Pillow talk

short poetry words move ozan kose turkish wrestlers

Quantum physics dictates that
Looked at directly matter will disappear.

Big physics says that electrons can be bound,
Entangled, still

Unified theory does not allow multiple existences.

These are matters of the heart;
Sometimes looking at love directly can destroy it,

And we don’t want lovers disappearing,
To burnt, brawny, Ulaanbaatar without us, we

Want them flourishing and,
No matter how ribald, how

Cherished they are, at times a
Gaze averted can fertilize love,

Parry an argument,
Can better the road ahead.

Dew off fingertips,
Off eyelashes,

Sweat,

May glisten brightest,
When not looked at directly.

Not everyone is free.

Picture – OZAN KOSECGettyImages

-short evocative poetry-

I wish we had played on all night

5410667216_1a6f312353meameanwhilebackattheranch.veederranch.com

I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his

-strike while the iron is hot-

Jive,

Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and

‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,

A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing life into a tin-metal harmonica,

‘Alleluhia,’

Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I think heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
AndI wish we had played on all night.

-evocative short poetry-

Insurrection

image

I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
Niggers with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his balls,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
Nigger, whore, bitch.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Can he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I masturbate from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me nigger, whore, bitch.

 

♦photo – personal

evocative short poetry – words move

I have forgotten who I am.

TOPSHOTS  Newly initiated 'naga sadhus' prepare to perform rituals on the banks of the Ganga River during the Maha Kumbh festival in Allahabad on Febraury 6, 2013.   During every Kumbh Mela, the diksha - ritual of initiation by a guru - program for new members takes place.   AFP PHOTO/Sanjay Kanojia

TOPSHOTS Newly initiated ‘naga sadhus’ prepare to perform rituals on the banks of the Ganga River during the Maha Kumbh festival in Allahabad on Febraury 6, 2013. During every Kumbh Mela, the diksha – ritual of initiation by a guru – program for new members takes place. AFP PHOTO/Sanjay Kanojia

 

My shoes are not where I left them.

There is a dog howling in the distance,
And the sound reverberates,
Lifting the dew off the dense canopy of trees outside.

The bamboo lamp beside the sofa,
Sheds dull orange light across the Persian carpet,
And I am not casting a shadow.

I have,

A mug of hot tea,
A roll of Maryland,
Chocolate chip cookies,
And bad breath.

I have forgotten who I am.

I seem to remember going down to the
Laundry room,
And watching her fold steaming towels,

Fat haunches, corpulent bust,
And a very fine neck.

♠picture – http://www.dirzz.com/1155490-topshots-india-religion-hindu-kumbhall1033898069

-short evocative poetry-

Sleepwalking

short poetry, identity, race, sex, gay, homosexual, African, colonial, diaspora

 

I have always liked,
Defiant Africans,

Nelson, Patrice, Kenyatta,
Martin Luther King,

Groovy black men,
Niggers with attitude,

But they intimidate me,
Black men.

Freedom fighters,
Bar room brawlers,

And I rise from sleep,
Sheened in sweat,

Running away,
Scribbling my number,
On scraps of paper,

On foreheads and trousers,
On outstretched palms,

And I’m breathing heavily,
Feeling stained,

Because,
That one there,

The white man in Navy uniform,
With hair on his balls,

I know him,

-conquistador-

He smells of garlic and grease,
And my black friends call me,
Nigger, whore, bitch.

Will he take the lion tooth offered,
Will he make the tribal dance?

-I can teach him to love the earth,
Teach him to plant his feet in, deep-

I masturbate from sleep, supported
By thick, colonial, muscle.

I am forging steel,
Industrial iron,

I am engineering a white lover
Beneath the sheets, whilst

Apologising to freedom fighters,
Who call me nigger, whore, bitch.

 

♦photo – personal

evocative short poetry – words move