Hour #3: “Vascular Jewelry”

My heart is a mudpie bleeding in the rain
So bright of red that it contains the sun.
Sopping clay falling through tiny fingers,
to the soft applause of relentless rain.
Cold petrichor fossils burn through icy nostrils,
choking back chalky mouthfuls of earthen fruit.
A child cries. Rivers of mud pour from her chin,
Death ebbs, all bloodied across her hands.

Until the tears burn like electric darts,
lightning of the mind, short-circuited, leaking,
Where Endymion eternally reaches for a fleeting moon
sinking behind the mountains of Caria.
My heart is a pale rock fading in the night.

The sky, a remorseless sea that seeks
to drown all light with its magnitude.
Where blue devils tear the sash from around my chest.
The harder they claw, the more death is like a dream,
a kaleidoscopic interplay of ontological absurdity
on the green table of mortality
where umbrellas float upside down
like orbiting fishing boats without rudders
until I drink the ocean dry,
and spit it back out,
filtered through my teeth.

The mad wolf turns his eyes towards the moon,
hungry and full of salt. The last bits of light
slip over the horizon forever.
Sweet, jellied darkness
I carried you in the womb of my nightmares!
“Aller Anfang ist schwer.”
All beginnings are hard,
until the stone smiles
and grows eyes so that it may sleep.
It’s draining arteries, a delicate latticework
of diluted oil drowning in the stream.

In commemoration of the lost people

In commemoration of the lost people.

There’s no loss unless there’s something worth

Searching for, worth giving a found-it tag.

In a black bus in sarkin pawa,

A woman aches in righteous anger

For all the people the bandits’ bullet

Was fortunate enough to retract from earths fine skin.

I know her ache because I,

Too, have nested my ruin in communal faith.

She didn’t want to bend towards the ruin

to become a body of light,

she didn’t want to be

Refracted into a bent rainbow &

tap colors from all the music our

home has gradually learned to fade into

But the heart carries its ache more than the

body sags to its own burden.

she starts a gbagyi praise song and lost her

voice into the part where the musician said  “god if i fall,

lift me, and may they not laugh at my fall”

and to say this with eleven episodes of hope,

she breaks her accent into an accident of several casualties:

my body is the most injured.

The aching silence shoots through her mouth

 and she  sings her voice into pebbles.

It’s in her sprawling and sparkling body that

I see our communal birthmark: black

Smoke-stain traced perfectly into a broken country.

 I speak to her with my Gods tongue: no fatigue,

nor disease, nor sorrow, nor sadness,

Nor hurt, nor distress befalls a woman.

She put her hands into mine and I can texture

 the coarseness of her pa(lm)in,

I carry all the burden she has come this far to annihilate &

today I’m unable to bend/fold into a prayer,

so I attempt my  gods accent  again and verily and

verily it’s in the remembrance of  lost people

Do hearts find rest.

Endless Possibilities

The airplane landed in New York with 500 passengers, all named Bill.

They each took one step on the tarmac.

One of them yelled What’s all this?

On the runway inside the puddles were tiny bugs flashing tiny bug lights.

Each Bill chose a bug and followed it toward the sunrise.

Unreal (hour 3)

My thoughts are the inside of a lava lamp, cluttered and combining into a beautiful heated mess.

I have a loaded gun, but no trigger

I hear blood fill my ears. Danger has never tasted so good. I touch the lifeless body that is no longer mine. I see nothing but fear, and I taste the air to try and bring me back.

I see mattie on the train where a stranger should be

I am the trigger

Roses are red, violets are blue

Roses are red, violet is blue
I want to dance, get lost
in imagination life has come
with different shades of struggles

find love, find life
I cry, my brothers are busy being
second class citizens in another man’s land

they can’t love,
No, they can’t be loved, their skin
colour is always a subject matter,
I am a subject matter
our woes have grown taller than we are.

I am here, playing dead log,
finding sympathy
I think I’m so overwhelmed, if only
I could reverse to all the good old days

we lived
with everyone around cheerful, beautiful
we were once happy, I wish
no one ever leaved.

© Àdèlé

DESTINY

HOUR 3

DESTINY

As a child, I played with dolls,

An unconscious yearning,

a training.

When I grew older

I looked after my younger siblings,

honing my protective skills,

and waiting.

I loved my freedom,

my individuality,

my body.

Yet I was ready to surrender

all three,

to the children I wanted.

I surrendered.

I was fulfilled.

I loved my role,

to feed, protect and

nourish.

Today, they are grown.

I still feed them,

protect them,

and nourish them

With my love.

Hour 3–Target Practice

The Archer Aims

at moving targets

Myopic in the haze of

smoked bliss

Grasps poisoned

Arrows

the Black Dog Howling with Hunger;

Gollum with his

Golden Ring of Ale

Aimed but missed

falls into the abyss

 

 

 

 

Pleasure in the mundane

As a creature
Of habit I
Don’t like detours

I take pleasure
In the mundane
Routine of life

During my youth
I woke with
Eagerness for school

Did my chores
Ate my breakfast
Caught my bus

Went through the
Day with enthusiasm
Relished each class

The last bell
Sent me to
Work at A&W

My day ended
With the evening
Meal and homework

I listened to
My sister expound
On her crushes

Before I could
Close my eyes
And find slumber

Hour Three: The Weight of a Dollar

                     The Weight of a Dollar
What is the weight of a dollar? Atlas’ World was easier to carry.
The patient Turtle carrying Atlas and the World had an easier task
than carrying Lady Liberty on a silver dollar,
L I B E R T Y is bold among the rays extending from her head
likened to the images so many would see when upon first entering
the harbor, gazing from afar, and then up at the guardian –
no matter where the Sun was, she was illuminated and illumination.
From far and then coming closer, people will call out,
“I see her! She’s so big against the sky! We made it! We’re here.”
Still, she remains quiet with a gaze looking away.
Does she hear the words? Do their tones and vibrations touch her heart?
No matter what, she stays silent in return.
Tarnished from silver to sepia patinas, black shadows, and rich grays,
the coin brings heft, smooth surfaces, and delicate crevices
as fingers explore and discover a New World on the other side:
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
E PLURIBUS UNUM
PEACE
All are raised on this dollar’s second face with
the feathered Eagle grasping an olive branch but
cut and scraped with gnashed wounds from the bladed
rock that has razored his wings and claws.
Lady Liberty stays silent.
The Eagle is present, but his back is turned away.
Young John and his sister Berneice
dreamt of seeing these two proud figures welcome them to a new home.
In 1951, they took turns holding this coin from 1922 on their long voyage.
As a “Peace Dollar” it chronicled years of prosperity for some countries, but
certainly not for these two children who’d spent childhood years in invaded Poland,
war-torn refugee camps, places of in-between for years longer than the war itself.
Still, dreams were fresh in their hearts, just like the eager anticipation of silky chocolates,
 tart apples, sweet tomatoes, and rich pumpkins of this New World.
Back and forth they passed this heavy coin, growing stronger each time they held it,
for these dreams certainly grew lighter as reality became brighter with each mile.
Such a reality was heavy with despair for Svetlana, their mother.
This New World was not hers. Lady Liberty was remote; the Eagle, a vulture.
What is the weight of a dollar?
For her it cost the farm, the chickens Berniece tended, the rabbit Johnny loved.
It cost her little Stephanie who had cared so earnestly for the two youngest.
It cost her Frank and her husband, John.
4. Use one example of synaesthesia (mixing the senses).
5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
8. Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.
9. Use a piece of false cause-and-effect logic.
10. Use a piece of “talk” you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).
11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: “The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun)…”
12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
13. Make the persona or character in the poem do something he/she could not do in “real life.”
14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but finally makes no sense.
18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.
19. Make a nonhuman object say or do something human (personification).
20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement but that “echoes” an image from earlier in the poem.”

Prompt One

The sky opens its mouth.

Clouds burp out.

I smell raspberries but

my hand avoids your face.

I see persimmons ripening

and the tractor trailer sails through the miasma.

I hear silence and I touch your face

Bernie Sanders flies over Los Angeles and

if I stand on my toes I can just touch his shoe.

I taste soot and see dogs surrounding the tree,

sniffing at its bark.