rhythm

Fields of Rhyme

From my knotty pine writing table
Where I always feel strong and able
I have built a world on typing paper
Where I rule mighty as any dictator

I’ve made a comfortable place of it
For all the pages make a very nice fit
Just the right size for each emotion
And now my life has less commotion

I have company hanging on every wall
People young old short fat and tall
Some funny some in love some whine
All are the brush strokes of my mind

I create interesting conversations
And fabricate all sorts of relations
Everyone does exactly as I deem -
Acting out my every written scene

I know each and every person by name
Know addresses and where they remain
I hear every breath - each spoken line
Without me they’ve no voice or design

I have built a world where I am safe
Where I’m boss so can be early or late
Look out the window - see what I want
Or just hang out - and be nonchalant

I’ve worked diligently near every day
Writing down everything I had to say
Planting many colorful fields of rhyme
And generally having a very good time

But as good as things are I must admit
Something is missing for a perfect fit
For what is a writer without readers
Or a prophet without true believers

So I invite you into my literary home
Invite you to visit and to freely roam
Thru the still crisp pages of my mind
I do hope you like what you find

Vibrations on A Hardwood Floor

 
 
He told me his fingers could get trapped in my roots.
And he wasn’t speaking of my family tree.
I was his sugar rum cherry
 Syrupy treat
 And so bitter sweet.
He said I spoke in verse
and giggled in rhyme.
 He said I reminded him of a tune
Too elusive to recall.
 My body was inspiration
 that he could not transcribe.
 So he made it a point to
Commit me
in all my dimensions
to memory.
Incre((mentally))
He became trapped in these roots.
Just as  I feared.
I was his a-
His a(hhh)
His af(firmation)
 His Afr(ica)
His afro
Afro-disiac.
Damn.
 
By Ayesha K. Faines copyright 2007

Trial by Media

Mourning for a loss long gone,
The shadows collect dust.
While progress stagnates a nation;
Holding its breath under water,
Too afraid to rise and inhale,
They’re going under.

No circumstances can revoke the true calling,
Born to power, though none have fared to be the example.
A pedestal crumbling at its very foundation,
Old world opinion dressed in new linen.
The pirates and plunderers are now completely grounded,
With man-made rules trapping their exploitations.

No facts will remain, but the scandal’s a winner,
No need for the lynching when there’s a trial by media.
Watch the fall of an empire by satellite,
With a television screen and blotted rag paper.