24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
There’s a legend about the well
in the center of the garden.
It is said, that’s where she led them.
Bad children and unfaithful men
Who’d come to her
Begging her, to hide what they did
Told to leave a token
As their wish was spoken
Pushed into the grey stone well
Cuz dead ones tell no tale
Witches and warlocks
Practitioners of the occult
Haitian voodoo magic and hexes
African shamans
Chicken bones
Deer tongues
Graveyard dirt
Stuffing chickens and rabbits
Sewn up tight yet bursting in vain
Buried under death rituals.
Spellwork is more than just
Bathing in blood
Poisoning with menstruation
Under full and new moons
By covens and the power of three
And the foolish waste of money
Spell is what you cast
With words
Affirmations
Manifestations
Thoughts
Deeds
Intentions
Binding yourself to
The “Return to sender x 10”
While you cast your evil eye.
Whether light or dark
Good or I’ll
Your thoughts and intentions
Are what you will become
And what you e down in darkness
Will come to fruition in light
And it is truth
That will be seen
From it’s growth.
As above
So below
So mote it be
Just make sure to
Spell your words correctly.
Paper, pen, ink I'm ready to write But where are those thoughts I want to preserve on paper Clean white sheet Of paper covered in Doodles as I wait for Perfect words to fill my mind Crumple up doodles Select another clean sheet Think think about the words Another sheet covered in squiggly lines Paper, pen, ink Eventually come together while Thoughts and words flow seamlessly Pen skates effortlessly across the page I look up To see crumpled sheets Scattered about me and then One page of words written down It's a start
There is that which the mind can comprehend
and that which may turn it mad
Things are not always what they seem
Grandpa said that in his day
when men were real men who wielded swords
and did not flinch at the sight of blood,
there were men among men
It was a time when strange things confounded logic
Pray, how can a anyone fetch water with a basket
and not a drop is lost to the ground?
How can a goat crow like a cock standing on his perch?
How does a man balance his weight
on the tip of a twig and confound gravity?
Grandpa told of men who turned to animals, yea-
a hunter may shoot at a chimp in the forest
only to be handed the bullets upon his return,
and warned never to shoot at every animal he sees..
In the heat of battle, men turned to ferocious beasts
and tore their enemies to bits
Then when the moon has departed and all is silent
the body emerges from the mask and walk
the grounds we walk.
17 Intermission
I might have to take a break
I might have to stop
And make some maple oatmeal
On my bed I will flop
I will keep the light shining
To avoid a deep long sleep
I have to give my brain a rest
As these words don’t come cheap
I’ll boil water and find a bowl
And empty the oatmeal pack
But have no fear I promise you
I definitely will be back
Grace escapes my life this burgeoning night.
Drugs coax me to door of the dying.
I care little of this conclusive plight.
Our souls are annexed, mortality crying.
Resistance of desire not within our might.
A bitten tongue commences shared dining.
Dreamlike wraiths, absorbed in the dining.
Looking, feasting, blackened blood of night.
Joyous in jilt, imbibing the crying.
Arousal strikes hard, ignorance of plight.
Rapturous, we consummate the dying.
Bodies as one, exuding lust’s might.
Dominance, retreats against passions might.
Ocular delight, next course of dining.
Penetrative elation cries this night.
Pain lost, I sup on her blood and crying.
We know how this end, enduring the plight.
Union continues hence, no heed on dying.
Death strikes his toll, in tune to the dying.
His solemn bell rings, purposive in might.
Skin, swift the entrée of fervours dining.
Heavenly flesh, savoury gift of the night.
Blissful in tears, garnished of the crying.
Our hands peeling further, aching nails plight.
Faux limbs discarded, aide-memoir of plight.
Inedible in passions pure dying.
I devour her essence this very night,
My skinned nose, entremets of her dining.
She shears off my face, fangs working might.
Sweet, mutual pain, dressed by the crying.
Pain flows, red tears, blending the crying,
Hungers soft kiss, preceding loves last plight,
Time draws its veil, our void of the dying,
Vastness of void, advances against our might,
Bodies flayed, craven within our dining,
Luxuriously devoured our night.
This night, we are one in the crying,
The dying flies out, carriage of the plight,
Yielding of might, tenacious in the dining.
Palm trees inspire us aplenty,
one tree that’s not even on a tap root.
Red palm oil makes native soup colourful,
creamy palm wine clears blurry eye sights,
palm fronds transform into domestic brooms,
rare oils squeeze out of palm kernels,
kernel shells make great buildings,
kernel fluff lights the fires as fuel balls,
stalls, mats, and baskets can sprout from it too,
a pretty sight yet, standing there for us all to see.
Palm trees inspire me aplenty,
like it should be a pen whose ink flows
into plenty, plenty creative harvests.
I should have had,
well, that implies i’m owed…
facts are, i’m not.
Cause numbers don’t lie
and 4 out of every 10 children are born to unwed mothers.
so, I wished I’d have had some guidance,
but instead I had…
“Books for beginners:
things you need to know, if you didn’t have a dad”
i’m still learning though,
because i couldn’t face the read!
Who wants to hear their own internal voice reading pep talks no one ever gave you?
Yeah,
i’m still that kid!
No matter how cruelly
my brother calls me out
for crying about things from so long past.
Now i dream of knowledge
from the book of war!
No longer do i seek the bond of kinship,
dreams of friendship laid to waste
for the words of Clausewitz and Sun-tzu.
I am crafting my ability to survive
There was a time i let the writings of the spirit guide me
Undoubted sent down truth.
i am still prone to seek the wisdom He has left there.
Promises of weights He knows my frame can bare,
to care for me, to not leave!
There is the smolder of a fire ready to rage in me.
The soot of sin making me desperate and dirty.
Still, He reminds me His book is for old wounds and beginners too.
“You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you. Remain in me, as I also remain in you…” –John 15:3-4
Dear therapist–
I wish thank you was an
adequate way to express
my gratitude for you and all
that you have done in my life
you’ve seen me at my best
all of the good and you’ve
seen me at my absolute worst
the really bad stuff
you never judged
Despite the multitude of things
that I’ve said that society says is
taboo for a young woman to do
I blame my upbringing
Therapy is such a four letter word
for some people- not me-
I think everyone could benefit
from some therapy
I know we have to go our
separate ways now- I can
see it now that I can stand on my
own two feet-I no longer need you
to hold my hand.
So thank you therapist
I appreciate you making time
for me to spill my guts to you
about all of my problems and not
saying a word to anyone else
— Your patient