“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
~Walter Wellesley “Red” Smith~
I know I’ve read good writing when I can taste the blood that was laid down to make the words. Each one of these pieces have that element – the raw outpouring of soul that gives them their own life. They each amazed me in their own right and I’m so glad to have the honor to blog about them.
I am more than just words
that rain from my tongue
becoming pure fire
that burns passion of pumping fist
removing the callouses from the chambers of heart
reminding feet to get up and march
the dead needs a voice.
I am more than the history of my skin
that provokes my heart to do and say things
causing stares from those who are tired
of this journey and has gotten off the road
maybe someday they will need a hand
of a Samaritan.
I am more than the noose that still speaks
their stories written in my head
searching for a proper ending
my ink has not yet dried
so I am still trying to write it for them.
I am more than fire hydrants’ voices
whose wet bodies are dripping with the sixties
and church pews mercy for strength
they still speaks to me even when I want them to be quiet
their cries still haunt me
waking me nightly
they sit and wait though I feel tired.
I am more than the many trouble I have caused
prompting God to send his angels numerous times
to defend my actions
keeping me an uninvited guest
from Lucifer’s party
I will fall short again tomorrow….it is written
and I hope they will come once more.
I am more than the Caribbean sea
and the death in the ocean from centuries ago
that still walk on waves hallucinating
they can’t find their way back
their cries break me.
I am more than the laugh
and silliness that overcome me at times
wearing that feel good moment
I have learned that peace is good
and tears are tiring.
I am more than the back porch tears
with morning prayers to a God
I am struggling to hold onto
I can feel his fingers peeling away
while my wings rest in a holding room
I haven’t made my case fully yet.
I am more than that knife held with a teenager finger
my adult hands still reminisce the pinch
feeling the love that I thought it held
some days I wonder what if.
I am more than the eyes in my head
that play the memory of bedroom secrets
stealing from a boy who is still standing and watching
I have never recovered
I can’t recover
my heart is too precious to open
it is all I have
a woman’s body I will always love
their tongues I will never trust.
I am more
just give me sometime
to look more deeply in your eyes
and see if your heart and my heart
can walk this narrow path.
amongst her leaves
I lay quite still
the air I breathe
I roll face down
and claw the ground
send my umbilical
her earthen core
I breathe in grass
and shoot a blast
of pent up rage
down my umbilical mast
back deep into her molten well
She adds my rage
to the molten fire
and my hearts desire
This loving Earth
with great round girth
holds me, and tree
and so much more
my rage she sees
clawed to her crust
and sets me free, once more
I hope I didn’t burn the worms…
I heard you died in Tibet
no doubt dressed in black
the walls of your dispair
too high to climb
so your friends
played music around the walls
Your gums turned black
yet you smiled aware
your brothers death
your mothers health failing
you turned the haiku
for in a breath the senses
a candle in the window pane.
High upon the snows
high above the world you expired
falling into heaven
falling from the spire
exhausted flame around you
the smoke streams from black to white
I expected a pulling up
but you fell into the frozen sea.
Where one day
like Virgil you emerge
into the wood it was but but a scene
that you had taken me on
the seventh ring
I hear music
and the beating of my heart
you gave me the word
that had always existed
the poet that you were
and the light then emerged.
my plexus a mess.
i awoke in unfamiliar spaces.
pressing my eyes around
four walls of some
there hung a fervor of estrus in the atmosphere.
i felt every utterance that escaped
my ample tonguesnips.
they devoured the exhausted aftermath
of labored.. … . breaths
and sebacious finger.prints. … .. no.presses.
ten digits tune my facets.
i was alone, ardent in the glow that snuck into my oubliette.
the omnipresent peering of a sickle soft moon.
lunar silent stalker, you do what you must do.
want to scape a for you tonight
more; precise decimation.
you are a guided missile.
i am the film of mosquito wings
i am you, as neuroptera.
swoonly into your palms.
penned in the posture of your
I walked home alone
what if I turned tricks?
what if I licked my lips
holding hands with a demon
I no longer be sweet
I looked for ways home
would the heart of death
point the way
I spewed pomegranates picked by winged angels
see the future
if I told you
to be heavenly
I do not aspire to be the burning pit of Hades
I told you
living in a cave
is not cold
like heather on a hill
it rides the tiny hair on my legs
if you met me
walking down a dark alley
you walk on by, scared
take a chance
In a dream I wrote you a speech. I was important enough to be in the same room as you. No, I will be honest in the dream I was still not important. It was the fact that I only had my name which holds no weight that made me feel significantly more important to you in the midst of great names. In your presence was every reason to feel so much more significant because it was dreams of my freedom that kept you imprisoned for 27 years.
I looked at your face and it lit. Lit by dreams that have been fulfilled as you looked back at me. Your aspirations would be fulfilled through me, my friends and grow through our children. I would love to see you but I would rather I gave you rest so that you would greet one less person and have more rest so I visited you in a dream. I remained brilliant for at least 2 whole minutes. My heart spoke a fresh word because I had seen your face in the reality of my dream. I tried to read my speech but my words diminished because your person filled the room in a way that contrarily suddenly made me feel great.
What makes you so much greater is that our country is rich in resources and minerals. We have diamonds and mines rich with different kinds of gold as if it were all not enough, we have you. In that moment my heart realised your South Africanness makes us so much more affluent.
The name Mandela now robes the hills, the mountains, seas and islands of our country with a royal mantle of dignity and honours anyone who calls themselves South African. Your name adorns our many coloured flag with admiration. Your name is no lesser currency or wealth than the gold and minerals of our land.
The children covered by your 46664 campaign will benefit not only for themselves but their children’s children also. You gave us a future. By your life you lifted the lid that kept us in captivity in the land our predecessors had once freely grazed their cattle. By your carefully chosen words as you declared the new South Africa born you made us realise our own greatness. You challenged us to get out of our inferiority complexes’ and gave us permission to be brilliant.
I know there is a God because it had to take a superior-being to design such a master plan. We were a country that was so broken and desperate for a miracle. You are the perfect miracle at 90 you still amaze us.
Last year in the 90 minutes for Mandela, I wrote a poster hoping the camera man might put it on TV but decided to etch it in my dreams. It reads; “you have shown us how great we can be. My gift to you is that you will not be the last great South African because there is nothing enlightening about shrinking back.”