PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I am from the month of May against the cusp of Aries; 

a block no-one walks down in a town to small too hold me;

that gap in time over-shadowed by the oxen moon.

You are from the memories I have rendered mute too long;

from the sweet smell of the Mosquito Coaststuck to my skin;

the arcane allure of Egyptian architecture,

from the best of my life, moments I could never forget;

the things that linger heavy under these dark sleepless nights;

the words that no man made language dare encompass.

_________

I walked the depleted rainforests of Madagascar,

canoed the bio-diverse waters of Botswana’s delta,

wearily wandered the vast mountains of Lesotho,

traveled all ofAfricajust to see a glimpse of God,

intoxicated with silly notions of ‘finding truth’;

lost my faith in the blood of Sierra Leone.

I came to this country as a writer without a voice

trying to speak for the tongues cut out by this genocide;

I have stayed here all these years a lover lost in love.

­­­­_________

He was a vision of perfection, more than I could bear;

dirty blonde hair, deep hazel eyes, strong hands full of life,

a smile that made the sun appear to be dimly dying.

My sister told me once that sex was almost magical

but ‘magic’ was pathetic slight of hand; this was dying

without pain, it was blinking your way into heaven.

Anxiety ruled the morning like coffee stains on teeth,

I had half my clothing on when he first stirred back to life;

we stayed safe in the sanctuary of sheets all day.

_________

He has held me through the frenzy of car bombs; the calm

paced market mornings; despite the echoes of civil war;

he has held me to the world like we will live forever.  

I’m set adrift in the sounds of his sighs when we make love;

the heat of his sculpted, sun kissed body in the shower;

the smell of his dusty skin; I have belonged with him.

When the sweet breeze seeps through the stagnant windows at dusk

I admire his leathered face; count the wrinkles on his brow;

one for every stress known to a soldier after war. 

_________

A little blue plus-sign appears on the plastic stick in my hands

making me swoon; I consider bringing up my breakfast;

I am the SaharaDesertjust before monsoon.

_________

He makes the kids soccer balls from duct tape and rice bags; loves

the warm ulcer-hugging burn of single malt whiskey; lives

to settle where the rivers of blood wash him ashore.

I call my mother on her birthday to tell her the news.

She responds as if this will fix all my problems; reacting 

like an alcoholic with the deed to the beer store.

She likely hung up and drove straight to the nearest big box

department chain to buy pacifiers, diapers, cribs;

grabbed every last velour sleeper they had in stock.

_________

Spring brought floods of blood like rain; I saw my first glimpse of God

he was holding back tears; shaking fists at the land; screaming;

the engines drowned him out; I lost my faith years ago.

My soul scattered like ashes; no barrier to the storm.

Sasha; my beautiful, hazel eyed, gold skinned knight wielding

his sterilized scalpel against the darkness; Sasha 

Love faded into the background; a sunset in my dreams,

the whispers of war weeping half a world away echoed

Sasha’s name; reduced life to a half living heart beat.

________

The first time I saw you, you had his eyes, hands built for life, 

a tuft of sandy hair; memories rendered mute by loss.

The first time I saw you, was my second glimpse of God