Prelude
to Descent
"The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence
moves too...Boldness has genius, power and magic in it."
xxx-
Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
Atop
an island that just fits her feet,
the artist surveys the black sea and smiles
though no exposed soul lives where she can see.
No bird cries among clouds
of hematite
heavy, backlit by an insipid glow;
Below, the sea is paralyzed
and waiting
for the sharpened artist to decide.
She
is naked with her hands on bruised hips,
bearing white scars on her belly
and breasts.
She pulls back her sore shoulders and feels
her heart serve
its purpose and the vibrations
ascending through her soles and her heels,
yet she smiles. She sees the black sea is ripe
and inhales; committed,
in the artist dives.
Meeker and Wistfuller
than
before, Flora knows she is lost
having been popped and blown wanderlust
by
a lusty wind. Flora is humble
as she tumbles fecund seed over 'chute
for
she has surrendered to the design
within her, to the pleasure engendered
by
being plucked by such hungry fingers
(Zephyr, that gent, with a sweet-tooth
for youth).
From
this violent zeal that transformed the nymph
flows a symphony of woman, creative
and strong. Flora resonates this ancient song.
Pregnant with purpose,
she mourns her nascent bud
her home, its steadfast roots and solid ground
but delights in her Divine Odyssey
nebulous and free; Flora yearns to
bloom.
The Education of a Rock
A
large rock settles
in a swift river
washed over by life
but not swept
away:
its movements minute
and years in process
Its
porous surface
absorbs some water
which takes bits of stone.
The rock
is changing
though it's hard to see;
Learning takes some time.
Chasing a Winter Moon
Corseted
in black and cut into the sky,
Luna lassoes a soft poet wondering by
on
his winter walk seeking an inspiration.
Captured and tamed, he throbs in anticipation
of
connecting with the Divine made creamy flesh,
the heavy orb swelling above
his dreamy head.
He reaches to finger the bright edge of her rib,
to unlace
and impale her with his silver nib.
But
this stony Lady, spread white on ebony,
turns her cheek and flashes teeth
at the agony
she inspires in minds; she has no intention
to provide an
end to her careless seduction.
She
compels the lost poet through icy space veiled
with his frozen breath. It
is he who is impaled
by Luna's perfection; his eyes have widely grown:
black
pools waxing white and undone in the snow.
A Decadent Denouement
Flawless,
taut and tasty,
the Beautiful flourish here
in wind, water and sun
on
shores built upon a violence
now serene and ghostly
in its slumber.
The
Beautiful are blissful
in their abundance
and the sweet unknowing
of
the sated.
To them, suffering is foreign,
and Mother Pele is a myth.
They
bake, they fornicate,
they luxuriate in sand and foam
and feast upon the
fruits
of all their fantasies
whose discarded seeds
penetrate the
volcanic soil
which excites the Earth Woman
and awakens her hunger
for
sin and sweetmeats.
The
Beautiful are ignorant
of her parting mouth below
which reveals rocky
teeth
poised to skewer succulent bodies;
These decadent beauties are busy
twirling in the indulgent sun,
panting, pulsing and wet.
Earth Woman's
red lips swell with her impending flow
which is pregnant with the desire to
consume.
Fatigued from all their feasting,
the Beautiful float into dreams
like
feathers into fire.
What a befitting end to such a lovely fete.
My Grandmother's Earlobe
My
grandmother's shade still lingers in shadows,
in the thump in the closet as
her bag hits the floor.
I open the door and find more than paltry remains
of a long life lived antiquating in the paper bag:
I pluck through random
photos and fermented perfume,
through tarnished coins and the chaff of harvested
baubles
to find a pair of golden earrings and hear
the faint resonance
of her oven-warmed drawl,
dawlin'...dawlin'... gimme some shugah...
I
tumble the earrings in the palm of my hand
and remember in color how they
pierced her flesh,
her earlobe plumping 'round the gold edges,
plump like
her belly and bosom,
her earlobe like a warm grape drying in the sun.
How
alive and fleshy it felt between my forefinger and thumb,
and I marveled at
its softness as though lobe had become suede
from years of fondling by little
fingers and by wind, water and sun
in gardens of fat fruits and tomatoes ripening
on window sills
and the fragrance of basil on my fingers after rubbing a leaf...
and
here, this bit of metal, light in my palm,
weighs heavy on my brow and chest
as I ponder
the flesh that once encircled it, is now dust in the earth,
and
I can almost smell her in the basil-suffused tomato sauce
which satisfies
my youthful flesh, and hear her
in the steam, dawlin'... dawlin'...
eat somethin'... eat somethin'...
Night Transition
I am painfully tired,
ÊÊ Êbut I cannot sleep.
The
trees whisper outside,
ÊÊ Êthe wind howls softly
ÊÊ Êboth beckoning me,
"Sleep,
sleep
Come play with us on the breeze,
in the night sky.
Sleep.
We are waiting."
I struggle
with seduction,
ÊÊ Êmy eyes coated with molasses,
ÊÊ Êmy head filling with sand.
I am not ready.
The moon waterfalls
ÊÊ Êthrough my window and
ÊÊ
Êpaints silhouettes upon
ÊÊ Êphantom clouds;
ÊÊ Êshe is smiling at me.
"Sleep, sleep,"
ÊÊ Êshe coos as her
ÊÊ
Êchildren laugh lightly
ÊÊ Êaround her,
"Come laugh with us in the clouds,
in the night sky.
Sleep.
We are waiting."
The
crickets caress
ÊÊ Êtheir violins as
ÊÊ
Êthe night bird moans so sweetly,
"Sleep, sleep,
Come sing
with us
in the grass and trees,
in the night air.
Sleep.
We are
waiting."
As my body sleeps,
ÊÊ Êdarkness clings to my honeyed eyes,
ÊÊ
Êmy sandy head dissolves
ÊÊ Êinto a pillow
beach.