insomnia sometimes
brings gifts
if I had not opened
this porch door
at 2 a.m.
& stepped outside
my skin would not have held
unfiltered moonlight,
nor would I have seen Venus
almost as bright as that moon
just now skimming the tips
of the trees of my valley
the tips of the middle fingers
meet the thumbs
in the mudra for patience
and the mudra for prayer
is simply palm meeting palm flat
for centering
interesting
as when I pray for patience
I hold my palms open
on my legs–
turned upwards in that gesture
of helplessness
as if I expect patience
will fill my hands
when I ask for it
tonight
I am going to the mall
wearing camouflage
face covered
but for my eyes
I will occupy the center bridge
over the concourse–
count the bodies
streaming store to store
within range
and
instead of tear gas
I will cloud the air
with confetti
in the place of bullets
I will rain down
chocolate
the fun size bars
in handfuls
indiscriminately firing
***Nelle, the best I could do
come rebel with us!
Rebellion….to be ‘rebellious’….sounds good doesn’t it? The very thought of the word makes that adrenaline swell in our stomachs, makes us feel empowered, and maybe…just maybe, a little bit dangerous.
Well, happy Saturday to you all and welcome to Poetics!
My name is Stu McPherson, and I’m here to get you riled up, fired up, and get those poetic juices flowing!
Rebellion.
What does rebellion mean?
Well, to me it can mean a whole host of things, from political protest, to youth subcultures, to boundary pushing art, film, poetry, and fashion to name but a few. But it could be as simple as deciding to do something out of character, doing or saying something you feel strongly about. But the bottom line is…it is an action that breaks norms, whether these be personal, political, or those of the wider world.
Let me try and put this into some kind of…
View original post 851 more words
by Noel Ihebuzor and Susan Daniels
my chi is a muse, impish
invisible fellow lurking
behind my ears and my tongue
whispering when I am not ready
sauntering away when I am
mine whispers words in woven gold flights
spiraling from blood to my ears
as my eyes open; dream-writing, I call it
and the words melt in daylight like mist
before I have reached for my pen
quicksilver, erratic
unpredictable, nagging like a stubborn dream
on those days when fresh minty words stream
down my running fingers
and then only to turn off the faucet
when incipient joy in showering in the deluge
of singing is huge
they gift us in fragments, suggestions.
if they gave us the keyed music
of the harp strung underneath particles
always vibrating, could our ears
hold the whole song?
then those days when in mischief
it fills me with words in riot
words that rage at thought
thoughts that resist rhythm
lines that refuse order, grating
words, thoughts in drunken stagger
limping clubfoot, clumsy clod
those words that sound like beginning poetry
that go nowhere, or spiral into nonsense:
pretending I am a tree/transmission shock
jamming the frequency/my head
is a crowded place to peek into. hum the words
my personal goddess, and I will follow
blindly, my pen scribbling your joke
and this poet the butt of it
the seasons come and go
leaves sprout, bloom and drop
but my chi remains unchanging
driving, firing, inspiring and
sometimes tiring and
despairing me
ridden and driven by laughing children
impossible to catch, and should we try?
no, better to sound the songs
of invisible fingers strumming heartstrings
like mandolins that sometimes fall flat
for their amusement
my chi and I are Siamese twins
linked at the junction of mind, soul and heart
chasing our wants amidst chi’s obdurate wonts
yes, linked and bound, but not by a short thread
she tugs me awake, jumping rope
with the cord that feeds us both, but I cannot
wake her, cannot call her to me–no, I am her dog
leashed by that link,
sometimes running at the snap of a finger
begging for strokes and scraps
chi, your hands will not choke my throat when I proclaim
your wandering and meandering ways
twins are equals, social and spiritual
I resist bullies, and I call you that not
but can the palm no matter how large blot out the rays of the moon
my truths about you stand erect, an iroko for all to see
and despite your sobering entreaties,
these truths I cannot not hide nor suppress
I have no proverbs to suggest urgency
better than these; but yes, let us call out
trickery for what it is, and play each other
without binding, in a dance
instead of a chase, so we both smile in victory;
not a rout but a tie, in a game well-played by both
but though I rage, I fear that in the end
you and I shall meet at the junction of road
where compromise and conciliation habit
productive, just like I wish for us
for you need me and I need you
and the world would be poorer if our voices died
or we choked each other in moments
of well deserved rage and resentment
***This was FUN! Noel and I wrote this with one pass-off each. The chi here represents a personal god, in this case, two personal gods that alternately pester their poet-hosts and then gift them with beautiful poetry/songs. You can read that as a muse, if you would rather. As in all our duets, I am italicized, Noel is bolded.
more colors here than
Crayola boxes can catch
wrapped inside one skin
Susan Daniels Poetry 