Fertile

The plants tell me I’m rain,
to wash away pain in the soul.
I fertilize its soil so
flowers of smiles can grow. 
I hold his head in my palms, 
and rake him like
gardeners rake zen:
in that silent place of soft 
darkness between star-songs
and the waking of trees I love him
like lavender loves bees, 
wildly primal, in humility 
we bow, your honor, we ask 
for nothing but a small plot 
to plant our seed.

chalkboard

The chalk was thick an’ dusty.
Words unravelling mystery behind
its suffocating cloud to be.

Like a painter to a canvas,
I’d gravel at her hands carving
history onto a faded board of green.

My heart sad-
the work disappears,
years of imagination erased.

The luckiest kid she picked
to take her erasers outside,
and dust them clean on
the rough, cold, concrete steps.

Clean air, sunshine,
the butterflies-
a real lesson on silence.

The day my heart leapt,
I walked for posterity and grace,
down the hallway.

The plastic bag brushed my leg,
and in dignity, I stepped out.

Latch.

The grass green, the sun so bright.
My eyes could not adjust to
the light, the moment.

The school dalmation was play-leaping ‘cross the field.
The horses soaking sun, ran wild to greet me.
In freedom, I heard the birds singing, “This is my song~”

I glanced into the bag of erasers
soaked with knowledge:
Of Martin Luther King, and photosynthesis,
Of stories and creative writing,
Of math problems and spelling bees,
All the mistakes forgiven-
the names on the board,
the days erased.

I felt the soft body of them with my fingers,
and coaxed the chalk dust of memory.

And,
Like a heart beat pounds to give breath,
I beat the erasers by might of muscles
from my mother’s ancestors to me,
watching the clouds of particled life
carry wind, and dancing.

I heard the drum then.

Erasing is a holy thing.
I spent the remaining years in school,secretly
biting all of the erasers off of my classmates pencils,
or breaking the teacher’s chalk,
just trying to make things permanent.

We, The People

we suppress ourselves
to depress ourselves
and we press ourselves
what good does it do?

we become a whine press
who get drunk on our
own sufferance. we lose
sight of ourselves, of who?

our Self is suffocated by our digression
we wander where it was we went wrong?
as if history and reflection could teach us
a lesson without a voice of praise or a song

of Celebration!  We, the People!

belong in poems of books
in languages We do not speak;
in colors on canvases,
on covers of magazines;

We belong in boxes in basements
for boredom to uncover
a treasure to discover,

We belong in the spaces between words
We are the gaps of last breaths taken

We are the people,
long awaiting a press of silence
and respect.

We are a people in
a lifetime of regret.

So we supress ourselves,
we depress ourselves,
and we press ourselves.
What good does it do?

We are a people of United Nations.
We are a people of  Red, White, and Blue!

Red for the Indians,
White for the Christians, and
Blue for the dead at large!

But We are Purples, Pinks, Yellows, Oranges, and Greens
and We are taking charge!!!

Ascending high above aggression,
We are treading down into the
deep deep oppression.

We are calling names of Truth.

We are cracking out of our old shells
to show how growth can be renewed.
We are placing Peace before Victory.
We are dancing in our garbs of pain,
and We are giving up our pleasure
for a place far better than fame.

We, The People who press on.

This is God (part 2)

it was the candle in glasses around river stones on a wood bed
the way you come and go
the wind moves me to tell me you’ve gone again
the wind carries you so

the truth eluded itself beyond pride
i cowered behind a blanket of God just to get past you
it was the Fool in you O Protector!
kachina tied you up, beat you under the blue moon.

so you fell in love with me and told the world in silence

this is God

Iridescent sparkles
scatter me stars
scatter me twinkling
of stolen breath
in freezing water
the midnight sun floating

Iridescence like
the inner lining of a lamb’s eye
snuffing sage in an abalone shell
the ever metamorphosing bubble
gleaming, bursting, ever moving

The iridescence of a prism heart
trusting the interference of Light,
the Living chatoyance.

Zazu Memory

I remember the guy who
climbed the palm tree
to shake us down some coconuts.

I walked up to that tree,
watched his big hands curl and cling to the sides of it,
his feet curve to its circumference.

He scaled the tree in a matter of seconds.

I heard deep, heavy cracks
as the fruit hit the ground,
a tiny hole in the shell.

We gathered around,
passing a coconut between
our thirsty mouths, smiling.

word quilting

crowns of spearmint and daisy
adorn your eagle totem

sweet scents of lavender and vanilla
fill the chest of your loving home

frankincense and myrrh form clouds
outlining angelic beings

arms outstretched, i call them here
in tongues of the unknown

i sing tsalagi songs to our ancestors
saying we have not forgotten you

we have not forgotten you
and they come to me wild in dream

*

my ankh broke below the space
leaving me a clay rainbow

the body separates from the mind
the grass stains my feet

as i played with the deer in the forest
i listened to whispering wisdom

of a worried mother wolfspider
carrying her unborn children upon her back

*

early morning my coffee grumbles
offering itself up to my happiness

while you lay sleeping
i quietly stir

in the scent of your neck
to hush my hungry hands

i am important to you
like the art you hang on your wall
and the repeating track in your heart

i lean on where you stand
but i can not follow
if i am to lead you there

look to the light
there is warmth like my arms
pressing outwards to keep you at bay

those eyes drag on like sleepless nights
when you’re away, keeping the locks
dead bolted against lovers alike

so, i walked right through
as transparent as balance
seeking what’s truer than true

then there was you
bright like beacons of pastel
drawn in joy across my face

under the moon, i saw the crows circling my dead heart.
across the water, i seemed so far away from it.

the lake was muddy from my tears
the dock rocked me but i didn’t blame you.

the wolves ran down from the mountains
surrounding me, howling
it is in the nature of things
and i thought this can’t,
this can’t be right

you left like a coward and
my heart is a fool

there are no words for a love with rules
and you didn’t even smell good

but those eyes, those eyes, those eyes they knew
god forbid the truth god forbid the truth

i can’t blame you and
i keep trying to cut the string
but you’re soul is engraved into everything

your spirit lays heavy on me
like a surface heaves in a tundra

you told me to do
without questioning

chaste and pure, i’m empty
the wind to grace my face

i place my hands inward to watch
the moon bloom a circle glow

The Wise Others

The Wise Others know not their names
Nor where from do they come.
They sit and fire sparkle flares
From eyes brighter than Sun.

They love to stare in silence.
They seek the light of One.
Where every face is different
And We all are part earthen.

With each a purpose to connect
Our natal way, children:
Our nurture and our guiding hands
with spirit we enlighten.

Please go where now kingdoms will dance
Abiding by Zion,
Where Rasta babies bless the web
That unites us as the Chosen.