"reshuffling" poems
*
Attitude is more vital than an action;
Solitude is more ritual than a reaction
Emotions are for bursting into tears;
Revolutions are for reshuffling fears;
Anything comes out as appeal is slavery;
Something well planned is from bravery.
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
You are quick to question but
Occupy cisheteronormativity mindlessly
Unprepared for queer identities
Assuming I lack knowing of myself
Reshuffling the same deck of cards
Engaging in a play of poker with hatred
Subjected to foul treatment
The words you spat
Unsolicited and unflattering
Chasing my mind endlessly
Kidnapping me hostage
I have been coated in sweltering biohazards
Nevermore to find protection and healing
To see another day seems impossible
If my own blood casts me away
Malevolence becoming motherly
Eliminating my mental health
,
Its those who think they are greater
Trailblazing a performative show
Sabotaging an already discriminated space
To go another day with your words
Itching down into my skin
****** becoming friendly
Envisioning how I'd feel left alone
From the moment you open your mouth
Orchestrating emotions like a ballad
Reconsolidating the toxic bond with binary
Can't seem to wake you up
Having to constantly do the work for you
And what am I left with
Naive justification and selfish excuses
Gravitate your energy into doing better
Exploitation is your entertainment
Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 1:13 AM UTC
It goes beyond
the voices in your head
to tap
into the
beats of your heart
reshuffling
your
plan
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 4:47 AM UTC
I am the universe.
I’ve died a handful of times
Yet somehow resurrect each morning
Every nightly loss of consciousness
A sour taste of what awaits.
From where I have come
I will inevitably return
A change of state
Galvanized by time.
Deconstructing, dissipating
Reshuffling, rearranging
From infinity to solid and then back
To infinity once more.
The universe is me.
I am abstract, not concrete
A hologram self
A bundle of dying and newborn cells
Held together by the stars.
Not planetary, but nebulous
A dark matter beyond the grasp of my
Quarter century old mind
Materialized from 140 million centuries past
And an eternity to come.
I am the universe.
The universe is me.
There is no death in forever.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
1.
… from now on, a reshuffling of diction,
word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming
with thought: somebody built an orange tree
against the other things around it, to devour
boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate,
the convulsions of the world can only go
a short length, it’s a matter of …
… regression, like tumbling downstream
over the backs of boulders …
2.
… near the end of his journey the man’s voice,
as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst,
declining through the dark, a short distance
to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom,
sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth
lying at the edge of bones: today, the light,
tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast …
… his affliction is not pain but death: cold
at his feet, like frail children ...
3.
… even in the icy spring of March, your eyes
were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay
buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like
refugees in a new land, and the wind that did
not reach us, and the ice that could not find us:
outside, the silent streets could hear thunder
beneath our blanket …
… ask me where she is, the one who ignored
my heart, who was gone by summer ...
======================================
from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented
©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved
first published in Record Magazine
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 3:04 PM UTC
At 24,
I still don’t know who I am
and who I want to be,
I still get bouts of anxiety,
Still questioning my hopes, my faith, my identity
They tell me I’m smart, I’m pretty,
As if things get any more easy,
But the truth is I’ve never felt any of it,
Constantly reshuffling puzzle pieces that don’t fit,
Which part of me is smart when all I feel is clueless,
Which part of me is pretty when this face no longer lights up with hope,
When this heart just feels... incomplete
Things I dreamt of doing have become a distant reality,
I’ve lost track of time, writing poetry at two thirty,
Is this what growing up really feels like in this century?
A deadly pandemic, an economic downfall, a political mess, a vicious war-zone,
Too much of this turmoil and emotional complexities
For my head and heart to make sense on its own
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 1:36 PM UTC