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Bricelyn Stermer Poem
String my wires, tune me up.
Feel my curve under your arm.
I can play any way you want.
But you have to want it bad enough to let go, to let it flow,
through you, through me,
to that place where words run dry,
and the music, the resonance of heart and soul, drums out the groove,
that individual beat that all sway to.
So play me baby.
Let me feel it.
That sweet rift, that soulful rhythm.
Can this be real? Our infusion?
Can you match my energy?
All plugged in and ammped up,
distortion echoing in your guts,
fingers hammering up and down my spine,
chords filling those empty places with soul.
Are you extraordinary enough to tune this body and match our rhythms?
Can you find the groove that infuses?
Copyright © Bricelyn Stermer | Year Posted 2005
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Details |
Bricelyn Stermer Poem
Babies having babies.
Little woman cradling small heads and tiny hands before the maiden time has
passed.
The pools of my soul cry out that she has not tasted, nor felt enough of her own.
That she has not lived the maiden's season long enough.
That the seeds of her flesh are being laid in ground not fully cultivated, and
turned by her own hands.
Will such ground teem with the nutrients such small things need?
Is her youth ready for planting, or to be rooted?
She will make a beautiful and magical mother.
In her eyes I see the fire that understands a child.
So I inhale the news and exhale the bittersweet air that makes the mark of her
flesh come with the cost of a woman's sacred time.
The time...
Of Becoming.
Copyright © Bricelyn Stermer | Year Posted 2005
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