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,
but I cannot sleep.

The trees whisper outside,
the wind howls softly
both beckoning me,

"Sleep, sleep
Come play with us on the breeze,
in the night sky.
Sleep.
We are waiting."

I struggle with seduction,
my eyes coated with molasses,
my head filling with sand.

I am not ready.

The moon waterfalls
through my window and
paints silhouettes upon
phantom clouds;
she is smiling at me.
"Sleep, sleep,"
she coos as her
children laugh lightly
around her,

"Come laugh with us in the clouds,
in the night sky.
Sleep.
We are waiting."

The crickets caress
their violins as
the 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,
darkness clings to my honeyed eyes,
my sandy head dissolves
into a pillow beach.

 

 

cycle 2