I am the Last Poet

I am the Last poet
And an echo asking a shadow to dance
I am the freedom between vowels
As empty as the light between darkness
I’ am the poetry everywhere, been to each
Carried burdens like the weight of time
And it’s been a beloved journey
With dream herself as my riches
I have not sought more, asked for things
We are masters of the unsaid words
And we must discover them, less we
Lose the ability to identify with this world
Nature is art and human beings are mere animals
The human heart has increase
I wake up every morning determined
To become transparent in poetry’s whiteness
Blank and beautiful as an empty page.

P o e t r y in U t e r o #sundayblogshare #poetry #amwriting

P o e t r y in U t e r o

There is a wall to break down
Between people and poetry
And I intend to break it
High-brow poets frequent academic

Institutions with high tuition bills
Low-brow poets are like rappers
They free-verse in the street

As the public feels poetry
Is a heavy intimidating word
It’s not, it’s not rhyming poetry
They made you memorize in primary school

Poetry is like music, it has
A lot of genres and encompasses
Embraces cultures all over the planet

It’s also one of the oldest traditions
Signs from the root of language
It has accompanied empires since
The dawn of time, but modern man

Fears it like it’s a degenerative tedious thing
Old men do in clubs that have died out
Well it’s not, it’s alive in every city
In a few good books a year

It’s plastered like graffiti all over
The internet, on blogs and in cup-cake
Author websites that never get viewed

Just ask the Poet Laureates if it can survive
They will say its demise is a myth
And a reality, that it’s complicated
But if there ever was an art for the people

An art for young people, and women
It’s poetry, it can change your life.
Poems can change your mind and
Make a romantic out of the rugged.

The Harp Weaver #NaPoWriMo #NationalPoetryMonth

The Harp Weaver

I will be gladder
Than the gladdest thing
Because you are here

I will touch a hundred flowers
Just to feel your grace
With quiet eyes and more than a little wonder

I will wait
An entire lifetime if need be
I will see the grass rise

The greenest of new spring
And the Moon floor
The Ocean up to the tides

I will learn to love blackness
As if the unpatented light
Will not spread without horizons

Into morning, I will be still gladder
The day you arrive in my life.

Memories of earth

Memories of earth

It’s time to die together
In kisses before sunlight
In the nude nuptial dark
Our flesh is one body now
———————————–

Can you see it?
Breasts and thighs and lovely lovers
Walking life together
Doing what they do

Groaning and crying
Trembling and thawing
Bursting with the heat of
Years of loneliness released

In a mortal touch, the fire
Of frequent faith in unity
Unity that transcends physicality
Love that mimics biology but
—————————————

Is more, like a psycho-synthesis
A bio rational urge to share
The reciprocation of so many
Memories of pleasure that pulsating

Of pulse, breath, sweat and symphonies
Or orgasms and rises and falls
And little deaths of being together
Of the passion before the fall

Of the joining before the parting
That’s it I guess, it’s sex
On the dreamer time of fantasies
Fantasies that never die
Because they are of the Earth.

———————————–

Specimens of another kind of art

Dear self, do not fail (to write poems)
For this was your unity
Between both worlds

Work and the business of living
And the sudden onslaught of the beyond
You had a taste for
Something transcendent

In the brief symbols you uttered
In fact they reflected off of you
Dear self, if you are able to do so

Love that lingering in other worlds
For this world has its futile narratives
It’s not enough to sustain you
For sustenance is finally spiritual

Moral, ethical and fundamentally
A question of relating to the future
And to not believe in the future

Would be a kind of nilhism not conducive
To peace, freedom or creativity.

New Words Advent

Photograph courtesy of : http://www.deviantart.com/art/Into-Dust-502341255

 

 

Language is a flirtation

With flexibility, the mind

Empowers the image

The image empowers the

 

Alphabet, the energy

Is a conference of belonging

There is no buzzword in poetry

Poets reside in the

 

Chatroom of the spirit

It’s a captcha of lingering

Imagination on the brink of

Extinction, a cloud computing

 

Of beauty, a purist busking

Not for profit, so unlike

The Affluenza of our times

The stark money divide

 

Poetry is an algorithm unsolved

Forever like a kind of tourism

The soul’s App for bromance

A buzz for civiliation’s

 

Gratitude and ruin, simultanely

Depicting the carjked destiny

Of utopia in dystopia

Englihs is the most flexible

 

If adopting mandarin and Sanskrit

The baggravation of always

Being stuck between worlds

Or the realization that

 

Every city is a homogenized urban

Simulation of what it means

To be alive in 2020, the breakdown

Of new world dilemmas like

 

A post antibiotic world or

Environmental migrants scrambling

For new homes, new identities.

After a Thousand Poets

To dream myself, to be dreampt
By other eyes, on other worlds
That was the prophecy of
The written word, to be fluid

Like a medium, to pastel the words
Into new forms, to climb
The towers together of meaning
And visit the citadels of angels

To explore rooms, walk streets
Of singing combinations never
Before experienced, like surrealism
In a bright sunlit room, and art

With trends and sublime gulfs
Where only a few artists can reach
And cities of culture’s inheritance
Where philosophers must tread

To dream myself, being more
Than just idle dreams, to weave
Looking out into new enchanted sentences
That come alive in their own way

That can speak to sense and soul
Moulding kaleidoscopic clouds
As easy as the fountains of day
And water of enormous glimpses

Of prosperity, the light of the future
Golden mornings, youth transformed
Some transparent shimmer
Of alphabets that can suffice the
Difficult diamond thirst.

I exist in a room abandoned by language

I lift syllables to plant
They will ripen in your mind
Like wheat of the ancient fields

Where our ancestors ate language
And leisure, like we have never known
We who labour like machines
As slaves might, while our lives
Is as a poem where the trees incandescent

Must watch themselves wither
As sheets of paper gone to waste
I lift houses of sound

To your legendary fracture of silence
These vacant lots of night-time
Where a pale puddle of your
Grip upon reality suddenly blazes
With figures of your once dreams

The summer has oxidized mornings, sunsets
A weightless winter awaits, as scattered
Pages are left to turn, each one

Words in the shape of a cloud of dust
As white as snow, as lingering
As the cold, and the murmur of a million
Leaves that once were, but are now only
The idea of color, the texture of earth.

THE DAWN SINGERS

After all these collisions
with the abrupt license to write
these dreamy plagiarisms
as if words belonged to a mouth
the month of poetry became

a lifetime of habit, a sport
of inarticulate genius
of hope strewn in museums
blue transparent halls of journals
I still mutter quietly

spells for sweet memories
grasping at disappearing truths
i contemplate language, the soul
of symbols, the spirit behind a tongue
the last word i said

The word is Yes, yes to
white fragile voices
that linger for a while
these lyrics that spin
until loving is not enough

it must be written down
as if for eternity
the profound nature of saying
I will live forever trapped
on a page for you or nobody to read

smuggling lanterns as ancient as the seas
across the myths I once believed
were real, the news of my country
the land of my being
and the solace of my art

i’m proud to be trapped here
soon i will no longer have a voice.

Photo Courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/dawn-46952780

DELIGHT OF THE MIDNIGHT ROSE, 午夜玫瑰的喜悅

Soft desires I can trace
Back to the lap of Roses who
Sing away with secret smiles
For whispers of their softest limbs
Whimpering for petals that say

Touch my cheek, pet my soul
When thy little heart doth wake
For this light shall break
On this womb, this womb that makes
A Rose as sweet, Red like the Lioness

Red like the sacred flesh
Soft desires fragrant like the whole
The Rose that sets love on fire
From a hungry gorge, the pit, the abyss
Terror of the divine form embraced

The Rose’s thorns, furnace sealed
A hungry Rose that lingers secretly
For the touch of a woman’s hand
The rose is not fair without the beloved’s face
Lips that like to sugar, grace like a flower
That sways, in the breeze, for mirth and feast.

MOST CELEBRATED MARTYRS

The bones of saints
Are prized above their flesh
The words of writers
Loved more after they are dead

Our parents and ancestors
Cherished, after we realize what
They did, God loved
More in the second half of life

Mystics studied, poetry haunted
Requim for the murdered yesterdays
So shall we retell history
Each filled by our own myths

Biased by one frame of reference
We have a finite number of thoughts
An algorithm that governs
The quality of our wisest acts.

IN VELVET LISTENING

I heard Scarlet whipsers
And Gold renotes, mere echoes
From the cocoon of inherited thought
Traces of ideas crystaline

Imagined by Bards of other times
I heard threads from Infinity
Sutras from Divine canvases
Queenly gestures from Butterflies

Mantras of silk, and flower-ink patterns
In a cadence of alien symbolism
I heard poetry in motion, somewhere
In the stream’s motion, felt

The tide of Beauty perennial
On my eyes, as I lay below the bluest skies
I heard the future in the sound
The lightest snow made as it

Touched my eye-lashes
Skimming whitest inches down.

Star Flower

Ah Star-flower, weary of life With steps of the sun on your back How flowers that golden chime? Which came your buds of worlds With a fragrance of strange journeys Dear heart where our wishes go Of light uncontested from …

After Language

The Definition of Love is That Definition of all You can see it in the Trees In the Analysis of water, space, earth It’s a definition of beauty personified Evolution in nature and mind We play at her game of …

Whispers of The Rose

The temple bell dies away
An Empire scatters to the winds
But the scene of a flower
In the evening air

Is Immortal, like the Rose
Whose red-spirituality
Is still tolling the bell
Still Holding up the Empire

Of beauty, this haunts even the sun
A silence at the palace chambers
Of the mystic visionary heart
The dream of life from

All my other dreams, the last symbol
She spreads infinity scrawled
In her pink petals to the starry sea
Each time I encounter that

The sacred fire that is God’s temple lit
A unity of the universe in a leaf
I know the spirit wears its own plumes
Back to the source of our divinity.

Call to Poets CONTEST, enter your 3 best poems:

http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Wuji-International-Poetry-Festival-V/49443/

To read about it:

https://seshatwuji.wordpress.com/wuji-international-poetry-festival/%5D

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/rose-152423323

Miracles Worth Living

Self-imprisonment began
The first day I escaped reality
Purity was my comfort

God was my last resort
I thought He would make
Some room for me

To stay in the Universe
As in his Heart
As long as I wanted to

I felt the Oneness of everything
A love that required
No explanation, peace

That needed no interpretation
Innocence, bliss, simplicity
Like a meditation to last

For lifetimes and eternities
Maybe, I became a sleepless
Dreamer, of God-Dreams

In my sutra, mantras, poems
With orphan-tears, maybe
Only God knows who I am

Only miracles of loving
Miracles of forgiving humanity
For the evolution of so much
Inequality, civil-war, pollution, vanity.

Call to Poets: Contest: http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Wuji-International-Poetry-Festival-IV/49425/ [more info at: https://seshatwuji.wordpress.com/wuji-international-poetry-festival/%5D

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Lady-in-White-in-Rain-292730320

Last Poems

His – “last Poems”
Never felt quite complete
So he never stopped the silver beckoning

Poets – ended, with their voice lost
Unread, bundled for mediocrity
Not on record, but perished

Perhaps in a family journal
Found by grandchildren
Read for the briefest of moments

We all only but utter half a tune –
His poetry was thin-lipped madness
Writing to a Bridegroom, inside the self
Whose voice was a call from Eternity.

It’s Such a Common Glory

I am a prisoner of myself
Abiding with thee
Our share of morning and night

That does suffice the bliss of two
And blank in scorning
There are stars everywhere

Some who lost their way
In a pain-comet trails of time
With a minute circumference

Of a single brain, a gamut of eternity
Alone and undignified
I am a prisoner to myself

Abiding with a world
Without care or vitality
Luckily I have you –

Who sweeps my heart
With rosewater and honey
Until eternity, putting love away

In a bowl of water
In a gentleness of gesture
That can only save me from myself.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Breathing-411282025

We, Who are in the Blood

Oh, dear wife, you are too much
Mine and flesh of me –
There is no dawn

To keep your water
From my blood, I am unceasing intimacy
Oh, unvisioned loving face

There is no dusk that does not signal
Your baffling comfort of caress
Oh, you are the loss of all

Accomplished things, I do not care
For the world, after you
You are the skin of the

Long-lunging seas
On my bones, in my organs
Moon dark, with laughing mouth

With sweet uplifted lips
That taste like Mandarin honey
The maple syrup teasing eyes

Savage in the glory of redeeming
So many empty lonely years.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/glade-laura-404696026

Your Weight Settles in Me like Darkness

Every time I am next to you
I feel the inches between us
Like miles on the magnetic compass
You are the valley, I am the mountain

As if I’ve always watched you
But could never see into your depths
You tell me your secrets
Your gaze sharpens naked on mine
*
Restless for the pounce, to thread
Through shadows, you want me
To desire you, you tense that I follow you
My muscles shake as I stroll

Near the arch of your hips
My arousal invades your space
Of down turned eyes and that tear
At the stroke of a heart-beat

Every time I am near you
You feel the weight of my presence
Like an invisible thread connecting
My navel with yours, my manliness with
*
Your womb, some sundown fantasy
Of what makes attraction formidable
Every time I am near you
I must remember you already have a Master

There is an unspoken understanding
That we flush alone for each other.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Look-in-your-heart-376102764

Ballad to Half-crazed Summer

I am looking for Summer Nights
Where the moon will dangle these
Half-plucked eyes, with hearts thrown open!
.
)
As if, bright friends might transport
The rapture back into these Wounded Skies
I can’t ask for much, or maybe Everything
.
)
The eternal attitude of little human music
These yearnings which elevate time to Perfect Pitch
I am hunting Spring mornings for
.
)
The tried and true naked stones, that glimmer
The Sun’s best Intrusion of happiness
Where light is a bull-frog’s croak of oblivious motivation
.
)
Our bright flesh where there are no scars
I am looking for Mortal Embraces of hot July
Where I can let my expertise in simplicity go
.
)
Like a poem where words are said so beautifully
that I might as well be speaking the name of Love
That give themselves to life so intimately, we might
.
)
Silence the blossoms on all lips, to climb stairs
Outside Plato’s cave to the throat of outside innocence
I am looking for Salvation, on the fly.

In The Center of the World of the Body Tasted

You fall from your body, in spring –
.
.
Like a shadow of unmoving patience
With virtues to name, your furthest points
the overflowing or natural erosion
The breaking point where flesh enters
Another state – stirring instincts of a million years
.
.
Your body aches, for a firebrand tongue of coolness
The firmament of male and female, ecstasy
The earth tremor of your buttock of green
A testimony of your solar jaguar eyelashes
.
.
Stroked not enough by time
Your orange cleft of midnight lunging
Transfigured by his spiral hands, encircling
Your caressed scents of lengthy slow longing
.
.
You fall from your body, it’s dusk
.
.
Fluttering like an unfinished melody
Between April & May, waiting and lasting
As a feast of unfolding horizons rushing
Towards music, festivity, orgasms of the house of wind
.
.
It’s not over, it’s just the black lips of the O r a c l e ‘ s beginning
Your juices are not overflowing, they are just incarnated in dream
Dissolving your senses like the buds of the lucid mouths of truth.

The Riddle of Transience

Give me my amber revelations
A new territory of realism
Exhilarate my destiny into a new order
Of maturity, where I can confirm
The victories of my simple life

My period of prayers has passed
I need to act like an unbroken settler
With more determination
To prove myself in my own esteem!
Give me gigantic sums of obstacles

That I too might know the Common Bliss
The golden mean of happiness
My noon has come to dine, these
Are the prime years of my adulthood
Show me my capacity to live fully

Transplanted from a thousand roads
Life – is a different thing – in these new years
Enough about Bodiless Campaigns
The trial of visions left astray
The Solstice of biology urges me forward
On the last day, of the Spring of my life.

In The Burning Cosmos Nobody is Safe

The old lights are broken
Politics, religion, corporations, nations
They have no conscience

Lawyers, bankers, profiteers!
Will from individual truth
Breeds corruption beyond repair
A system of mutual exploitation

This is the house our fathers built
Where wealth is invented and the masses
Are used as economic soldiers
To be sacrificed, replaced by robots

The lights are broken
Leadership, Presidents, News, Propaganda
Even the internet is being monitored
All your texts, every word

The Governments are turning on their people
It is legal to blind sight your own citizens
Who you are meant to protect, you rob

The old lights are broken
You might not realize, you might not care.

P.S. Inspired by my favorite wordpress poet, the brilliant psycho-political poet Alicakhoo

The Duty of the Poet

I will take thee, as a Poet
To candidature for ethereal thrill
Subtle as the inner champers
Portions of visions, phrasing that

Dwell as full as an image – the red Rose
I will transport thee, as a Poet
To Cathedrals of fraught mortality
Joys of darling spontaneity

To risk all for the Scarlet Shelf
And usher in liberty for arcs of white
I will love thee, as a Poet
Until the house is full, that of the dream –

As conquering as love’s palaces
As secure, as divine intercourse
I will lead thee, as a Poet
As a carpenter on hands & knees

With opened palms, known to nobody –
As a stranger speaking of the elder tongues
I will speak of summer fields
And unheralded flowers dropped from memory

As a juggler turned wordsmith
As a prayer turned literary
I will take thee in, as a Poet
As the original artist of creative Vermilion

The pressed dust of symbolic projection
Of minds painted with brief beauty
That warrants pricelessness, with every line
These bards never awake from midnight’s trance.

Your Hips Beneath my Pregnant Hands

You gave me, songs for late hours
I hunger after your rippling
Skin, flesh come alive
Your silver back of cold divinity

Your thighs of shattered sensations
Your hips of warlock-tumult
Wine and kisses, led me to this –
Your small breasts and unexpected

Nipples, your sweet moans
For hard days, your last resort
Of petting me, stroking me
Let us wash our limbs with moisture

And make a cringing siesta
Of our tired bones, weary lungs
I’ll give you French names
In bed, unclothed and free at last

In our naked ease, I’ll give you massages
And detach you from reality like a feather
With circling tongues around your
Wet spot, split heavens like dark rain

Feast on your native smells, vivid heart
I’ll tip your golden buttocks an open leaver
And find great engines of burning there
Wanting your wetness over me without end

And season myself in your whirlpool of lust
You gave me, songs for late hours
I’ll give you blazing gardens of desire
And you will squat on me like a passionate princess.

Inequality

This is the secret: these hearts
I held out to you, they weren’t mine
They were all the broken-hearted

All the poets I read, all the wives
I’ve witnessed abused and thwarted
My sensitivity wasn’t mine, it was

My personal reaction to the tragedy of others
I’ve seen, our own obstacles don’t seem like much
It’s this world’s capacity to suffer

That astounds me, that outrages me
The exploited, the underdogs, the innocents
This is the secret: when you want to help the world

You put others first, somehow, for community
Is what binds us together, waiting to be cared for
It’s not only your children that need your help

Meanwhile, we refuse to do more than survive
Our comforts suffice, our legacies are private
After we have inherited so much more
Than they can ever hope to receive.

The Poetic Dilemma

Words answer my April
Words answer my every month
Every state, has a Window or a Minister

My feeling are of Two bodies
My soul and its liberty persist
I know it then, by the numb look

Of Neighbors, and the lost delight
Of Lovers, where is the Bee and blush?
For it is not yet Spring – and I am lone

Language is my last successor of pain
I am trapped in its Vitality
Self-Obliterating is the choir

Who that visits the Night is my poetic chore
Words answer my April
I make words for every hour

There is no Education in poetry
Only pure-feeling, as ashamed as courtesans
Here I contrast all currencies.

With Ourselves We Have Outdated Etiquette

I should not dare to be sad
So many the years gone by
The weight we bear is impossible
If we think we bear the most

But the truth is, it’s not us who have difficult lives
We are all dying every day
I should not dare to be so gloomy
While I encourage my friends

On different terms, we are who we are
Disappearing to ourselves
Unknowable, without friends and partners
I should not dare to be alone

With my insignificant Immortality
To withdraw is a worthless thing
Secure in our simplicity, we maintain control
I should not dare to be so unobtainable

That I never select others into my life
I must befriend the world, to begin to live.

Only a Passing Shrine

I live with Him – I see his face
Death, the sundown visitor
The look that claims us from the invisible
I’ve seen people die of grief
I’ve felt the enormous conviction
Of hopelessness, going unloved

The Stillness of the Room
When the brain stops being creative
I’ve looked in the eyes of the elderly
Tried to find the light in their eyes
There is an uncertain stumbling buzz
In the way I feel incomplete, in

The notices of feeling alive, intense
Is the lack of beloved visitors
The absence of true friends
Proof that physicians are wrong
About the human spirit, do I have
Permission to recant, permission to forget

That this life is a series of goals
That I learn and am growing
From traveling proceeding?
To Ache is human, it’s not polite
It’s just mortality’s oldest custom
The little toil of Love, on the edges
Of all that I hold dear….