit in the grass with me?
The stick of the juice between your fingers

It took fog to show me
That I can still walk down the rows of sugar cane
After playing hide and seek
That I can still **** snakes
And get cut by the sawgrass

It took fog to remind me
That the mangroves were
Full of mosquitoes and fish
And the yellow sun
Was only a round disk
Through the fog

fronds of palms
bougainvillia drapes steel frames
taken root in silt
river depositing
minerals for strength.

fifteen years after
lost love & other chapters
tangled branches present
to a cloudless blue
all melts

across copper water
licks at mangroves
camoflauging a walkway
swept away by a record flood
new planks anchored

Moldy sprocket of time piece.
Stop watching my every crease,
As it folds into my cheeks.
Wisdom grows my crows feet.
Twinkly locket locked in.
Place based on my chest, breast plate,
Sternum pinned beside the window sill.
Watching the sun bathe.
Light.
Bring it to lips.
Hold that picture clutch it, touch it,
Smother with wishes, pictures held of
Long dark hair,
Sprinkle, glitter eyes and twilight of moon, inside,
This prize.
One small 1 inch circumscribed ebb and flow of milky skins.
As you can see in this tin man trinket,
Winks and blinks, under blankets and springs,
Of the bed setting marched upon by dark hair love speech.
To my Juliet, who never sweats, never worries, knows best,
Knows truth, no jealousy, nothing more than a friend.
Living in Austin.
Our paths never crossing,
This entire Texas will always keep her away from me;
But nothing will keep her from me like the grand canyon we've created between each other through pain submitted to.

“Christian. You should leave.”
walks away.
Ran through the hedge row, directly through head bowed,
Crushed it's leaves and vines and twigs, ten thousand mangroves didn't stop my legs.
Rammed my head into a wall with all the force to knock me out.
Collapsed my lungs.
In the middle of the night, sixth street and east.
Hated me for months. Maybe years,
Embalm some dead.

That night, she hit me with an oak board, over 70 times,
My buttocks bruised black and blue hue of the night like broken
Maxillary bone black eyes, the perfect color of sleep.

I Never Flinched A Bit.

I Hope she never reads this poem, I hope my future lover doesn't either.

It will still be just ****.

Where had been the sky,
The superhero and ruby chip?
They lived here, ignored,
A while ago floating with
Ghosts of my mangroves and
Things I did not know
How to say- how to say.

I cannot gape anymore,
Let’s go back to Damascus,
Istanbul and verses you-
Did not know that spread
Wings beneath my skin
I have got stamps and ink,
Frozen food and deck of cards.

Sit with me and adapt
The ways how a mirror shake
Herself off the dirt and break
Her bones, his, endless ways.
There are plenty of things
They did not know how to-
Take, you and I, we dance.

You like all the others
Was moth minded
Searching for flames
To incinerate the wick between your legs,
But I was more Aurora
Than bonfire,
And though you tried to slip yourself
Between these shimmering curtains
My window was softly opened as you slept
And I had slipped away before dawns fingers ever stroked your face awake.

For you see that I will no long burn
Down the forest to chase you from their depths.
Instead I will unfold myself as an orchid  
In the swamp of your misplaced memories
And let you creep though the man eating mangroves
To pluck my waiting grin

You see there are fields of tongues
Waiting for lips to ****** them
But they are all speaking in thrusts and moans,
In hidden glances and the unbearable weight of seductions
Below the belly of a girl whose gasps are unseen serenades  
In the rolling flush of night

We lock our hands together,
Because the key to release them has been
Swallowed by youth and our hours till morning
Are fading like your slipping resistance,
To letting love land its fragile feathers upon the inside of your thigh,
And then taking wing on the thermals
That rise from the friction of fantasies collision with skin.

In sin I’ll reclaim you
And consecrate our communion
In the cathedrals of your eyes.  
Even the way you hold your breath is holy
And though lips are sealed
I like the stammer of your speech
Are slipping secrets into the cavern of an ear,
Where we wait out the weather
Of a thousand spit lovers lost
Trying to douse the bon fire that burns between the legs
Of each and every human that has ever spent the night
Making love to the moon,
Cause she never shows her dark side
Only grins a crescent promise  
And laughs as if the stars were suitors
Trying to out sing her cratered mouths.
In a thousand voices she
Whispers hope to this conflicting
River of blood and bone
That make up all I have to sell
To the window shoppers who peak
Their heads into my bedroom to find me
Shaping love out of a pocket full of missed calls and shadows
Who can never drown my thirst
For a straight answer to the timeless question
Of will you still kiss me
In the morning  

She rides the winds like a whisper
But can never reach my borealis
And instead burns so sweetly
With lips of ash

Oh Gravitas,
dearest vineyard Spring
Avalon mists and quietude
on high Everest summit's
clarity

Oh winsome lover
how all your breezes kissing
cool on my young island skin
     learning in my wild solitude
     away from the lassitude
of desperate pangs of impoverished men
families of mine...

Why is it, in the crickets' strings
as they lull the day beyond
as the blood orange bruises to blues
and shadows to ocher
     the char on murdered campfires
     once full of dance, charismatic
     surfaces of twilight seas
why is it the only tinsil and sparkle
the coconuts know
     silver and neon golden
spirit fingers
and as I squat
early evening relieving myself
commingling with starlit you:
   
    My soft hush of song
Palm leaves and mangroves, indigo
invisible fingers strumming
the humidity like harps
     wind gusts, the bush, cavorts ...

summers without but all open windows

How close we were then
when I ran lonely in toddler ******
and all around me
your Gaia fairies in the brine
and precipitations...

(misty breath of crashing beaches
waves constant partcipation)

Without language I learned by you
ate the sour leaves and red peppers
stealing pan de sal in windows
     obvious village gifts for the sprites
that I believed I'd become,
     without fear or ingrained social dread
no anger, nor words making up
the links of invisible chains
to keep me within their boxes...

I understood
without diction
You were and are the loveliest
vision ever I've seen
ever I awed
at first sight / all of you/ around me
all mine
a pulse in my heart...

I wipe my *** with smooth papaya leaves
now that the night has conquered
the high ceiling
now the wonder twinkling
clearer now
your jewelry treasures of stars
dangling on a darker face as beautiful
as the heat of it bright
during the days / your face...

Oh love, even as a shadow
in the abyss of midnight,
in chill evenings,
I am the blaze of the fires,
a rustle through the brush
     a yipping cub
     snarling at playing
a Lion

All yours, My Goddess
I would keep you dearest to me
and prevent any danger
from any that would destroy or harm
the vary face of our world
its bountiful's : your loving
nature / life

How close we are
and ever will be
even in man's mechanisms of impending
war
even 'til the very end
together in the fires we raise
with the mornings praise
and in finale I will descend
take the fall
For you

Life of my life,
myself for you as sacrifice
just say when...
I'll be your champion
and best-est friend

(Against the horizon's backdrop
a shadow of a small boy
is shadow-boxing the emptiness around him)

I am Lamb and Lion.
P.S. I Love You.                
                                Sincerely - your Champion

F*ck the postcards and dried mangoes, baby.
The prayers in The Philippines,
The prayers from and by Filipinos,
will be the best souvenir one can ever get.


The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping our islands, vintas and mangroves afloat
and why more new islands have been popping up like moles.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping the storms, typhoons and hurricanes all but a joke.
Another one? Bring it on and on and once more.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been putting earthquakes and tsunamis to shame.
My grandmothers have been through worse,
what's a little bit of motion and shake?


The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping this country a curse and a miracle;
why we have mountains that we have today,
why and how they're shaped that way.
Despite the chaos of politics, corruption and news of crimes...
Why we have oceans that are bright blue
and how they could make a weary traveler or a desolate native feel brand new.
Despite the familiar dangers and age-old stereotypes...


The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been holding Filipinos together,
be it with each other or to fight through another day for much longer.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are what has been keeping this country ever magical and mystical,
even if some days it's harder to feel that way.
The Prayers in The Philippines, by the Filipinos
are the reason why I'm here, why I exist,
why I'm alive and kicking,
full of dreams and spite and hope, writing,
the reason why I'm full of life, full of love
and will keep on living and loving.


I will live and die saying my prayers
in The Philippines,
as a Filipino,
for The Philippines
and for other Filipinos.

Avant de nous couvrir de l'or, de la myrrhe et de la rosée
Des eaux de nos volcans secrets
Je voudrais avant l'ultime explication
Avant qu'on n 'enterre sous nos mahots bleus,
Nos arbres à pluie et nos figuiers étrangleurs,
Panthéons naturels de nos divinités
Nos cordons ombilicaux amoureux,
Je voudrais, ma fine amour,
Qu'on fasse ripaille dans les Terres Inconnues
Qu'on fasse les 800 coups dans la Mer Dangereuse
Qu'on mange, qu'on rie, qu'on s'émeuve dans la Mer d'Inimitié
Qu'on prenne à bras le corps nos insaisissables cris et gémissements
Incompréhensibles de dugongs et de baleines à bosses
Qu'on s'en saisisse et qu'on les épingle
Comme des papillons rares sur une planche
Ou des fougères phosphorescentes sur un herbier
Sous du papier buvard avant de les faire sécher
A l'étuve de nos passions microendémiques.
Etudions la fréquence de nos cris
Et de nos épanchements
Grâce aux balises GPS
Inventorions les sauts intimes, les semences nouvelles, les racines-arceaux
Et donnons un nom local et scientifique à chaque nouvelle espèce
A chaque nouvelle danse, morsure, griffure ou caresse
Récupérons des spécimens de nos territoires
Identifions les hot spots de notre patrimoine amoureux
Et en fonction de leur risque d'extinction
Elaborons un plan de sauvegarde de la biodiversité
De notre Carte de Tendre
De nos fonds, de nos mangroves et de nos pitons.
Nous sommes botanistes, océanographes et naturalistes
Nous sommes vétérinaires de notre réserve naturelle
Notre jardin des plantes, notre forêt, notre laboratoire
Notre pépinière, notre refuge, notre corps tropical.

we left early
couldn't've been half-past
6 o'clock in the morning
the dawn gray left dew-dripped
melancholy on the foggy front lawn
beyond your mother's portable home
we drove down I-4 singing Anberlin's "A
Day Late" and took the back route down
A1A to the secret place where

the waves whispered languid lullabies
as heat rays traced your skin and harmonized
with the ancient anthems of the Atlantic
as it hummed its gentle cadences

beams of light filtered through sandy
tresses on that solitary beach in the
middle of April
lens flares immortalizing sly grins in ways
i thought only celluloid could deliver
yet you were corporeal and immediate
a fragment of an inch from me

film clumped in loose spools around us
wasted shots used and then discarded
we lay on our sides
exchanging joy in silence
and mirth in sideward glances

barefoot along the boardwalk
beneath the shadows of mangroves
trespassing in the backyards of the bourgeoisie
feet kicking toes dipping minnows nibbling
in the brackish Indian River

J.B.'s Fish Camp was slow
that time of year
we gave manatees fresh water
watched the dolphins' distant dance as
i debated whether or not  
i should try to hold your hand

you drank lukewarm beer as our star
sank over your sunburnt shoulders
and a blues musician played
somber tunes of lust and loss that
carried us away as we ate coconut shrimp
and the breeze blew in from the bay

you wore a baseball cap with
the Atlanta Braves' crimson A and
sported a matching jersey of your
little league softball team and though i may
not quite remember every little thing you said i
can't shake the way you caught
my eye and blushed before turning your head

boats drifted past and
the sun tucked itself to sleep
and you made me promise
to let you read every ****** poem i'd ever
breathe into existence

you said you'd value them more than gold
prize them always cherish the memories
even when you grew older but
the sun had already set
its absence left a chill in my bones

Dear Diary,

Do you remember
The little ten year old girl
Who wrote in that book

The girl who couldn't
Spell business without spellcheck
To save someone's life

The one who told you
About how she loved airports
So much she would fly

Who believed she could
Be a pilot, reporter,
and a researcher

The one who went on
For pages about mangroves
And the local reef

Who loved the world so
With all of its things to do
In such finite time

Who stood mesmerized
Over Miami's night lights
In a hotel room

The little girl who
Made an essay's outline in
Her polkadot book

The one who said she
Hated when her sister took
The hotel bed's sheets

The girl who dreamt of
Her eleventh birthday, so
She could be a witch

The one who knew that
She wasn't entirely
Regular or sane

Who wrote of her mom
Who threatened to burn you if
She kept on writing

Who wrote of her dad
And mom arguing in both
Private and public

Who was afraid of
"Inappropriate" things, since
Her parents said so

The one who told you
That she had no other friends
On her school's blacktop

The one who panicked
When she got less than eighty
For any test score

The one who knew she
Could never tell the grown-ups
Just how bad she felt

The one who vowed that
If MPs and psych wards came
She would kick and scream

Well I'm starting to
Because she was right here for
My entire life

You’re green, bubbly, and magenta.
You’ve transformed my vision of what I call psychedelia—
Wow!
I wouldn’t have expected you to walk up to me right here, right now.
You have candy canes on your face!
Funny you should come to this place....

Do you like it here?
See, look! A blue deer!
Wait, why is he sad?
Come along, please don’t be mad...

...a pretty color indeed!
Yes, I think it’s very sweet.
I’m so very curious, sir.
Why is it that the mangroves stir?

I find your idea rather enchanting,
However my imagination is too demanding...
Why are you here?
What summoned you and told you to appear?

Never the matter, let’s bask away;
Hurry, there’s only so much left today.
Beautiful, yes it is,
But stranger than a ghost’s kiss...

I don’t quite understand...
My fate doesn’t feel too grand,
And I suddenly realize
The meaning behind all your lies.

You were the one.
You took away the sun,
Leaving me with night
And a heart filled with fright.
You were the one.
You said it’d be fun,
And guided me in my infancy
To not worry or look too closely
Until one day it was gone


And I tried to forget
That you were the one.

I’m not sure which way to go no more,
these roads all look the same,
those mistakes made on those past paths,
have come to haunt my thoughts again.

I keep on through the dark side,
the sun will rise again,
it’s nothing new, just deja vu,
and the memory remains.

i’ve made my peace with landscapes,
that cut and broke my skin,
i’ve thought inside the mangroves,
to discover what’s within.

Now since those times are changing,
the days just aren’t the same,
the hours take their toll on me,
burns holes into my brain.

Take me back to restless,
show me where we tame,
those moments ran beyond us,
but our destiny won’t change.

The wind blows and I am taken away
by the rich smell that lingers
on this flightless strip of concrete
bearing witness to the feet touching it;
haven’t had a touchdown since
the friction of rubber that last took off

But the grass sways and vines prosper
as birds, harmonious over the treetops,
sing past the mangroves in
a V-formation in the skies
I stand here witnessing beauty before my eyes

On this edge of the land, not a soul but I
sees the exuberant nature of the
spiritual wealth of the abandoned
Swept away to see that humans are
not needed for a land to be free

Two Southern gentlemen,
plantation and slave owners,
bought and trained men to be the best money can buy

Now as the gulf of Mexico burns in the setting sun's fire,
they sit on one or the other's porch,
drinking hard lemonade, the night's stars
darkening ire

talking business of live stock
and the business of men's flocks
the possessions taking hold of manifest
and the destiny of days
here, where the bayou houses the cold blooded

crocodile swamps
mangroves of varied prey

the two masters drawl over thus gifts
plentiful bounties
the run of the land his forefathers conquered
the import of luxuries
goods and good with their hands

such machinations lead to displeasure
when the threat stems from
ebony treasures,
the stallion studs and fillies
like objects owned

not within the eyes will a predator recognize
that the hunger for the prey
is the same game  that masters and slaves
have played...
(better recognize)

''''''''
*"When did mine Negroes begin to behave so...so..."

"Niggaredly?"

"No such word exists to define their confounded hate-filled hearts..."

"Something called 'slang'--a intermingling of words to make a new one, with its own trademark definition!"

"What does one call someone with such irrational and erratic behavior?--such ****** in the eyes!"

"A ******..."

Leaves of palm fall to the ground
As fish and coconuts abound
Children swim under the sun
Searching for some summer fun
Grownups head on to the bar
Or to gatherings where their colleagues are
Winter's left, snowbirds are gone
Some tourists are here, but most moved on
Sun climbs over the naval bases
Shining upon uniformed faces
Sailors clip along bays and coasts
Besides mangroves and shipwrecked ghosts
Plantains and barbacue, fish and rice
Lemonade for kids, and beers in ice
Corals are shining, and so are the jellies
While artists sunset performances spark passion in bellies
This is the hot passion of summer in Key West
Where oceans meet and birds come to rest