"I write from the core-
A mythic- street voice imprinted
From lived truth.
Shawdows and light footpaths walks with
Me;
I turn experiences into pulsation
Mental image into momentum,
Silence into something that
Share ideas.
My lines carry fortitude and grace,
Syllabary rising from the everyday
Rhythm shaped by subsistence,
Imagery born from what the
World trained me.
I am a writer of volume,
A poet of emotional transparency,
Building architecture from pain,
Alchemy from the imperfect,
And fire from the spaces I refused to fold.
This is my terrain-
Where honesty stands towering,
Where spirit threads through the grout,
Where every poem is a step evolved
From everything I've lived and everything
I'm becoming."
When she crossed her legs,
electric silk
slipped over thigh orientated beguilements.
Her shoulders were disrespectful.
The massed pipes and drums
of her braided hair played upon my mind.
I was alone for a thousand years
drinking her in.
I wanted to ask her
but what?
Besides it was then she looked my way
with a cool ‘muck-you’ stare.
Back at the hotel,
my reflected sun-slapped face,
seemed as unstable as sand,
yet the syllabary of her thighs
had so much more to say to me.
When she crossed her legs,
an electric silk slipped over the jewel-studded sides
of a blushing chameleon.
Sand clung to her thighs,
a tapestry of flaxen crumbs on amber skin.
Thigh orientated beguilements
spread their plush landscapes.
Her shoulders were disrespectful –
I liked that. The massed pipes and drums
of her braided hair marched out of sight -
muted instruments of mutual destruction.
I imagined an emerald turtle born from a native legend
lived in her watchful heart.
I was alone for a thousand years
drinking her inward.
I wanted to ask her
but what?
I guessed that whatever her answer,
there would be no sign of small pink wings
and cutesy fairy smiles.
Besides it was then she looked my way
with that cool ‘-you’ stare.
When I got back alone to the hotel,
not having said a word to her,
I looked at my reflected sun-slapped face,
it was as unstable as dry sand,
yet the syllabary of her thighs
had so much more to say
as my face fell apart onto the wet floor-tiles.
© a day ago
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