These are the Open Arms

By Cherbo Geeplay You woke me up when I was dead, teaching the night stars wantonly to obey the Atlantic; then slashed my arteries in flight to Lake Piso, humbling its boundaries, before fusing them calmly to a gel. When the elders speak in parables, it is a mix of pepper soup which the fufu welcomes and surrounds. As the deer is trapped in the undergrowth, so does it wait to be strapped. —These are the open arms to the farms, mucking the deserted mansions decked in chocolate nuts, covered in honey; the lost spectacles of yesterday is now over. Once gowned with cluttered cow-webs and peppered with shrubs, this, before the revival of the grimy walls, serenade and greened with lilies whose aroma calls from a hundred miles to the carpenter —the tool man and his bride waiting to be announced as the sun swell the hilltops, smiling to the boats sailing on smooth tides. ll Moving quietly to fair waves, the clouds crushed, hovers, washing the mud away, freeing her from the rocks, bathing the earth and taking away the dust disguised as chaffs. the yacht’s inviting voice is heard throttling along—between hearty murmurs, chuckling to the weaving currents, curving the Atlantic surf, dancing fervidly, where the fires meet the pits of burning woods. The hearth in a melody on the placid shores of Sinkor, intimately as Monrovia grins to the Atlantic. lll Bewitched, racing to the beaches is a sweetening of the surf stones. The shells humbled under the rocks. In trance, the turtles are running with the whales, the currents, silvery, the smell of saltwater overpowering, yet elegant. Your slender sailing finger rubbing my rough ankles bring comfort. —You woke me up when I was dead, teaching the night stars wantonly to obey the Atlantic Bay, like seashells humbled under the rocks. Copyright 2018, Adelaide Literary, NY