Running through the forest on feet of clay
wet to the skin claiming every animal heartbeat
as my own
imbued in soil thirsting like a wolf
the goatskin drum beats, on and on
Wild berries and wild boars,
a mystical sun pulsing like an escutcheon badge
shielding my heart
I savor each moment, as if it were my last tryst
with destiny ;
Cupping the earth with my bare hands I inhale
the ironed nickel with all its liquid outer core
Night arrives and as those little silver things jostle
in the sky, fighting for their right to be light
I race, rush and hurry onward
while the goatskin drum beats, on and on and on.
By: Mystic Rose April 13, 2022
She had many sad stories,
they were filed away, labeled,
color coded;
tales presented as apocryphal bibles.
He would listen as she pulled them out
of her droning breast,
intoned then as if reciting
poetry to an acolyte sponge.
Her stories festered the air
with pitiful sorrows,
scratched yet more stigmata
upon hide-bound woes.
White paper moths would fly up to his eyes
as if to illustrate her narratives;
tissue thin, he would see within them
the many skeletons of her living ghosts,
bones free now of all minerality,
fish-wet and wriggling
in the gel of a long preserved plasma.
He often closed his ears
to make his lips numb. The nasal gnarl
of her broken voice
coated his tongue with sticky commiserations,
a jejune sympathy
that had the texture of mildewed goatskin.
Her words mechanically ticked off
every injustice and persecution
ever heaped upon a martyred mind.
Eventually though, her deep well of mopes
dried to a blubber of sighs.
Then all those emaciated moths
would flutter around her
anointing her echoing skull
with a seeping urine-like substance
she called love.
Born in a country that is a paradise,
Free to worship God as we please,
Free to express our mind by any means,
Determined to foster democracy for all.
Taught the value 'everyone counts',
No matter what creed, color, or race,
Lending a hand is what we are about,
Living at peace with neighborly love.
Enjoying our rich, unique, and diverse culture,
Feasting on its smorgasbord of aphrodisiac delights,
Possessing a rhythm that can not be beaten,
Pulsating sounds of goatskin drums evoking dance.
Learned from our forefathers the wisdom of life,
Practice dedication, sacrifice, and courage with love,
Is the key to open doors which leads to success,
Who am I? Bahamian, that is who I am.
Broken clocks with wooden blocks
And the power is out again.
Cold burning hands lifted up with a little
sacrificial parenthetical nonsense
"Yuletide noreaster winding down"
Of course it will be cold - it always is.
And there will be red numerals flashing
in the morning.
Isaac is having his nightmares again,
Feeling like a tied down goatskin.
maybe it is just that Old Testament slang.
Some say single syllable saliva.
Some say killing time on Mount Moriah.
Now a fifth of gin in the pillowtop linen,
May be worse a sin than to kill kin.
And the blankets are tangled thickets,
The alarm clock is tuned to AM radio.
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