A zig of happiness sparked the upper peninsulas
Of my wildebeest heart, a mere tich.
Could that teensy beginning shake my
Anger, which I had determinedly
Held onto for three weeks longer
Than anyone sane should have?
Come on, the spark said, laughing. Come
And play. We can be mad tomorrow.
I was not in the least bit tempted.
Stubbornness held me fast.
I refused her offer, the lifeline
She was giving me. I ignored the
Light, and held on to my
Enmeshed hurt feelings,
Holding onto my rage
As a shield, afraid of whom I
Might become without her.
Categories:
peninsulas, anger, introspection, self,
Form: Free verse
No healthy humane man
of mature integrity
is a disenchanted island.
No individual is entirely orphaned.
Even an island has an associated understory,
below water's surfing surface
lie deeply rooted
anciently fertile connections.
And above water's surface
birds migrate outdoor voices
and digestive tracts
and trends
visit,
co-invest regenerativity
of ocean tides
and wind storms.
Those who celebrate only their autonomous island-ness,
are those who do not actively include
how we already live as multicultural peninsulas
leading back to mainland ancient healthy multicultures
and leading forward
to where we can once again
applaud diversely landscaped roots
fertile soil and soul migrations
visitors of nutritiously remembering curiosity
co-invested leaders in courageous fertile multi-solidarity
on this one planet island
Earth revolving within an interdependent sanctuary orbit
of synergetic understory,
Milky Way of warm wet soiled and souled
enchanting
surfing maternal womb memories
of ocean tides
as wind storms.
Categories:
peninsulas, earth, grandmother, health, language,
Form: Political Verse
red sun in the water
long islands narrow
peninsulas
what is standard freedom
midnight stretches to a
hammock well rounded
woman staring
i dont have a room
for tonight
Categories:
peninsulas, allegory,
Form: I do not know?
He got on the train at
52nd street. I was already
sitting on the chilly blue seats
with my niece who pulled on
my curly black hair, trying to
get my attention when it was
stolen by him.
With the sun dirty dancing on
his face, I saw him, a man,
so striking, so beautiful he was
his disease, his strength
his strength, his confidence
his confidence, his beauty
his beauty intoxicating.
I wanted to kiss the
blotches of his skin-
the shapes of peninsulas
on his hands, Australia
around his nose, Africa
on his eyes, America
around his lips-
where melanin used to be.
Though I would have given
a little of my melanin to
cure his incurable disease,
he didn't need it. For so many,
outside appearance intertwines
with beauty. He had more depth,
his disease doesn't define him.
I wanted to kiss the
mahogany color of his skin,
smell the butterscotch on his
lips, delve into his mind probably
so rich of diamonds and gold,
he's a remedy for my shallowness,
the train comes to a stop. We smile
at each other as he gets off.
Categories:
peninsulas, beauty,
Form: Ode