Bàbá,
what eyes do you have of a big bigger sort,
which portaled my entryway into the blindnesses of our Ilé,
wherefrom I made to look to see with your primordial eyes?
Bàbá,
why is your soul watery,
salty like the tears of baba nlá bàbá àgbà’s father:
he took his death by the hand,
and didn't let it die cheap!
Bàbá,
stream of my consciousness,
transfused like forced labour into the nerves of my armory,
ready with iron fire and thunder, ready with my fight for their fight, fist for fist.
My irin ajo is now steeped with the signposts of the visions I saw in your eyes.
Give me the feet of water when my irin ajo is on water;
give me the wings of af?´f?´ when my irin ajo is beyond this il?;
give me the stride of love when my irin ajo crosses the paths of good men;
my children are at hand;
they come like freedom, up my soul and down my eyes:
omijé, running from the stories of the barreled gun,
from the mirrors that cursed our reflection with greed...
my children are coming,
free, and towards freedom.
Coagulation Starter – 3-28-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coagulation
Finally, my blood began to coagulate,
Flowing like insomnia
Between the wounds of dawn and dusk
When wounded memories drip pools of enigmas,
Fleeting gossamers of absolutes,
Drying into sticky puzzles.
Bloodied dreams wander labyrinths,
With no exits,
Leaving spatters of millstones
For ruminating relics to follow,
Thin images of wispy encounters
Fade
In lost chords of words,
Ghosts gel from gashes.
Impostors of reality
Spit rebellious clots into ruminating plateaus,
And phantoms,
To leave a crimson stain
On unwelcomed daylight and martyred Mondays
Stirring penance from clotting confessions.
Tourniquets unbound,
Veins transfused congeal in coalescence
As platelets and corpuscles gather yesterday
Into the flow, a cadence, blood pressure restored,
The pulse of reminiscence throbs
Memoirs course through venous vessels,
Then seek a place
To dream.
You can’t teach poetry pro forma
it’s the effort of a fool
You can’t gain sagacity from a book
or by the golden rule
You can’t be what you haven’t lived
the safety net misleads
You can’t bleed with another’s blood
transfused each phrase deceives
The dance floor or the balcony
true seekers get to choose
And write those words their pain has forged
—that dilettantes misuse
(Dreamsleep: April, 2023)
anchored
by
the Holy Spirit
yet
rooted
in reality
on display
infused
then
transfused
with
a separate
creative
vision
blending
internal
sensation
this anchored
perception
extrapolated
in
the
simplified
patterns
of poiema
itself
BEYOND THE REAL
yet
rooted in reality
on display
infused
with the subliminal
a
transfused but
a separate
internal creative
vision
blending
external sensation
this anchored
perception
extrapolated&
evident
orchestrating
the
simplified patterns
of beauty itself
exploring
the dramatic
subordinate
yet serving
to
enliven&
exhilarate
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
A glossy warmth is forming
On the meadow.
Shallow morning air
Transfixed thru every eye.
From the memory of the sun’s blood,
Life is transfused.
Bird and fowl
Share a common breath,
Falling into the day.
Where softness stays
This day remains.
Like the feathered touch
Of an old idea,
This place, this time,
Made for bigger hearts
Than mine..
Her back to me, she gazed transfixed
at the poplars through the window.
Should I intrude? Then she turned full,
full of tears.
I'd seen her before, masked and tubed,
transfused, others striving for her;
no expression, without outlook,
so dormant.
Now the May morning overwhelmed
her. Trees last seen bare and dormant,
so green, so vibrant, so vivid,
now alive.
There beside her a new person.
“Never has it been so good to
be alive.” And to know it with
tears of joy.
How could she give thanks enough for
so much intensive skill and care?
We praised God and blessed a new life
gifted to her.
Inner child, forever confused?
Puzzled by alcohol misused.
His angry dad when so infused,
Did with hand, belt and bat abused.
Inner child, cruelly accused,
With arms and hips then deeply bruised.
His ‘self’ reduced and made diffused,
Mental pain left talents unused.
Inner child, who was once enthused,
Broken by violence, excused.
Mind distorted by truth refused,
Shrouded by lies mum circumfused.
Inner child is with hope transfused
And, by sound help, self-love infused.
Where visceral doubt, once oozed,
This inner child now disabused.
(Disabuse: To persuade someone that a belief is mistaken)
Dedicated to the Rev. Antony Barraclough, whose spiritual guidance and humanity, enabled me to find hope and peace among the living.
I stray onto sacred ground,
The resting place of souls by gone,
Solace is what I seek,
But there is no solace,
No succor to be found,
Not here among broken, fallen stones,
Nor bent, wilting trees,
I search for you under the moon,
Thoughts of you race through my mind,
Feelings better left unspoken,
This was our place,
The fertile earth from which the black rose of our love took seed,
We exchanged blood amidst these graves,
Transfused our darkest thoughts and dreams,
It is here too that our love died,
A fitting place for something that is no more,
Danced with
Conceived and born
Sung to and nursed
On a downy soft quilt
Transfused with
Vibrations of Ellington
Basie, Crosby, Waller
Goodman and Armstrong
Skyrocketed spiritually
By Kern and Carmichael
Porter, Gershwin and Berlin
Thanks Mom and Dad
For the beautiful music
We made together
On that bed of downy softness
My own intent, transfused with some regret,
adventures teaming forth, conditions set
still rally hope, a virtuous trial's inept,
so faith in love begins a journey's kept!
Almost consigned to destiny, so swept
with innuendo's challenging's accept.
I gather strength to tally not those left,
the footpath winding onward steers my depth!
And I am overdrawn with feeling's cleft,
the music of my longing seems my debt.
Exaggerated thronging riles to wept,
a loneliness, a wronging, yet but yet ~
Thy love, my love at losing, Soul's concept
filled nought to grieving's choosing . . . as to death!
You hold her for ransom…
She knows not of your guile
Too young and too in love to see through your smile
Played as an instrument while you write the score
You buy her affections and drag her heart on the floor
Innocent and vulnerable, like clay in your hands
I silently watch…what chance do I stand?
Because of her I still let you into our lives
Still amazed at your ability to manipulate and lie
Though I’ve tried to include you year after year
You still whisper darkness into her tiny ears
Despite my conviction she ends up confused
Your worst qualities into her fragile mind, transfused
Though I can’t keep her from you (if only I could…)
Know that my love for her will not be misunderstood
For it is not fickle, flickering, or vain
And over the years it shall not wane
Unlike your ugly desperate attempts to deceive
Which soon she will see through and no longer believe,
My love is much stronger and will carry her through
For it is unconditional, and you never knew
How to love someone in this unselfish way
So go on with your ruse;
I can see you beginning to fade away.