What is Poetry? – part 3
Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,
it just climbs out of the mind,
out of a recess in time,
obsessed with success
and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.
It’s a mess, it’s sublime,
it’s a knife as a prize,
it is life in the eyes,
it is death, of a kind,
it’s leaving something behind,
it’s caressing the past
and the future that lies,
dormant though brooding
Who says poetry is dead?
What is Poetry? – Part 2
Poetry is the forsaken cry, the loneliest voices with the loudest minds,
captured in ink, blighted by drink, or bolstered,
emboldened with the bravado to think big,
to sing on a page,
to rage against the silence of days
spent drifting through the passive malaise,
the love of something and not for how it pays.
Poetry is the air up there, despair in the mind of a scribe
at not being able to fly, so it is
the flight of birds described by those who live in unknowns
to those who dream of being free.
Poetry is anything between a sucker punch or a long lunch,
a coupe de grace or a warm embrace.
It’s the lines of life in a face,
the wrinkled space between
never and eternity.
[It is a funeral in a typical church on the north side women are crying while fanning themselves because it’s summer. It has come to the time where loved ones get to share a word. The pastor declares a two-minute limit.]
Me: God is good all the time…
Audience: And all the time God is good.
Me: This raggedy muthafucka ain’t never been shit, and God saw that and killed that nigga. In addition, fuck boys cannot prosper spewing fuckery.
[An usher comes to encourage me off the stage. I motion with my pointer finger. One more thing must be said.]
Me: singing Come inside. Take off your coat. I’ll make you feel at home. Now let’s pour a glass of wine cause now we’re all alone. [There are two ushers now.] I been waiting for you babe just let meeeee… [They’re pushing me off stage.] …hold you close to me… [I break away and run to the casket] cuz I been dying for you to make love to meeeeee.
Audience: [mouths dropped]
Me: [a distinct bow]
Me: [flips off funeral goers and leaves]
The beauty of creation lead me here today. I don’t know if I truly accept this. I am a part of a tribe. A tribe built on color, texture, and imagination. A visual epilogue of brilliance. Am I worthy of such mental dexterity? Do I tremble before my forefathers of thought? I am beholden to this refuge of peace. Oh, to be with others who see the same vision as I do. What a beautiful thought.
For years I took for granted what was gifted to be. For years I hid like a scared animal, craving the limelight but was intimidated by the glare. Our voices should be heard, so they are added to the spectrum. Yes, we may be turned away. To only those who are blind.
That is okay. I want to be seen, from where I create.
It’s not the end of the world, although that’s how it seems. Some of the scars you’ll gain. you will try to hide. Some you’ll show on your skin. On your darkest moments, you’ll cry alone in a corner hidden from the world, but you’ll be alright. Even though it seems like no one really cares, that is not the whole truth. People show affection differently. And yes, she loves you. All the negative judgment and beliefs you’ll build will surely be torn down. It’s ok to recede inside that shell if it means you’ll stay alive. It’s ok to numb yourself if it will get you through it all. You will grow through this. I am letting you know, so remember: life will beat you down, but you will get up.
© Máh Lima
i can feel the brokenness
moving inside of you
it’s like a magnet
i need to hold you close and repel the fears
that rob you of your peaceful eyes
allow me to be your knight during those nights
when darkness comes to bring you wool
perhaps i’m so attracted to these cracks in your foundation
because i’m familiar with the void
and the depths it produces
when we lack the ability to avoid
i know you need a guardian
that makes you feel safe as you hide
let me provide some sort of blanket for your security
even if it may only be
for a short time.
Featured Image: Keith Haring Artwork
Today I woke up to a hangry father
who had been awake for a few hours
but didn’t have anyone to cook for him
so instead of cooking breakfast for myself
I made sure his fragile ego was fed
Continue reading Larki
I have had my heart broken. Heck, I have most likely broken my own heart. And maybe, I’m at the brink of doing that again. And I thought I knew what endurance was, until now. Nothing beats the present circumstances, not even heartbreak. My endurance is being tested at the ultimate level, being away from all things familiar, and the safety of comfort zones. Living in a place I am not sure I can ever truly call home. I am left alone, to feel invisible because I chose to step out of my mind and voice the things that cause me to self-destruct. Yet, it feels like I should’ve stayed quiet and turned my gears to suit the mechanics at the behest of everyone, except myself. My endurance is confronted with the lonely feeling of having no one to fall onto, to tell me “it’ll work out”. It’s just me trying to tell myself, trying to tell my body that “it’ll be okay, you just need to focus on what you’re here for.” But, that’s not always comforting. And the only outstretched arms I see, are the ones limping at my sides, yearning for a reprieve. So my eyes droop low, tired from crying, rendering my blood to sweat acid, burning away at my organs. I guess that’s just what’s called “being hard on myself,” as I try to see past my vision onto everyone’s point of view. Hoping I’ll be strong enough to see through the fog when all these voices surround me, yet none addresses me. I thought I knew what endurance was, but now, I truly know what it means, because there is no escape in sight for me. And my organs bleed, as the blade stabs through endlessly.
© Soshinie Singh
Author of the Phoenix Letters and the Mist Calling
Sauntering down the wynd, wearing my aplomb and prestige, hearsay passed by,
My corpulence wasn’t just my chassis, but a riposte to their unwanted why.
Unceasing my footfalls, I carried myself with a muted smile and masked tears,
Sheathing my arms with my trembling hands, and my eyes bespoke fears.
Continue reading GUILD : THE JURIST.
Swipe left. Right. Left. Right. Right. It’s a match. OMG. Gonna try to talk. See if there’s anyone there. No reply. Swipe left. Right. Right. Left. Left. Oh, they replied. Geez, only that? Well, let’s try something more. Oh no, they replied something less. Swipe right. Left. Left. Right again. There’s always a match. They don’t really talk. It’s ok like that. Because every time we “connect”, my ego has a blast.
© Máh Lima