He called his older and baby sister home

Leukemia fought back and forth now it came to claim the soul those I cherish most on this earth were to
Be consumed at the deepest depths of the caldron but friend you see I know someone he faced death
Most cruelest blows and was victories so being human and facing pain and sorrow at such heights I ran
To the only place I knew back to the motel in California where he flooded our room with such peace we
Only stopped for the night to break up the drive from LA back to San Francisco the bay area it was
Christmas but we never made it home who can leave when the very air you breathe is saturated with
Love and a peace you have never known before at the time I didn’t know my only sister had died but He
Knew so I prayed that for this situation but they always say God is not limited so he did move in their
Pain my wife the older sister with his next to older sister and her daughter were in the bedroom by his
Side when he peacefully passed the doctor warned that in some cases this disease at death will cause
The person to bleed out every ounce of blood God spared us from that horror he only dropped his
Shoulder and with a couple of puffs of air he was gone and God helped my wife in this way one of the
Books I read to her to get her to sleep is Oma she is a united Pentecostal preacher her story is one of
Terrible hardship after being filled with the Holy Ghost speaking in tongues that is biblical way of
Salvation her husband an unbeliever tried to **** her three times and seemingly even more cruel he and
His mother conspired together and took her five children and one was a nursing baby but she stayed
True to God and her ministry grew and flourished the bible says God is a ever present help in the time of
Trouble and her prayer and mine was help us Lord for we are troubled he sustained Oma and new babies
Born into God’s kingdom through her ministry became her children so God dropped this thought in my
Wife’s heart she said she felt like Oma when her brother died it was right it was strong it held while the
Storm of death was trying to flatten her the next to the oldest sister the one with her daughters and
Husband bore the brunt of this two year battle pressed crushed grinded by what was happening to her
Brother my heart bled most for her God poured in the love from the unseen and laughter is like a
Medicine he supplied that in quaintest portions God uses clowns to bring relief to pain first you have to
Go down in that valley be torn apart then you are given still that which you lack to enter such sacred
Ground and add the antidote that will guard and protect those that God cares to comfort it was great to
Learn although Joe wasn’t a priest in the spiritual sense he was an uncommon one in the human sense
The words of his friends that streamed in told that story and his best friend the next to the oldest
Daughter’s husband capped it when he spoke for the family someone special lived among us and now
Was gone but he will live in each new day bring those same gifts he shared he didn’t have a lot but it
Was All yours if you needed it thats quiet a life in any body’s book I said it before and I will say it again
Farewell Prince a kingdom you now have found

Bounced

a mother figure
to two, a name
on a Christmas card
to four

when I realised
I was still a
child

and bitterness
wasn't an
option

I grew up
like a broken
nose

out of joint

Bounced

at the service
there are tears
beside me

I imagine a
body burning
and feel
warm

the lick of flames
on gray skin

my indifference
grows like I
imagine the
fire roaring

behind the curtain

heating up

Bounced

the house is
empty and
smells

unusual

like something has
been left in there
too long

they are not
there now but
it lingers

I tried to take
her dresses but
she was thinner
as a girl than
I am now

jealously

is a feeling
I'm familiar with

and it's easier
to understand

Bounced

we are waiting
for a buyer

and I imagine
how it feels
to have a piece
of your heart
trapped in bricks
and mortar

Bounced

one time,
I wanted to ask her
how it felt to
take notes of
the war

if she'd ever thought
of waving a white
flag and crumbling

drowning in the
rubble rain of
The Blitz

I wanted to hear
her say something
human

so I could
visualise and
see a bit of
her in myself

Bounced

I'm still caught up
on the autopsy
like a piece of
fatty tissue on
a scalapal

and my thoughts
are metal and
cold

the number of
zeroes on a
cheque

Bounced

Dove dark chocolate
Black coffee with almond biscotti
Raspberries and Engstrom almond toffee
Oma I miss you
I’ll see you in 80 years, or so
Have a cup of mint tea for me


Rosemary and Malbec
Ginger snaps and lavender
Grandma why does my dorm room
Smell like old memories of you


I think I left my sunglasses on the dining room table
The last place I saw you
Dyed blond hair, gold necklace, and your sweet soft smile
You gave me your blue jacket
Perriwinkle blue raincoat
Oma it’s raining
I’m making you tea
Dove, deliver it safely to the clouds above me

Awe

Golden grain lies scattered about on a stonework floor out of place in the sacristy and that is the
Travesty Among holy vestments there is evidence of the slightest presence of the treasure that brought

This Meager amount just one godly person and that was only by accident on shoes that hurried past the
Harvest field from these prostrate seeds a silent cry is haunting every day and night a holocaust is taking

Place anew death it did strew among the whole of life depicted by a child’s dream it occurred when she
Was only twelve and at eighty six it was as vivid as it happened yesterday I let her tell you in her own

Words “at this point in my dream I found myself on a very narrow path it was so narrow I had to lift one
Foot slowly and place it exactly in front of the other foot or I would lose my balance how carefully I had

To walk I exercised even greater caution when I realized that the narrow walkway spanned a very deep
Chasm an abyss filled with great billowing waves of flame more terrifying than the sight of the flames

Was the realization that people were being tossed about in that raging infernal their screams of anguish
Were so freighting that I wanted to rush away from these sights and sounds of horror my fear of missing

A step on that narrow path and falling into that horrible pit made my progress slow and agonizing then
Out of that nightmare of screaming anguish came the unmistakable voice of somebody calling my name

Oma a familiar voice pleaded Oma go warn your father and my brethren to never come to this place
I am In Hell” she subsequently found out that this man who spoke was a fellow preacher in her father’s

Religion that had ***** a young woman and had been sent to prison and then died there but from this
Dream in the coming years she became a minister of the gospel a work she continued for well over

Fifty years and she stated that dream of hell was an ever driving force to reach the lost yes a genocide
Of people of uncommon value sun drenched fragrant is the fields that glistens nowhere in all of

Existence does any treasure compare to you and me the bleating of the sheep of his pasture rises
Through air and misty clouds carried most softly and deepened by the quantity of distress from sheep
That is the most helpless of creatures thus the need of Sheppard’s and labors to enter these golden

Fields nothing must be missed but we are losing a generation while the greatest church buildings
Compass the land without question richness pervades within every detail is complete fashionable

To a fault the pews numerous enough but emptiness carries the stamp your duty you are failing
When the riches of family and friends are missing out on being fed heavens sacred bread nothing

Else can and will sustain real life all else is illusion a spell that cloaks the sight of people in richest
Clothing that are no more than starved prisoners of a total war against humanity they blissfully

Parade on they can’t see the front of the procession in the far distance as it passes through the Gate of
Hell that glows and melts the screams within that touch it then sizzles keeping it secret and warning

Hidden from the dammed that are marching to their doom but oh the sacristy holds such wondrous
Items as vestments and other church furnishings and sacred vessels and parish records but as you open

The door you are blasted with the cold reality only a precious few enjoy their value and comfort a
Mocking laughter is heard as the devil throws his head back with contempt and laughs even harder

As he drives the multitude to the end that was supposed to be his and his demons end all through
History the travail of mans plight has shaken a few from compliancy the robe of righteousness never

Hangs in cloistered suffocating gloom no as Wesley and George Whitfield they went out into the open
Fields and brought heaven down as a thunder clap that shook England to its evil core where gin was

So prevalent it reached from the poorest hovel through the church and into the palace where many
Enemies evaded and were driven back but this enemy was an inner demon that only God could over

Throw this is a picture of how as these faithful men lifted the cross and its Holy standard high and
As there proclamation reached a high crescendo the low laborers came out of mine pits stood there and

As the spirit mystified them with loves deepest truths there tears made tracks down through their cold
Dust covered faces these vestments are the true and lasting outwear that indicates the brimming soul

Within shall ever be free

This is what I meant to write in the car Sunday night but I was overwhelmed and only tried to fix pain

And sorrow with the beauty of a child and its birth only one child can do that and He was born in a manger

Verse 1

I look in, your room, thinking that I would see.
You there, in your bed, sitting up, and watching TV.
It’s still strange, at times.
When I walk in this room.
‘Cause it’s changed, a lot, since the day, you left.
And now, I think, it’s time, for me, to say.
That I, still wish, you were here.


Bridge

Cause you left me way too soon.
Going on is so hard without you.
I dream about you at night.
I still think about you all the time.
Why did you have to go?
Why did you give up on hope?
I know you missed him,
but now I have to miss you too.

Chorus

It’s not fair!
That you had to leave.
And now I’ll never see your face.
How did that seem, like the right thing to do?
Cause it’s been so hard here.
Without you.


Verse 2

I still, remember, that day.
When I woke, and heard, the news.
That you, had past, away.
And were taken out while I slept.
That day, I didn’t, cry.
Didn’t shed, a single, tear.
But that’s not because, I didn’t care.
It’s just that I don’t grief that way.
I smile whenever there’s pain.
Cause if I don’t.
Then I don’t know what else to do.


Bridge

Cause you left me way too soon.
Going on is so hard without you.
I dream about you at night.
I still think about you all the time.
Why did you have to go?
Why did you give up on hope?
I know you missed him,
but now I have to miss you too.


Chorus

It’s not fair!
That you had to leave.
And now I’ll never see your face.
How did that seem, like the right thing to do?
Cause it’s been so hard here.
Without you.


(Instrumental Break)

Different Bridge

I know, that it’s hard, when the one you love, is gone.
And I know you missed him so much.
But where did that leave us?!
Where did that leave me?!
Why was it time to leave?!
You could’ve gotten better!
That’s how I feel!
You could’ve gotten back your strength!
Why didn’t you…?
Wait.



Verse 3

What, am I doing?
Thinking this, could’ve been , avoided.
This didn’t, happen, overnight.
It happened, as the, days passed.
I know, you were, growing weak.
And I know, that you, were in pain.
But I still think, that I, should say.
That I, still wish, you were here.

Bridge Again

Chorus

It’s not fair! (It wasn’t fair)
That you had to leave. (That you had to leave that day)
And now I’ll never see your face. (I’ll never see your face)
How did that seem (how did that seem), like the right thing to do? (Like the right thing to do)
Cause it’s been so hard here. (It’s been so hard here)
Cause it’s been so hard here. (It’s been so hard here)
Cause it’s been so hard here!
Without….
You.
Oooh….
Without you.

My mother coloured your hair wet sand. My Nonno questioned me on your being, what colour your eyes are, your hair; he wants to meet you. One of the most important men in my life wants to sit with you and confound you with his Italian accent. He will likely offer you wine, ask you to come see the garden, take part in tasks my Oma has assigned, tell you about all the times we've broken his hammock, look at all the agates he and her have collected, he will tell you of me as a child, what I become in his embraces and through his songs. My Oma will talk to you sweetly, she will probably ask you about religion, I will not try to shield you of this, you could laugh, it would be alright. She will ask you about me, what are your favourite parts, what are your favourite parts. She will ask about what wonder you found in me; she will offer you blueberry pancakes, fried ham, maple syrup. You wonder so often why I told my parents, why my whole family knows of your existence. It is solely because you matter to me; because the more time I spend with you the more you become a part of me. And if I am to grow into another person, it is pertinent they see and know who it is I am growing to. Just as sitting with you and your brother in your basement is something to you as is my family seeing and knowing you. I want them to know that you are an ocean, wet sand and eyes like sea. There is nothing like you. The scent of you like sun and warmth and something drunken in. I wish I could swallow stacks of your picture just to keep you close to me only for a little while longer. There is so much of you that I want only for me.

dude
they have this
giant blue
monolith
in their
bathroom

no i wasn't
high, maybe
sugar high
becca's
oma kept
offering me
cookies
like i was a
monster that
needed
sating

eventually
i was
screaming
at her:
no, oma, i
don't want
any more ****
cookies

not the
point, dude,
the monolith, you
shoulda seen this
thing i wanted to
worship it that's
how awesome it
was

becca said it
was modern art or some
**** maybe its
their god but then
why would
they put it in their
bathroom?

i guess if
you really love
somebody
you will let them
see you
***, smell your
****

thats true love
man

becca
come into the
bathroom
with me
becca
baby
we're going to
church

(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)


Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.

Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.

Broke but beautiful, full of dreams.
Endearing and Adorable Selfless
as she seems.

In a complete darkness,she's a ray of light
She'd fall out of Clumsiness
But would always hold your hand tight.

Never would she let a frown come
on your face .
She'd always be around
whenever you need someone to embrace.
Her presence is what makes life Perfect
Her absence is always the hardest to neglect.

supports your dreams, helps you acquire.

She's a best friend.
She's a mother.
She's a wife.
She's a sister.

No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.

Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.

She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.

Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.

And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.

It's been a year since you left
and I still miss you a lot.
I'll always miss how much
fun we had together.
I'll miss you forgetting me
my name since I look like mom.
How you would have cartoons
playing in your room.
I know that it was due to your
memory problem.
But it was still good 'cause it
let me know that it wasn't a bad thing.
But I'll never say on here what I watch
when I'm in my room.
That's for my family to know.
But I will say that you watched some
cartoons that I've loved since I was 5.
Thanks for filling me with happy
memories and funny moments.
For saying things that made me both
confused and laugh at the same time.
Thanks for always being supportive
of me and my choices.
Thanks for doing what you were
supposed to when I asked you too.
Thanks for being there when I hurt
my knee.
Even though, there was nothing
that Obama could've done to help lol
Thanks for asking me to sing outside
your door and telling me that it was
wonderful.
And, you're right, Oma.
I'll never know how wonderful it was.
I never think that I have a good voice or
think that I can sing.
But it's nice to know that you loved me
and my voice.
Sorry I sang it in the hallway but my
shyness got the best of me.
But thanks for being patient and
listening to my songs.
You were a real inspiration to me and
I loved every second I got to spend w/ you.
Whenever I sing and listen to Miley Cyrus'
song, "I Miss You" I think of you.
I just wanted you to know how much I miss
and love you.
And I know that I'll be able to see you when
the time comes.
But until then, please keep watching me
from up above.
And I've never said this to anyone before.
But, I consider you and PaPou to be my
guardian angels.
I miss you and love you everyday.

Your great granddaughter,
Tash or (atleast once a day)
Manda <3 :)

RIP Oma

Overhead, the moon has spilled her pearl necklace onto the sky
A night's snowfall frozen in time.
She smells of aged lily of the valley perfume
that she saves for special occasions.

Around her, the sky is whispering Schumann,
Mondnacht, I think.
His celestial voice sails between constellations like a cloud
And the stars give one last wink.

Before I start I’m going to stand before you bare and open like in front of a looking glass that’s what
Their called in James town up in gold country they have the old hotels that were there a
Hundred Years ago they just have seven to eight rooms no phones or televisions rustic and
Original that will play into this write but for me personally I come to my computer with burning
Tears flowing down my face with my heart broken this also will bleed into this write I’m
Celebrating people that we have lost and a country teetering on disaster in the case of the
People I can’t let go and as my country dies I die with it and lately I feel the sooner the better
This feeling is a new ripple in my life maybe it prophetic I had a dream that the first girl I loved
And lost died it troubled me a great deal in the dream there was a coffin and I saw her standing
There what was the worst I lost contact over the thirty years in California I found out where she
Was when later I checked her home town obituaries it wasn’t her the dream was about it was
Her mother she died of cancer on my birthday I sent Linda a book without saying who it was
From the book’s title is Oma it is about the life of a one God Pentecostal pioneer preacher from
Our faith it spells out the true salvation message and the hardships she endured to give it to the
Needy of her day I can do no more I gave her the greatest gift I could ever give this is my
Conviction and it stands true for me buffeted by doubts of others because if you truly say you
Love them it stands true for all time or you were insincere in the first place that can be a pitfall
Of youth I told about how I fell in love at six with Eileen you wouldn’t understand the depth of
Pain and the tears that came from my convulsing tiny body when through her window I heard
She was getting married years have come and gone in sizable number I still love her I wasn’t
Just saying something the small scars on my heart are practically invisible because my heart has
Gotten bigger and adult scars hide the smaller ones Linda, Judy from ***** wine country I left
Town with a dead soul and much pain I held up in a hotel in Monterey twenty five hundred
Miles from home let’s just say Napa wine means a lot more to me than most people it has a
Beautiful girl attached with it and lost because at that time I wouldn’t promise to stay in
California I have just got out of the service the timber land of home was calling and I had to
Answer she turned out to be the luckiest of all God gave me a promise the night after I slept in  
A Cow pasture with my duffel bag as a pillow and a number of cows at a short distance the next
Day at the camp meeting the main speaker told these words someone here has a drunkard for a
Father and a harlot for a mother but God is going to use you in a great way this was spoken
Again a month later at a youth camp I stood outside on the edge of the crowd the preacher
Said the same thing not about the parents but What God was going to do but he added this
Killer stipulation he said you can change the hands on the clock but you can’t change the time I
Entered into marriage with a southern girl from outside of Nashville I’m still waiting many
Snows of winter has come and gone they are less numerous than my wife’s tears but factor in
The pain and its even you see to reach others you must feel the blast of many contrary winds
Live a life where you can’t be and give what you promised I guess this belongs in a private
Journal not openly public but I want you to know what and how I write is genuine and the day is
Still coming that from great suffering I will be able to bless and give not hot air but real and true
Help that will heal your spirit

Images flash as I stand
alone
in Oma's house

The things are here
the remainders of a life well lived

But the animating force
The life itself
is no more

There will be no more gatherings
No more raucous debates about
football or politics
No more screaming kids or blaring music.

The life has left this place

But not the love.

I can still smell her
My heart tells me this will fade
So I drink in all that I can to keep her with me
forever.

i can't wait to be old. i can't wait to be wrinkly oma with silver and grey hair. i can't wait to have spotted, gnarled hands like tree roots, hands that have done so much: built, cooked, fed, felt, created. i can't wait for time, age, nostalgia, to wrap me up in a soft shawl, to cloud my memory and vision with rose. to look back on my life and see the follies that pain me so much now merely as soft missteps. i can't wait for the winter of my life, my autumn over, my life finding its silence, its peace. i will live a life vibrant and at my end i will know i walked as best as i could, until my legs grew too weak to carry me any further. at my end i'll become a young star and a button sewn onto the coat of time worn by all those i've known, the little waves made from my life neverending

Gender is such a fun game, Isn't it?

I remember as a kid I would play Wizard101 and in the beginning before creating a new

Character, you must establish if you were a

Boy.. Or a Girl.

I had one female wizard, and one boy wizard and in my mind, that was okay until

I showed my heavily religious grandparent the game.

She asked me why there was one boy character, and one girl character.

I told her it was my friends and she smiled, as if she were relieved.

The next sentence that spilled from her old ancient lips made me almost cry.

She smoothed her khakis and said

I was afraid you would say that they were both you, because you should only have a girl character.

And no, Oma, it was not my friend's character because in my mind, I wanted to be that boy character.

In my mind, I  wanted to be that female character as well.

When I was Thirteen, I got a plaid shirt for Christmas. I put it on and my friends said

It made me look like a lesbian.

And only one of my friends said it looked good on me.

At that time, I was declaring myself "bisexual" finding both girls and guys

to be very attractive.

My favourite viner was a neutrois and I thought this was normal.

In fact, I wanted to cut my hair short  and wear guy-ish clothes for a longtime.

So many people have told me that I must identify as "boy" or "male"

Or ****, even "girl" and "female"

Well guess what.

I'm worth more than a ******* "Other" button.

So are other people.

People, humans.

That's what we are, isn't it?

raw
green beans
this past afternoon  
brought back
my Oma
full white apron on
in  the kitchen
one summer  
in Germany
decades ago
window wide open
to the garden
sitting at the table
busily breaking them up
together
for her delicious vegetable soup  
I'm  helping ,I'm helping
I said as  they broke
in my little fingers
her soup
a mere  memory
as she  stopped making it
   a lifetime ago

Children are lucky because they have
A Grandma and  a Grandmama
Nonna, Mhamó, Abuela, Bibi
Babcia, Giagiá, Avó, Oma

Nagymama, Mormor, or Kuku wahine
Are names of love for their Nan
O baachan, Babushka, Tutu, Halmeoni
Are certainly not names for a man

Ouma, Savta, Bubbi, Geema
Nai Nai, Nona, Gramms and more
Bomma, Mawmaw, Yaya, Nana
If I keep going you’ll think  I’m a bore

All names for their Grandma
The one they adore
That special someone
Who’s love to the core

She plays with them, cuddles, and keeps them all warm
She feeds them, she rears them takes over the chore
But all of this just to say, lest we forget
Grandmas are LOVE LOVE  LOVE and more

Bounced

a mother figure
to two, a name
on a Christmas card
to four

when I realised
I was still a
child

and bitterness
wasn't an
option

I grew up
like a broken
nose

out of joint

Bounced

at the service
there are tears
beside me

I imagine a
body burning
and feel
warm

the lick of flames
on gray skin

my indifference
grows like I
imagine the
fire roaring

behind the curtain

heating up

Bounced

the house is
empty and
smells

unusual

like something has
been left in there
too long

they are not
there now but
it lingers

I tried to take
her dresses but
she was thinner
as a girl than
I am now

jealously

is a feeling
I'm familiar with

and it's easier
to understand

Bounced

we are waiting
for a buyer

and I imagine
how it feels
to have a piece
of your heart
trapped in bricks
and mortar

Bounced

one time,
I wanted to ask her
how it felt to
take notes of
the war

if she'd ever thought
of waving a white
flag and crumbling

drowning in the
rubble rain of
The Blitz

I wanted to hear
her say something
human

so I could
visualise and
see a bit of
her in myself

Bounced

I'm still caught up
on the autopsy
like a piece of
fatty tissue on
a scalpel

and my thoughts
are metal and
cold

the number of
zeroes on a
cheque

Bounced

If Ondo is used for settlers
And Ogun is a river
Tell me about Oyo, an empire

You mispell Gwosh as Jos
Recognised Sokoto, a market
Far away from Osun, a river

Lakes is to Lagos
As Kogin is to Kogi
And Kebbi is synonymous to Ka'abba

Janzama, women power inspired Katsina
But Kano was a Blacksmith
While Kaduna means Crocodile

The people of the golden soils of Jigawa
To the river Imo Mmiri
They don't speak Gombe at all

Take me to the hills of "Enu Ugwu"
Following the hills in "Okiti"
Without navigating through Iduu

All Ebonyi are "Aboine"
Close the Delta that marries the atlantic
And Oyono, makes you Cross River

Don't say Benue, say "Binuwe"
Balga, Yelga, Salga formed Bayelsa
And I love Kasashen Bauchi

"Anyim Oma Mbala kwenu!"
But I love ladies from "Kwa Iboe"
Only legends understands this

Tell them I told you
Adamawa is a warrior
While Abia is a coinage

If I missed your state
Go back to the history books
This is just a drill...

Oma watching
television downstairs,
while blue room sheets
squared back in peels,
& honeysuckle's ladder
up the brickwork
reached like spring fingers
towards my window,
where in brown shadows
I saw foxes steal over
the crumbling drive,
& clouds crashed trees
atop deer eating lawn
where uncle's autos coruscated
in the tall wilds.
In that bed I came of age
with thoughts of women naked -
New candles ached
and led the way deeper
as they dripped
all across my adolescence.
Years bloomed inside me,
stones fell from the sky,
hard as ***; fox bones
slept in the wood,
the televisions all sat,
idols on the lace,
flickering presses
that touched every wall.
The moon a wet thigh -
something sang,
& burrowed beneath the pillow.

Time has left stains
on all the things I love.
sepia,
crumpled in some dark corner
of an old cardboard box,
burdened heavy
by a smell,
familiar, sad.
consumed
like the tiny perfume bottles
on the edge
of my Oma's bathtub.
along,
vague,
a whisper of shame.

Mijn ogen rollen nog,
mijn stenen vallen toch.

Veel ontgaat, ontglipt, besipt
de buizen op de straat,
veel verloopt en stopt
en stokt zelfs aan de praat.

We maken ons geen zorgen, zie ik aan de poort.
Het maakt al even niet meer uit, wie oma heeft vermoord.
Het recht om zo te denken, lijnen over wie iets zegt
zonder zelf te schenken.

Ik zei het menigmaal, wie dit bedacht heeft die
is vast bezopen of simpel
weg een geniaal.

reya euq sam,oma et yoh

Rama: exención del árbol, que leído al revés es amar

there aren't that many excuses for
an under-read poet,
           of course, there are excuses
for under-red novelists,
who's idea of an obscure citation
constitutes a ref. to digging up
a misplaced synonym stand-out
in the already apparent rigid
vocabulary: standin like a tree
in a forest of toothpicks:
   a word like that... **** me!
     "obscurity" that begins and ends
with the thesaurus...
     a 'yellow yoke':
    heard of black tulips and black
swans...
            is that supposed to be
a gimmick of yoyo?
           yet I can't exactly find peace
with poetry that: having all
that space, doesn't hide within
its scarce lineage of words some
version of beef, perhaps even
the raw impromptu of a Tartar
choking chunk of razor's raw edge...
god I miss shaving:
     a spared opportunity to cite -
   the one downside of ****** hair:
you miss having a shave...
     and yet 'ere they come -
infiltrators, women, perfectly sculpted,
wishing a poem become like
a handbag, and, thrice
the depth of a puddle...
   perhaps England is "etymologically"
susceptible to overusing pronouns
and other shrapnel words...
   for all I know you can have
a conversation in Polish, and almost
never use the pronoun I...
           hell, to and back from Timbaktu
and not even a sly sniffing out
a necessary use of the pronoun...
which explains the whole
gender "neutrality" of pronouns...
last time I heard, in "ancient"
times, Kings used the singular-plural
pronoun of We...
           and youth can get away
with pretty much anything,
as long as they become good consumers
and spawn consumer ideas...
grammar, though?
    that's not exactly ******* on a wall
and watching the makeshift
   waterfall dry and calling it
grafitti... even though:
    that's my take on invigorating
a post-grafitti movement:
    all it takes is ******* on a wall.
yet there's this woman and she's
like that ***** model reciting
poetry to Samantha
    (*** and the city cougar)...
           nigh, night, knight...
god' (oops, misplaced comma)
   and to think that the concept of
a consonant as a surd
     in English, isn't fascinating...
PEDANT!
           nope, I don't have time for
Tsfetayeva...
               abandoned girls write poetry,
mandible with a beauty like
jaws of canines and prostitutes' bodies...
she writes poetry and she's pretty
and not Plath psychotic?
     last time I checked she thought
a poem was polka dot dress,
or that teasing mini,
a brioche in her middle age...
    or that quirky horseracing
sundial she calls a dead peacock
that's a hat, worthy of only champagne
and nibbles of caviar...
           I can excuse under-read
under-nourished novelists...
              who need to chicken scratch
out volumes of sleeping pill
substitutes, and concrete commute
material to avoid eye contact on
the London tube...
     and the bestseller formula of
the csrpenter's aesthetic:
    write a book that becomes a chair
someone can sit on, rather than fall off...
no problem...
    but when a poet is under-read...
with, simultaneously having
  all that SPACE before h(im/er)...
        shortened to a ref. by some
obscure german, with the name:
   Conrad, Himmer!
                     who cited old german
women and their memory of
the third *****, who, in interviews,
we're adamant that die Führer knew
nothing of the Holocaust...
            mind you,
    I've never seen a photograph
            of Adoolwoof ever visiting
a concentration camp,
    like Lady Di might have walked
a landmine field and called it a Parisian
catwalk...
             my bewilderment is still
regarding, one of the drittereichoma:
    third reisch oma: gwandma'h!
                     ha ha... hw'ite...
oratory example from...
                          Ah'w'ah'ba'h'ma'h...
just a thought: passing around
a whiff of lilac...
                   apparently english was
always going to be fertile ground
to harvest the tetragrammaton,
with, or without a Yiddish influence,
asking whether it was necessary,
or unnecessary...
            still, Tsvetaeva would know...
pretty girls can't exactly
write poems that turn into
mental tattoos...
         and we are past the schoolyard
talking parrot stage of
forcing children to remember
and recite poems,
   only due to the execution of
rhyme...
     our father doesn't exactly rhyme,
as neither does
    a timestable rubric of 1 through to 12...
   mandible beauty
write a poem that becomes
a tattoo on my mind...
        we all know of
the exhausted use of rhyme
         as: safetynet when forcing children
to memorise and recite
a poem, as if it were nothing more:
than a ******* nursery rhyme.

Dag mama,

Of moeten we je ondertussen oma noemen?
Alvast vijf dikke kussen
en een rijtje droge bloemen.
Je hebt ze wel verdiend na al dat harde
werk, verzorgen, opleiden en opvoeden
van die hele garde onder je hoede.
Je hebt dat puik gedaan en terwijl
we wachten, vol met spanning,
op het eerstvolgend bezoek,
denken wij op afstand
aan onze liefste moederkloek.