You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2008.
is the burning light, the sun that gives the moon light
is the roundness, the blackness your eyes the darkness of the night
dark night blue sari, with its diamond-like sequins
are the stars you see in the middle of the night
Within the garden, the brightness of the flower is that your beautiful smile
the blue seashore with its waves is that your heartbeat
the chirping of this bird is that your voice
a young lady you are
I fell in love with you
the traditions you are speaking of,
why do we need these
do progressive people have traditions?
I will come with your elders’ agreement
we will do the traditions later
until then I will wait
for a kiss on mine cheek
Fast, I must write these words down
Find a paper unused, abused
None that has been pricked of pen’s blood
Scurry, I must loosen these letters from mine tongue
Save me, take these foreign puzzles piece them, make sense of them
Provide me an explanantion of my insanity, medicate this open wound, in which my life, my words spill out from
Hold that thought, so I can interrupt our lovemaking with this poem
Yes that’s right. If I may, yes that could be it, I want you to stop and listen
Listen to this.
This book has soul
Born of bark, of roots
of the leaves that shade us
of the wood that feeds our fires
This book has soul
It speaks the truth
But spreads the lies
It sleeps with winners
But courts the liars
This book has soul
Born of this writer’s writ
These letters, those scribbles
that bleeds the ink
Black and blue of the pen
This book has soul
Drawn upon these pages
It draws a sigh
It breathes an anguish
It takes the soul in which the reader reflects
