There is a windchime at my back window,
It makes a slow song in the wind-
Sad, like the owner.
The plant next to it has a flower,
bent forward in search of light
And I am rocking myself to happiness in the living room.
It’s all too hazy,
Dimming off slowly like a dying eulogy.
Jazz is playing off my speakers;
like the will in me to see through tonight.
Everything is whirling,
And my being is threatening to disintegrate.
Do you think that maybe,
You can stop me from reeling.
Some days I feel like a flower;
lightly pinned on a fur coat
with the winds blowing both in and out
of an open warehouse where I am hanged.
On others I am a wolf;
howling to a dripping moon
spelling out dreams with wails
letter by letter.
Some days I feel like a dying candle during a hurricane;
with the water rushing in
The anticipation of drowning
sweeping me away.
On others life feels like a grave;
and there are no flowers on this side of the grave.
The procession is stuck at your home;
with you leading it
lowering your head-
mumbling supplications for your soul.
I find your prayers oscillative;
words of repentance tossed in and around grit teeth-
“forgive me, for I knew no better.”
what solace do you seek,
did you for a second think that hearts break in whispers?
Turn that other way;
say five little Hail Mary’s
leaving your cloak of self-righteousness at my feet.
You will do that for me, lover,
Photocredits: Photo of Rae of Rayerae by Kelvin Kaesa
What do you think of on late Sunday afternoons;
with the sun calm
and winds lazy strolling through your window curtains?
Do you think of love lost,
bodies you have perused through like scriptures
with the messiah sipping through your fingers;
finding no salvation?
Do your dreams cross your mind;
like ships in high tide
and you an inexperienced captain
in search of a shore?
Or does thoughts of home come knocking;
where love is muttered through silent prayers
and stern looks?
On late Sunday afternoons;
do you think of you?
Photo Credits: Kelvin Kaesa
I have dreams,
delicate shells swaying back and forth the sea of self-doubt;
a country girl in a big city.
I have worked so hard to survive me,
built origami homes with pages of my spirit;
Like gushes of waves, hitting hard the shore of myself,
yearning and loathing .
Loneliness rolls out my tongue like home should,
sounding like unanswered phone-calls on Sunday afternoons;
with the house cool,
and I sprawled butt naked on the brown sofa at the corner.
Conversations with myself have been bare lately
with bleeding knuckles
and an exasperated beaten down soul.
I am learning to gather myself up
Don’t you know,
that beating yourself up has never been a fair fight?
This is how nights are spent in a city miles away from home;
Gin, Jazz, lime-
ghostly moans of forbidden pleasure
hightailing the vacancy of the night at 11 pm,
nestling desire while groping at strangers bodies.
Would you push your fears aside,
reach for my ready groins-
hear them call out to you as our Messiah?
At 12 am,
You skitter & stagger across the ‘waiting to happen’ moment of the city
Toasting to the shadow halo of beer and drowning
the emptiness of routine to the last drop-
a clockwork of sensations as if intricately tied to chasing love.
You say you seek more than just flesh and hurried gasps,
for a soul that exudes the familiar scent of home-
Don’t you know that you can’t make homes out of abandoned houses?
At 4 am,
You rush to the bathroom and scream,
From the background there are dim club lights
And loud old skul hip hop
You wait for dawn to displace the nightly harlot
and wonder if this the is closest you’ve been to home?
should’t home be more than the music drawn from drunken lips?
This is a collaborative piece of me and the amazing Eddy Ongili of eddypoems . Enjoy 🙂
Photo Credits: The internet
Here we are: breaking bread again, you want to know how I am doing (do you?)
I want to paint to you a picture of how it feels to carry around a broken heart.
But I learnt last week that honesty does not serve as an apt ice breaker.
This is the longest I have stayed away from cliches- I am intent on breaking my own record.
It is for the best.
Surely with: a broken train of thought, a broken image of self, a nearly broken spirit-
I cannot risk, to top it all off, to sound like a broken record.
So, you can understand if this poem (what poem?) breaks here-
The writer does not wish to be named.