As the Sun Sings along the Navels of Prophets


Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Prophet-26476972

20

But now he sleeps without end
His potential buried forever
Now the moss and the grass
Flowers the dreams of what

His life would have been
Better maybe than some fates
The dew will simply blanket
Darkness, his soul will retreat

Maybe one day to take form again
And he will seek a confident profile
And his goal will bewilder him
And his beautiful body will carry

The tiger-thirst of the multitudes
And he will play his role
Below the stars like an actor
And the horse-clouds will see him

And the groups of silence
In the corners of the Earth
Will whisper of him
Like Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus

Or Kalki whoever, it goes on
A lament for what a man stood for
A symbol for what truths can mean
Across generations; a philosopher,

A poet, a prophet, an innovator
Because, tomorrow’s love does not wait
Evolution does not falter
Her veins of coral are never mute
But flow with the pride of genius itself.

The heart was created to speak, you tell me


19

The heart was created to speak, you tell me

Being close to you is like
A monsoon of words
A translation from Arabic
Into the light of your signature
Meditation, these faded eyes

Know you, recognize
The idealism, of being nine-teen again
You who give blue alms
To the broken horizon in me?
A penny of a star?

A volume for spiritual food?
Being close to you is like
A monsoon of words
Is this twilight constitutional?
That I would wish to hear you

Speak, gentle, softly, as if
I could relish the bird-voice
Of your girlish philosophy
With your breasts to the wind?
With your throat to the cosmos?
Whispering of atoms and immortality?

Inner child metaphor of a tree


18

The trees they rise up
As if up from their own free will
Into the light, wild, happy
Strong, if only I could be that way
But nature did not make me strong
And I was not born free
But chained, enslaved, shy

But what if the dreams
Were grafted to my branches
Like fruit and I could see
The horizon with replanted forests
What if I could breathe clean fresh
Perspectives for breakfast?
Fit with buds for birds to ransack

Or pollen to spread nature
The true nature of our spontaneous
Selves, the inner-child without her mask
The trees they rise up
For too many generations, with
The secret of the ancient taste
From our growth what silver fir

Reveals the truth that was our destiny?
It was not the water, wood, air, light
These were only elements
Of how we found what we were made of
It’s just that way if I am a barren stem
I won’t be blown around as much
Nor catch the eye of creatures

But what could I then become
In an open sunlit field, left as I was…

The ghost writers


17

Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Salzburg-s-unicorn-499959719

But as for me, the smell of books
Is perhaps enough, my bride
The gracious literature

Who does not threaten to leave
Or say I do not make enough gold
The holy emblem of this art

Whose pen is its own reward
A kind of artistic altruism
That plunges itself without restraint

On a canvas, spelling “freedom”
Over and over until
My heart might warm divinity

From the cold world’s touch
But ah, the libraries are lonely places
And the authors must fight

Lofty ghosts, that swim in the brain
For to write is to sacrifice, I know
It well, so find delight, go

In cheaper things, more easy investments
For this is a passion not for the meek
And this is a love that is not
As fickle as the illiterate barbarians out there.

For Michael Brown and Fergusson


16

Beneath a black moon
I bled for the mountainside
And for the homeless
In the city of the valley
Where night spurs

In black flanks
Piercing the stars
With the cold whisper
In my throat, life had been
The scent of a flower on a knife

Survival had not come easy
Far away and alone
The black moon did not know
How to shriek for bonfires
The voice that did not know songs

What do you carry, oh
Black youth, beaten by police?
Mixed with your blood
But the true roots of Africa?
Beneath a black moon

The white man, the young race
Is still privileged, but these
Salt tears are not for them
Not for men in suits
Born of privilege and an easy life

I bled for strangers
Killed in a chase-down
Slaves to poverty and ghettos
Where children carry guns.

Dirty Gold


15

I wrote a book of questions
For you, before you left
Until every event in my life
Became a metaphor for poetry
Is the lamp of my happiness
Tattooed on your skin?
Is my heart so dependent

That the night and day
Are prisoners to its food?
I wrote a book of questions
For the little moments of gratitude
And how the roots of my soul
Must climb towards the light?
I do not know how to live alone

Is it always the same spring
Who revives the role?
Experience does not bring answers
She brings sweet uncertainty
Between the orchids and the wheat
Which does love favour?

A woman likes security
That’s right…

The End of Family


14

How long do other speak
If we haven’t spoken in a while?
How long do true friends
Remember your character?

What is the name of winter
When loss and gain becomes irrelevant
And abandonment and solitude
Cease to exist for the mortal heart?

In the sum of all yesterdays
What is that feeling abundance
Called tomorrow really?
How long do others love
If anyone has ever loved us?

Where are all those names
That were once so dear and tender?
The faces have come and gone
These substitutes for love
And imitations of family.

Questions in morning


13

Is the rain naked
When she washes the streets?
For spring and flowers
For returns of prosperity

Is the snow cold
To visit the earth?
The wet dark earth
That has nothing to give
But shelter and a place to land?

Is the rose afraid of being seen?
With her lips turned into petals
And the moist dew
Clinging to her wings?

Does the heart regret to love?
That caused a woman so much pain
Is there anything in this world sadder
Than the old man pursued by
Only bees, without belonging?

For the environment


12

At the feet of altars
Beneath old trees
At the foot of where
Rivers join, I feel
The sentence of hard labor
Served in me, the words
From the lips of the great sea

The smell of salt in the water
And the feel of grass
Between my toes
All that I can create
Is nothing compared to the world
The world we used so indiscriminately
While we talk of imaginary profit

We harm the thing we love
By how we live, and that’s
The stupidity of being
An animal that cares for self
For nuclear family above
All else, we have been socialized
To be selfish, to hoard, to exploit

Though in the vivacity of time
I know nature will return
The balance, our debts
Grow like burnt forests
They grow like poisoned oceans
They grow like crowded cities
And I can’t help but wonder

Does the rooftop garden
Know which master it serves?
Do the storms know
They are a weapon of karma
Upon an arrogance of man?

The seeds of poetry


11

The seeds of poetry

I write with the lips
of eternity, the passage
of naked centuries move in me
history’s whole body
expresses itself in my writing
the incandescent center
Of soul in language
Of literature on the brink

Hungering for incarnations
I wait for the arrival of
Transcendence in metaphor
The sublime traction of syntax
Paragraphs heavy as trees
With golden birds, cursive
Mischief, glyphs of mandarin and Korean

The fragile bride of words
Is in my hands, I’m a beggar
Of flowers and pauses
And green humming vitality
In verse, I am the wandering roots
Of linguistic music hoping
For the stars, petrified of the silence

I hold so dear and sacred
In-between poems, the excavated
Galleries of legends and symbols
The myths I live in fill me
But they do not fulfill me
Not like the carbonized drift of
Free-verse, not like the vagabond
Architectures of poem-magic.