I fight hard
To defy slumber’s grasp,
Head tilting, nodding
Between wakefulness and sleep.
My focus hangs in the balance,
For it is the hour of devotion.
Tonight,
I dare not yield to the body's whim;
Kneeling, I begin the Lord’s prayer,
But the words stumble.
Yet I regain my track—
Resolute, I must persevere.
Swiftly, I reach for my Bible,
Turning to the Psalms:
"He who keeps Israel
Shall neither slumber nor sleep."
The verse echoes in my mind;
I cannot surrender now.
But this gentle breeze, soft and cool,
Fans the embers of my fatigue.
My eyelids grow heavy,
My knees begin to buckle;
Slowly, my head lowers,
Resting upon the Holy Book.
Angels ascend and descend
Upon Jacob’s ladder,
Cherubim and Seraphim
In celestial minstrelsy.
Heaven’s peace envelops me,
And I begin to snore heavily.
Till dawn filters through the blinds,
Sun rays pierce into my eyes
I awaken, still kneeling by the bed—
Still praying to the Lord
You’re that girl at the party
The one who I see coming
Who’s going to want to talk about
Slavery or banjo or climate change
I’ve been waiting hoping you’d be here
It’s been a nice time drinking my wine
Talking about what’s on Netflix
Like most people here want to do
But not you
You’ve been studying the movement
Of Minstrelsy across the seas
In the Eighteen fifties
As you proceed to describe how
A mother’s daughter might or mightn’t
Be sold with her at the option of the buyer
I drink in your dyed-scarlet hair and your tie dyed dress
Your fingers move across the strings
Like a spider’s legs I am not doing something new
You say but you are original unique in my experience
I can’t explain what you mean in the world
To say you’re an angel or goddess
Doesn’t do you justice
Angels aren’t as sad or angry as you
And so don’t retain the real essence of beauty
You’re the messenger of truth
Beauty however black however dark
My emerald rose
I imbibe your radiant soul
February 16, 2020
this anonymous weaver spins his written tapestry
to acknowledge your ninetieth year
no matter this author unknown who deftly weaves
(for pete sakes) with english poetry
which rhyming threads fire away
(from axons to neurons)
at warp speed way out there
attempting to coalesce into some semblance
of comprehension from non other than me
a veritable stranger,
who considers your a folk icon
that hoop fully destiny will spare
until one grain of sand takes thee
to eternal blue skies astride
astral throne like king henry
with minstrelsy folks housed in a place
like my father’s mansion poised far and near
intent to discern the adroit banjo finger picking
plucky talent admission for all – free
whose eponymous trademark
je nais sais quois legendary voice
rings like a bell in the air.
You are not alone
You found me
love me
with the words
with minstrelsy
You gave me breath
Fresher than
The morn’s dew
with the words
with minstrelsy
your simple manner
touched my feeling
stroked my soul
with the words
with minstrelsy
though i whispered
inaudible
my dreams werefollowing
till you know
with the words
with minstrelsy
without cue
i command
weary i find you without
Someday
I want you to understand
you are not alone
~ sukmawati komala ~
(c) 14 february 2013
Mirror melted, and I enclosed in solid space of ice
Intersperse images, direlict of other's maiming vice.
Mimicry is not a benign deceit as you would think
Incontestable illusions brought my race to this brink
Cramped with penury and self mutilations. The image
Rinsed in the shadowy world of water, watch it change
Yesterday's victim for the victimizer. I feel a strange
Intertwining of silhouettes, a sinister string, a damage
Suspiciosly hard to explain in the colonizer's world
My usefulfulness replaced by my uselessness, the shell
Upstaged, left in sand's silence for shimmering of pearl
Rude those conquistadores settling in the benign hell
Dangerous not to them who make us unreal in the real
Essence of fire, and by sly ambiguities cruelly conceal
Racial meanings, except where minstrelsy glimpse desire.
I love the songs of working people played
In cabins and at dances, and along
Highways where the vagabonds wander by,
Unchanged since days of early English song.
The English, Celtic minstrelsy can never die
As long as mandolins and fiddles cry
The ancient ballads of true love turned wrong—
Of God—and ghosts—and deaths and birth,
Wherever people and their folklore throng.
Out on the sea (or prairies) where the songs are made
Of people close to water, dust and earth:
Elements that give music its true worth
As folk song singers ply their timeless trade.
Sweet now the songs of day shall come
Like honey melted to be free
Of birds delicious tongue
Sweet now the sunflower's golden eye
Eastward turns to see
What choirs from orion hum
This sweet blend of minstrelsy
It is spring time on the cracking ice
Spring where the mountains weep
For more time to hug the white kiss
Of sleep. Spring dances in the trees
And on the lap of erotic seas
O spring is come
Except where soldiers hearts are numbed
For comrades fallen there.
The unsung heroes cannot hear
The song of children play
Nor see where dawn with shaken hair
Dance from the pole away
Across the ecsatic bar
Of a raucus sea.
Spring walks voluptuos here
Flaunting her breast against a soldier's tear.
Within the dreaming wells of consciousness,
Lie hid the mighty Truths of unknown God.
Behind the veils,material and dense,
Dwell many Holy Wonders
of great Power, Beauty, Wisdom, Love:
Divinest Magic of a vibrant Life
in endless bliss;
So full of Witchery and deep delight.
And when the Heart of Man awakes,
The Heavens open wide,
And sails away on fervid wings,
or swoons in Ecstacy.
The Music of the Spheres behind the veil
brings visions too Divine to tell,
It's melodies ring out Within,
With sounds of Minstrelsy and Rhapsody
In descant of Remembrance.
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