Behold, my eyes, a closed frontier
a love both gay and gay in nature
in my sex, I feel as a squatter
waiting for eviction
Behold, my heart, a douse of fear
a love forbidden by the savior
a sin drowned in holy water
and holier-than-thou in jurisdiction
but oh, even as I cross that road
into a safer pasture,
will my veins, upon the first kiss
of same-scented lips, implode?
or will i somehow wicked grow
into a sickly hunger
devouring joy till none exists
and I soon miss a tender doe?
if I could be a woman, and i be loved by one as well!
if I could be a man, without a lust that damns to hell!
if I could be ANYTHING...that brings the inside out to see
then maybe I won't be
a closed frontier
a stone by nature
alone.
maybe...
maybe I can be
as glorious as the love I feel
for this instant
for this moment
for that movie
for these marks on my skin
for ears,
for navels,
for nature,
for God
for you.
YOU, LOVE, AND GOD'S LIBERATING SCAR
Ever remember,
You’re the child of God’s grace:
The devil’s desire:-
Satan craves God’s goods:
Can’t steal, he seeks to adopt
All confused navels:-
Navels can’t erase
The scars of their beginnings:
Heaven can’t be hell:-
Hate can’t adopt love:
So, slap Satan in his face,
And walk away free.
You are God’s glory;
A liberated navel:
A keloid of love:-
WAITING IN LIMBO
Sitting on the muddy banks
Of faded realities,
Lingering in the spaces of time,
Lost souls struggle:
Seeking another Dreamer.
Powering pawn brokers,
Tighten their mogering grasp
Beyond the setting sun;
Leaving frailed victories festering
And waning in winds of change:-
White opiates coagulate,
Flowing black dreams
Of mesmerized minds;
Oblivious to fading freedoms
Chained and rotting away:-
As time and life sag on,
Let’s not be as a drooping bosom
Sagging due to incised-bleeding;
Rather, let’s be as pregnant wombs
Breaking waters of liberating justice:-
Indeed, let’s scream renewed life,
Nourished keloid-ancestral-navels,
Waxed and hardened by sarcasm
Against the trumping-musky rhetoric
Streaming against democratic equity:-
Glory be to God,
Moms are the laborers of God:
Praising God for Moms:-
Without their labor,
We would not be in this world:
All praises to Moms:-
Praise God for navels,
Keeping Moms with us always:
Happy Mother’s Day!
(APROPOS OF THE MANY OF US: THE GREEN VILLAGE)
PROLOGUE:
Some don’t quite get it…
Life will reveal it to you:
Mothers are of God.
A
Keeping hope alive…
Strong stalwart sable sisters:
These are our mothers.
B
Ebony beauty…
Sustaining us in all things:
God bless our Mothers.
C
Beautiful sable souls…
Audaciously bold in faith:
Praise God for Mamas.
D
Ploughing up our hope…
Tears nourishing our courage:
Moms cultivate men.
E
God’s labouring wombs…
Moulding navels of His love:
Mothers…God’s angels…
EPILOGUE:
Happy Mothers’ Day…
Queens of our eternity:
Navel giving souls…
What if we were lusty song,
sacred litany?
What if...
What if we were sensual dance,
grace filled choreography?
What if we were organic energy?
Naked branched and rooted trees
joining navels
from native mother wombs
to nurture Mother seeds
down through speciating generations
up for regeneration.
What if we became trusted time
for reorganizing space?
Irreplaceable humored climates
recreating sacredly organic humidity.
I am not your sad place
and not gladly mine
with responsibility to displace
or authority to replace.
I am not my fading face.
We are designed to fall apart,
even with unlikely careful wear.
So what is this time
of my planned obsolescence?
No refuge from surrender
to daily worn-out deaths.
Not yet refused to rise this day
ready for each dusk
without anticipation
for love or lust
rain or dust
win or bust.
It's just us
wearing down the best we can.
What if...
What if we were each a song
resonating one pure measure
of integrity's longest line dance?
What if we were timeless energy
resonating freestyle
mind embodiedness?
i
pot bellied boasting navels
shiny round ball bearing stomachs
haloing out of diesel grime
over alls and silver buttoned railway
insignias
these long waxed pig curled mustache workmen
rotated their lives between shifts of day and night
with metal lunch boxes and coffee tin flasks
strolling main road home or to that gleaming rail
that provided a town’s livelihood
my grandfather worked that rail and my father too
providing me with the means
to take that broke back-heart break scenic route
out of town for good and forgetting
until now
ii
coming back everything changed
and the fat men were now old and wiry
sitting on subsidized railway porches
looking on main road maybe thinking rail
going to that station I found it desolated
and the once shimmering humming rail
all rusted up and silent
I touched it and imagined the once proud spirit of it
corroding away as the blue collar folks on the porch
all behind me now
a memory of blue sky
a nebulous cloud haloing
darkness before me
mystery awaits the plunge
I peer sightless into dark
roots tendril to me
a grasping sight, intriguing
my golden curls dangle downward
imbalance betrays
I teeter on the abyss
enraptured, sound echoing
back lit baby fall
seek the navels ending point
heroine of day dreams, topple
leave the precipice
seek the joy of choice and fall
now, peeked, plunge, now called, now fall
What I would write based on picture 1 for my contest
horrible tasting gum, lindsey lohan’s
wretched lipstick choice, jack-o-lanterns,
fat tabby cats (with stripes), monarch
butterflies, chester cheetah (with spots),
nicki minaj sporting her orange weave,
johnny rotten seemingly having washed
his head in orange sewage, orange
creamsickle, sweet potato fries, guitar
amplifier company, a basketball,
pumpkin spice votive candles, the
color of a “high” supposed terrorist-
attack level in the US circa bush &
now phased out (4/27/11), cattleya
aurantiaca, navels & blood oranges
(amidst 10 zillion other kinds).
BEYOND FAITH
) ) ) )
)
. . .
at twilight’s edge
love crochets a soft, trailing lace
at twilight’s edge…
late dusk fondles her angel cheeks
tracing navels of our first start
beyond faith as one, we shall part
at twilight’s edge...
all rights reserved
©rondeau
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
contest: Brian Strand's You Chose Again
written by: nette onclaud
The clothes that I'll describe, my age I'll surely reveal.
Recalling clothes worn to school back then now seems surreal!
Not to sport the latest fad, you weren't one of the 'ins'.
Your were a social outcast committing beau monde sins!
The gals wore saddle shoes and fancy poodle skirts,
And instead of a blouse, one of dad's old cast-off shirts.
Girls had to take sewing classes in home economics.
The feed-sack outfits they made were fit only for the comics!
Boys wore loathsome knickers or shapeless overalls,
Or squeaky corduroy trousers slinking along the halls.
High-top boots with a knife were worn by lads off the farm.
Nowadays, the knife would cause the principal some alarm!
Girls couldn't wear jeans regardless of weather conditions.
Dresses and itchy stockings were worn to maintain traditions.
Seniors wore corduroy skirts and pants colored gold,
With pithy notes scribbled all over - a sight to behold!
Today, boys wear droopy pants, the seat nigh the ankles.
Girls wear low-slung jeans baring navels that really rankles.
They say they're just expressing their individualities.
(I suppose we did the same, expressing our personalities!)
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