"midwives" poems
who lit the candles
placed so eloquently
behind purple rock?
that sculpted radiance
and chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs
street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
shuffle their wares
as the front man
and pock face
sing their sullen
holy blues
cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts
a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway
hula hoops
and circle ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy
beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow
a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
5.3k
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
4.9k
vanishing hope
for consumption as a way of life
obese children shovel pharmaceuticals
down the throats of the infirm
internally developing low-tone hymns
relating to slow death by corporate greed –
albino judicators
pass melanin laws
felonizing the populace
perpetuating the proletariat
while pontificating
on the post 9/11 society –
isolated rabble-rousers
screaming at eggshell walls
dislodge tacks holding together
the fabric of American culture
with ingrown and chewed fingernails
flailing armies
think back to trench warfare –
robust midwives mediate
heated discussions
as the United Nations blindly
support U.S. imperialism
looking for kickbacks
from energy companies
globalization giving all humanity
incurable S.T.D.’s –
the last free house mouse
bounds betwixt the ruins
energetically sniffing the rubble
seeking some small morsel
to satisfy its hunger –
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
We are manufactured landscapes,
constructed through naming nouns –
we celebrate difference.
We are compelled into being one or the other,
like a nail or a hammer.
We reference nature through motherhood,
voluptuous in her national pride narrative,
her lips red pucker supple metaphors like her fertile ground,
her belly always pregnant
ready to plant desire in discourse.
We forget her industrial miscarriages,
her toxic tar-sulfur consumption,
her global half-bred garbage in words left unsaid,
her ***** laundry in patriarchal hands.
We forget her midwives,
her toiling underpaid workers
who support generations of waste
who spit up truth in plastic mouthfuls,
who regurgitate material narratives
to celebrate flesh in mythic wholeness.
When will the nation, earth and world step from its subject of motherly pedestal and name its androgynous existence, its forgotten lifelines?
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
Cruel fell from the sky
even the midwives
left us then, to die.
Black-eyed battered beauty
a withered wick
on a burning stick
I made a choice
the child my duty
tiny eyes a crying delight
I kept the baby
I followed her/his light.
Everybody came from somebody
came from God came from Mary.
Oct 21, 2022
Oct 21, 2022 at 3:23 PM UTC
There's too much of me
So I slice into parts
Don't know who I am
Who I was
Where to start
My fingertips stained
a raspberry color
Let's cut off another
Another
Another
My softness dismantled
Set the mood
light some candles
This hole inside grows
So I must learn to handle
Those times where my head was held under water
Men dont give a **** if "that's somebodys daughter"
When all that you've taught me is I should be better
I think of my past self and send em a letter
The version of me that was put under ground
Carving into myself cause I cant speak out loud
Skipping breakfast and dinner or stuffing our faces
For some sense of control
To hope it erases
The feeling inside
that all that you can be
Is how flesh meat and bone
Hangs off of your body
When your own heart could stop
From barely a flutter
Flesh of the womb
Laying wet in the gutter
Taking what's ours
They go on with their lives
Resorted to tonics and herbs
Backyards and midwives
He said it's not that bad
you ******* faker
Beat in her face
Just to text her phone later
All my exes are crazy
I just wanted to bang her
Cut her down from the rafters
when you know what hanged her
It's funny it's sad
at the end of the day
We're in hell together
Across hot coals we lay
Dress your own wounds
Don't bend over for them
Instead let's
Redacted
Redacted
Redacted
Aug 9, 2023
Aug 9, 2023 at 12:00 AM UTC
embryos abandoned by narrow-minded chauvinists
became creations that were left to the vagaries of women
hallowed feminists with their Ankara bags
perfumed head-ties with glittering beads
the sounds of their colliding bangles filled the space
they had no invitation to the platform
but their ways had won a people’s heart
protectors of knowledge
intellectual midwives
the people of the Village of Faces
salute you!
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
This was once a construction site.
Unpainted concrete walls, skeleton of
A building exposed.
Now most floors are inhabited;
Offices in use as if they'd always
Been this clean and complete.
Some sections are still unfinished, and
The few of us still working here are
Alien shadows in filthy workwear,
Ghosts from the slow birth of a
Fraction of the Oslo cityscape.
Rugged midwives
Not fitting in with the suits and
Dresses we sometimes pass in the
Corridors.
So strange, the scent of perfume and
Female products. No more diesel and
Dust here these days.
My colleague flips his cigarette **** on
The pavement outside the entrance,
Stealing a gaze at a passing skirt.
*I love the sound of
High heels in the
Morning.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
God has always come
Back a woman.
Long before
there was a Jesus,
Eve stood in a Garden
And tried to correct
Her brother's sin;
She was Lilith then.
She packed her bags,
And strolled off to
the mountains to be
with whomever she
So chose; She left
God and Adam to
Figure it out:
The lie the would tell;
The creature they would
Blame;
The clothes.
Yes, God has come
Back multiple times,
And in multiple screaming,
Female forms..
She came back as
All the Dahomey
Women, The Amazons,
Salem Witches, Big Mommas
Abuelas
And midwives.
God has. Had an endless
Universe of
lives.
She even came back a
a little Jewish girl;
Stowed away in an attic
During the Holocaust.
In India she came as
Phulan. In Africa
She came as Winnie,
In Argentina, Chadron.
While men may name
their legends, myths
and fables, just as
Adam did.
God has.never.had
Names and titles
In mind;
Every time a girl
takes a breath she is
reborn, she is there
Carrying revolutions
In her silences and
eternity in her hair.
She will come back
A fire next time.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 11:01 AM UTC
I am not sure which is bloodier, more gruesome –
birth or death. It is like asking God if he prefers Eve to Adam
for demolishing that false sense of security,
specks of pride dissolved in snake venom apples.
There is mourning in creating monsters
as there is in killing them: I see starving children with
round, pregnant bellies and somehow they are more at peace than
I am on my best day. We will understand when we are dead,
not in the act of becoming a ghost, but once we are one.
When I was little, I saw the house on Camellia’s corner
crumble: attacked from behind, the same swamp I had in mine.
I had not noticed its yellow shingles before
and suddenly, this nine year old girl felt lonely for
bricks and plaster and the refrigerator hung on its balcony door.
On its side like a woman in labor –
midwives have her in a kiddy pool, the origin of its
name. Imagine being baptized before you take your first breath.
Ametrine is an amalgamation of two gemstones:
amethyst and citrine. I am that of my parents, one quarter grandma.
She who I never met but got my alcoholic mother from.
My clumsiness stemmed there, the constant
stumbling on invisible rocks and breeding ****** knees –
having two daughters who bleed monthly, but it’s never in sync.
Still, I cannot grasp being proud of ghostliness
when there are millions of invisible children in clear blood.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
I WALKED among the streets of an old city and the streets were lean as the throats of hard seafish soaked in salt and kept in barrels many years.
How old, how old, how old, we are:-the walls went on saying, street walls leaning toward each other like old women of the people, like old midwives tired and only doing what must be done.
The greatest the city could offer me, a stranger, was statues of the kings, on all corners bronzes of kings-ancient bearded kings who wrote books and spoke of God's love for all people-and young kings who took forth armies out across the frontiers splitting the heads of their opponents and enlarging their kingdoms.
Strangest of all to me, a stranger in this old city, was the murmur always whistling on the winds twisting out of the armpits and fingertips of the kings in bronze:-Is there no loosening? Is this for always?
In an early snowflurry one cried:-Pull me down where the tired old midwives no longer look at me, throw the bronze of me to a fierce fire and make me into neckchains for dancing children.
1.3k
Hundreds of thousands of years from now
I hope they’ll find my bones
Cradled in the womb of this earth
And the archeologists- as careful as midwives
Would scoop me up, brush me off
And deliver me from the dust
Then when they softly blow off the rest of the soil from my skeleton
Ever so softly for a better look at what I used to be
They’ll see my sandy frame and they’ll **** their heads to the side
In wonder when they notice two sets of bones
Yours gingerly entangled with mine
And as they pick up the pieces of us
That used to be we
They can’t tell them apart, which parts were mine
And which parts you lent to me.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
He beheld an orphan as he rode by,
Not even her beauty could he bye.
A master of many slaves he was,
Who had just returned from the war.
Her chastity overwhelmed his senses,
That he was bound to keep her within his fences.
He tied with her the marital knot,
Showering his affection on her a lot.
Came night, he took her home in his carriage,
To consummate their blissful marriage.
In weeks there was a conception,
And he planned at the birth of his child a stupendous reception.
Come due time, the midwives held to him his new baby,
And when he laid eyes on it, his love died for his lady,
For the baby had the skin colour of a slave,
And he wondered if she had had an illicit affair behind him, slaked.
He was greatly in shame,
Not even her cries of innocence could redeem his fame.
He visited no more her bed,
For he would rather keep company with the birds.
He had broken her heart
And turned his attention to art.
Come one morning, he cast her out.
With her child, her fostal parents she sought.
All her belongings, he brought out to be burnt,
And there he discovered the letter of his brunt.
His slave mother writing to his white father,
That if his true identity was hidden, it wouldn't matter.
Now he knew, he was a mixed-race
Who had discriminately thrown out, his lovely wife who vanished had without a trace.
And his black baby he had scorned,
When his mixed blood had been the very thorn.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
~
*she's thunderstorms.
she's asphodel meadows.
I fall outside of her
into the suburbs of askew,
where she hides behind
happy occident, where she
lives with the afterlife of a man,
but is in love with a scientist.
a jaded thing, she likes
to drop anvils on her
husband's head and blame
her fragile scaffolding,
she wears the wreckage
on her face, it's far easier
than admit her own fallacies.
before the children came along
she was able to pour some
of her own frustrations
into these knotty tussles.
now the midwives have left.
now misadventures in her
own backyard commence.
no hiding place down
the front of her,
the remaining secrets
come from underneath.
but if you trust her
and go along, she knows exactly
where to lay her hands.*
~
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 12:36 PM UTC
the birth of a child
sublime
I never recovered
from the very start
I looked around
searching for my exit
Born and misunderstood
my crying
was just crying
And all the midwives
along with the doctor
said "its just normal"
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
~
beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
with the help of three midwives their baby was born.
wrapping him gently to shield from morn's frost,
hearing his first breaths while holding him close.
singing a lullaby, they rock him to sleep;
cradled in their arms, they watch him dream.
twenty five winters; good years, though some long,
as a man was being forged in their little boy.
in many ways wise, encourager and friend,
the tenderest heart, persevering to the end.
through illness, through setbacks, he always believed;
and opening their arms they watch him dream.
beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
alone with the angels their son was re-born.
closing his eyes as he lay down to dream,
his last breath watched lovingly, he drifted to sleep.
then carried so gently to a new home above,
to awake in the arms of the many he'd loved.
today by the fire on this mid-winter's morn,
they find themselves still letting go of their son.
surrounded by memories wherever they gaze,
this earth seems clouded, though they see through its haze.
they find themselves longing for their loved one above,
and dreaming of holding this son that they love.
~
*post script.
written in January of 2011, two years after his goodbye. dusted off just a bit this morning with a few of its wrinkles ironed just for posting.
this time of winter, these cold, blustery days with blue skies overhead, it seems to bring the out melencholy. might be its time to head out to one of his favorite trails not too far from here... maybe we,'ll try the Columbia Gorge's Eagle Creek trail up to Punchbowl Falls... he loved it out there away from the city.*
Steve
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
I am the very first drop of rain bringing the storm
Let them tell you not that it's all for nothing, I died for my home
my blood wasn't shed in vain, say not I went through needless pain
I died for the desperate impoverished and the hungry
for that young lad walking out his twentieth interview eyes deep in ocean tears
for that father nursing a broken backbone as his employer couldn't provide gears
laid off after his accident without a system to assist in seeking for compensation
for the child trekking seven miles to sit on a tree trunk and receive pitiful education
for my friend's inlaw who lost her baby, the few midwives at the hospital were swamped...
for a generation that haven't kissed the soft sweet lips of liberty
I died to overcome a leadership marred by corruption and greed
for the meager earnings and high interest rates on loans that are a basic need...
Did you see the yellow membrane of my affectionate brain scattered?
that is for the future of this young nation defiled and tattered,
an attempt to place an oxygen pump of reason when it really mattered
yes, I weeped when I was chocked and battered
but I died so that tomorrow can live to see what yesterday denied the moment
let them not disclose my memories in a grotesque manner for torment
for I am the ****** seed for the beautiful flower of our revolution
hoping to seed a unique country at harmony with her people
and the faith that even the most brutal of tyranny meets its dissolution
I am the red of our flag, my prayer is embedded deep in our fairy anthem
for albeit not all of us can be butchers not all of us are Chicken.
I am the optimistic crested crane flying on the long pole of great expectation
that someday this will all be but a nostalgic memory that does sicken.
My thick blood flows through those left in the struggle to bring true equality
so quit grieving, I am a sacrifice for fear, hurt and misery to stop being our true cost of living
I did not die for nothing if anything I died for everything
I died "For God and my country".
Mar 2, 2021
Mar 2, 2021 at 3:39 AM UTC
A mid morning spent
In the shade
Of a pine tree
I believe
Amongst the company
Of scrub jays
And ground squirrels
I lay on my yoga mat
Contented
In the presence of Yaweh
The Great I AM
He is Eternal
And so is his love for humankind
Man cannot comprehend
The Father, God
He is perfect
In ways we cannot fathom
He sent his son to save us
Because of our sins
Because of our wicked
Thoughts and deeds
His Son, Jesus took on
The sins of the world
Then the Father raised him
The overcomer
Believe in Jesus of Nazareth
His love for mankind endures
Forever!
I read Theology in Exodus
According to the author,
Gowan;
The midwives "feared God"
And let the male children live
So God rewarded them
According to Gowan,
These writers tell of a God
Who insists, when they
Cry out to me, I will surely
Hear their cry"
Cry out to Him!
He will listen, he is merciful
Jesus loves you
The midwives showed mercy
And you should too
Show mercy unto others
And the Lord Jesus
Will show mercy unto you
Pronounce with your lips
That Jesus is Lord
Believe in your heart
That God resurrected him
Pray for mercy
He is righteous, He is pure
He is all knowing,
He is present everywhere
His love endures forever
Jesus is Lord
Lord of heaven
And Lord of earth
There is no way to the Father
Except through him
A difficult time is coming
To America
You know I was reading
About the Israelites today
The Lord was with them
As they suffered
Under the Egyptians
The Lord will be with
Christians in America
As this nation will be judged
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
Morning rips forth
screaming...
from the womb of night
it's first cries echoed
in bird song
and
buzz of insects wings,
it's tears adorning spiders web
and yet un woken
floral heads
Mother Earth
adopting Midwives role...
holds
up the sun
letting his gentleness
of breath
become the welcome breeze
that carries soft
his
first word.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
do not confuse rage for emotion
our EmoTions are in check as
we calculate and
devise a plan to
proverbially
and literally
peal
your
hands off our *****
do not confuse a women's tears for fragility,
for her tears are full of pain and anger and the future,
that does not need to include you
you were not considered in the plans of the matriarch,
not out of hate
but simply because you are unimportant
do not confuse her hips for beauty,
those hips are waterways to life
that you have no right to even
lay your weak eyes open
you cannot make the calls
do not confuse
losing to being lost
losing lives
losing songs
and
voices
and
laughter
and
our bodies
and POWER
does not mean that this ocean
of strong woMYN are lost
We have always been found
and we will too,
overcome the darkness in you.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 1:40 AM UTC
I hold a heart in my hands--
mine or yours, it hardly matters.
It's a cup of sweet pain--
sweet because it contains
a new world in each
potential swirling drop.
Sweet because we
can taste each world.
And the pain is just
a sharpening, in this moment,
of memories-- of our longing
for this new world-- for birth--
to take what is now real, but hidden,
and let it ripple and be unveiled--
this world hidden in our hearts,
too big, it aches because
it is ready, pressing against
its hidden containment--
we may not hold it in too long--
Life carries on with its own force,
seen or unseen, the new world emerges
in love from the old, warm and slowly scarred--
one new and ripe with life and will,
the other worn and wise, ready
to go quiet--where it will vanish,
covered and concealed, dissolved
then secretly congealed, gathering a secret pulse
and vibrant eye, to once again--for the first time
in all of time--emerge and be revealed--
Our hearts seem like vessels
but they are constantly transforming from old to new,
from hidden to emergent to present. We have
no one heart,
yours or mine, it hardly matters,
but a constant, murmuring emergence,
an ever exploring meaning.
Here in our heart
a spring rises from its endless roots
and meets the air of our awareness--
rippling, shining, silently singing.
Let our hands and eyes be midwives, then,
when needed.
We can ease these transformations
with a little understanding.
Let our eyes and hands
love the hidden heart
and guide its travels
for we are hearts and more,
wide minds, capable, some times,
of comprehending--peacefully--
the sometimes searing
duality
and finding in its balance
a way to, briefly,
crucially,
meet its blade
with peace--
to use the energy of dissolving
and the energy of emerging
simultaneously
to transform
one more
moment.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
There aren’t many jobs
where Sunday night
cold grips your guts
and has you palpitate
while midwives are called
and antiques are roadshowed
every inch of will is bent up
in figuring the impossible
if we all know how leading horses to water ends
then can we not give the stable hands a break?
As I watch my own digits shake,
stable hands seems like a joke
no one lets me in on
Sep 26, 2021
Sep 26, 2021 at 3:24 PM UTC
You ignite my picnic of a body, bedecked with an assortment of foods too pickled and procured with oddities to ever be pillaged.
You plunge your fingers into my vinegar ****** potato salad and athwart my melonous cantaloupe thighs.
I indulge in your embrace as you engulf in mine.
Two terribly beatitude lovers emboldening the picnics within eachother.
The simonized delight as your hands are the midwives to my parted thighs and my glazed love drenched eyes.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 3:19 PM UTC