LET THE HEAD
REMAIN Writings From The Digging Deep, Facing Self Course January 2014
”The women in my course hail from around the world. Some may never have access to the kind of guidance/conversation provided in our courses, simply because it doesn’t exist yet in their communities, or is inaccessible. Alternatively, participants might never open up, too shy to become vulnerable while looking a friend eye to eye. The online space gives a certain level of comfort in the relative anonymity - the strangers are all in the journey together, but we don’t know much about each other’s background - and yet, a deep connection occurs, a sacred sharing. How special to parallel the stories of a woman in Tanzania with a woman in Georgia. Think about the kind of conversations that open up when a 40 year old white stay-at-home mom connects with a 25 year old lesbian Latina from the Bronx. These two may never enter a room together in person, by sheer virtue of geography and/or identity, and here they can exchange inner thoughts, see intimately inside the other’s experience.”
I recently wrote this while being interviewed by The Operating System magazine - and gently challenged about the why of online spaces. This round of Digging Deep, Facing Self was our most diverse in experiences, identity and location - spanning New York to Alabama, California to Maryland, Australia to Tanzania. Again and again I am heartened by the work of the participants, the slow journey towards the open break and the subsequent healing - the sheer bravery in completing any step of our thirty day course. And this is the result: a book of poems that are unedited, raw as the heart that beats it’s blue blood, unearthing, unwinding, spinning words like ceramic plates on the tip of a magic finger! These poems are fresh as a wet wound, wise as Gram and I know you will see yourself reflected in the stories. After all, our experiences are shared truths. The circumstance may differ, the plot twisting in variant ways but the emotions are profoundly human. Thank these women for airing out their truths, hanging them on the line like the coziest sweater for you to snuggle in, warmed by the sun. Thank yourself for reading, the first step to putting your own language to work. Can’t you just feel the courage coloring the sky! And to the authors of this anthology: a kiss of blessings on each of your foreheads. What a gift it has been to watch you fall open like a flower. What a joy it is to read your works and feel my own self strengthening. What comfort it is to know you are marching out into the world, glowing so brightly. Shine on! In love & poems, Caits Meissner Course facilitator & poet PS. Join us for the next 30 day course journey by visiting www.caitsmeissner.com/course
TABLE OF CONTENTS 1. Little bird bones are so hollow by Bilen Berhanu 2. watch her (for my momma) by Bilen Berhanu 2. Yoga Logic by Anita Brown 3. Sanctified by Anita Brown 4. Enough II. Reminders by Lauren Ash 5. Misery/Learning to Heal by Lauren Ash 6. The Keeper by Amy Lee Czadzeck 7. Margaret is Every Womean I Write by Amy Lee Czadzeck 8. behold by Chopp 9. the misguided twin of my muse by Chopp 10. Sewing by Mette Loulou von Kohl 11. Sprinklers by Mette Loulou von Kohl 12. Parade by Morgana Phoenix 13. Hummingbird by Morgana Phoenix 14. Mi Madre Patria by Karla Rodriguez 15. Always Be You by Karla Rodriguez 16. Landscape by Lisa Smith 17. Barb by Lisa Smith 18. FOR BROTHAS WHO THINK IT IS OKAY TO INTRUDE ON MY SIDEWALK SPACE by Raq Mayoral 19. MIS(S)TAKEN SEX by Raq Mayoral 20. Work by Katherine Webber 21. Stories to be written by Katherine Webber 22. i am fire. by Michelina Ferrara 23. you will never be the same. by Michelina Ferrara 24. For Sandra by Cristina Preda 25. Land by Cristina Preda 26. Historical & Ancestral Narratives by Ariana Allensworth 27. Letter to Self by Ariana Allensworth 28. My Reflection by Katie Hanna 29. Thing I can do with my body by Esther Karin Mngodo 30. Ngorongoro by Esther Karin Mngodo 31. A wound. by Hokuma Karimova 32. Power of Love by Hokuma Karimova
Little bird bones are so hollow Bilen Berhanu Little bird wings flapped against his clammy hands, Vertebrae pressed back into cold concrete. There are no handrails down those stairs. Damp tongue flops around a small mouth, Jaws slack as spirit leaves body. There are no lights on in that room. Little bird flies up and away, Gathering her crushed bones from under him. There is no one watching when you get home. Small mind shuts deadbolt door, Small heart calcifies and hardens in ribcage. There is still time to come back. Little bird knows her bones are hollow, Glowing neon pinks, purples and oranges of city sunsets. There is sweetness in holding this in your wings.
watch her (for my momma) Bilen Berhanu light bounces off glossy red nails matching lips, a perfect pout she has no kinda time for none of this shoulders square up to hold up crown the cloud of etan smoke almost obscure the jewels gabhi clad masses huddle at her door, beg for her eyes to land a moment on their faces eucalyptus trees limbs whisper caress her blessed head she crushes a leaf or two boils a pot of shiro, sends spatters of qibbe across the tiles ladles it out gracefully we watch the harvest moon barely rise above the tall bleached grass the velvety mounds of earth all love bends toward her she tugs at the corners and it goes flowing back
Yoga Logic Anita Brown with each breath connect anew to center purity embodying full, fresh-faced love the mirror lies inhale expansion notice everywhere-ness tight tension-filled hips tell old stories of hatred and jealousy yet to be released taut as a violin string lies, the whole lot of ‘em feet planted firmly salute the sun bow down surrender breath catches struggle ensues as the kinked and whorly shoulder knot attempts to detour and block prana vitality a life-time of tactical scheming to dwell in long-forgotten dramas and yes, lies lunge, twist, savor strength stability that reckons Oma’s hugs flexor making itself known in no uncertain terms rage and drunken foolishness playing a bar-room ditty in this venue foul music to anyone’s ears
a fraud’s pitch savasana the earth envelops in darkness the stars illuminate squeezed and extracted presence awaits honestly and boldly embracing TRUTH
Sanctified Anita Brown a wise man told me i was sanctified today so i returned to the river coursing through my veins and felt for the life that swayed to and fro like a tiny fishing boat trying to settle but the voyage has merely just begun and the evolution of this journey has no end what appears to be a monsoon may be a rainbow after all allowing in the whole possibility of a captive future bobbing in this current experiencing true abundance and endless feasting come follow me said the Nazarene and the damn broke causing the rivulets to bubble up and stream freely in acceptance of the offer an inner knowing to trust my aqueous intelligence that the hour was ripe to cast my net to become a fisher of men’s souls
Enough II. Reminders Lauren Ash You are a quiet spirit who is going through a difficult process of healing. You were born into a sea of salt, barriers of life slowly deteriorating you. But, your head is strong, even when the rest of your body feels weak. Your mind is confused at times, yet unbreakable. Your heart is in repair, but always loving. Even when at times when you know you feel the *illness beginning to take over, you reach for reminders for guidance. Warsan Shire reminded you you are terrifying, strange, and beautiful. Alex Elle reminded you to learn to embrace the rain. Nayyirah Waheed reminded you being honest about my pain makes me invincible. Your sister reminded you that you are her biggest inspiration to push through the struggle. It’s never just enough. *illness-depression
Misery/Learning to Heal Lauren Ash how long can one withstand the never ending ache of misery what must one do to escape the shameful feelings of worthlessness how long should one watch their own blood spill from their limbs how does one survive in this jaded life when will the searing pain end? let those wounds heal let the
salt water flow inhale hope exhale redemption the end is near.
The Keeper Amy Lee Czadzeck The length of her patience all are held in her loving arms. The ghostly walls of her sculpture studio filled with nothing and everything. Friends say, “you keep it,” of their handmade riches. She visits the graveyard to place these treasures upon the fog filled headstones as the child within awaits a full life. Together, and alone, she sits below with a notebook at the foot of some tall pines, ants crawling on her leg are no bother, she writes life. The trees stretch higher from knowing her voice. And from those precious toes to the fallen nest where mother squirrel gathers her babes, she prays. At home, her humor of bunnies slippers meet just enough challenge from the penguin dog that loves far beneath his wet nose. Her loves sleep in the comfort of her awake where she dances, dressed in her spinny happy body, in their rainbow library, where stories are made.
Margaret is Every Woman I Write Amy Lee Czadzeck She, the matriarch, with thirteen books left to write. Her father left instructions on how to dress. Since then she lost count of the flap of her wings For nothing she does is separate from her roots. I never thought, Grandmother, had another life beyond this kitchen. I never thought, us, Women, had their own medical charts to keep. I never thought, desire was more than counting ten fingers and ten toes. I want a lineage of Her and Home and Self and Garden and Artistry linked with Humanity. Grandmother. Women. She left us with her bleeding heart on the first floor of the hospital floor. Crippled, gripping each other, and holding Grandfather up.
behold Chopp glowing leaves the color of kiwi flesh emerge from my finger tips as i tap the wind. the perch of a dog’s ear when interest strikes, the tickle of a jasmine scented breeze when i pass... summoning acceptance to float. my hair like dandelion fur rebelling against gravity, caressing the day full with the sensation of indulgence. it’s okay, it is most certainly fine for you to engage in this emotive strut. let it nourish all of your curiosity as i sprinkle brilliance into each step, turning earth into sky, beyond end. deliver my soul, usher out spirit. with the magnetism of a stamen’s sticky glue the tender grip of grape skin. i crawl into your crevices, and harvest miracles. renewing your celestial vision, i teach you to vibrate with the trembling rhythm that stars keep.
the misguided twin of my muse Chopp a crease of light trickles out an opportunity a room filled with hundreds of golden hues bold green leaves flowering petals unfolding onto cement, grounds me. some glow like iridescent wonder a fireflies backside others stretch wide as hips of venus, sarah barrtman. this is my tribe. a bouquet, stem for stem myriad of wombmen. i seek the refuge of my sisters. i make dark into light. and in this room, i murder the misguided twin of my muse. it is my rite.
Sewing Mette Loulou von Kohl You sewed my lips together with your smile Each crease by your mouth weaved The needle and thread Through each fiber of skin Through each layer of muscle Thick and slow like molasses My blood began to pour from the punctures And I began to choke on my teeth But this is the way we had taught ourselves to be With one another There was silence No real acknowledgment until the end Only the slow drops of blood From my mouth Landing in a pool on your dirt scuffed shoes This was our obsession And I smiled Your disappearance made me pull those threads tighter Forcing my lips closer together So not even a whisper could escape Why turn on you when I could turn on myself? But that can only last so long Eventually there’s nothing left to hit Because it’s all bruised already And there’s no more release in watching the skin turn from olive to blue I wanted to paint sunsets with my tongue again So I clipped that thread with the knife you gave me And kept it in a small box Until I heard the dirty hard base From the dance floor
And I remembered how you hate to dance So I threw it away Realizing that it is hard for me to let things go As the thread hit the water My teeth grew back as diamonds I watched the thread float away Down the violet stream hidden under the city streets And thanked you for sewing me so hard That I now know how to mend the holes in my heart
Sprinklers Mette Loulou von Kohl Licking me down in my belly Behind the locked bedroom door Car horns seeping through the crack From my bedroom window As you break my cunt from the outside with your eyes The spotted pavement rising from the heat Warm concrete slipping Into our lungs Reminding us of when we were younger Running through the sprinkler in the park The drops beating against Our simmering skin Erasing the moment In my bed Where I was the boy And you were the girl Your kiss planted a seed in my belly I felt it grow As the leaves turned to fire And the sidewalks to white dust A peach tree flowered from my belly But I let the fruit rot Too scared to understand Your gift to me Laying in bed Alone Behind the locked door Where I was the boy And I was the girl Until the air became thick beads of heat
Dancing with regret And I wished to cool my skin once more Under our sprinklers But I did not recognize myself Refracted in the drops And you were not there to help me clean up The blemished brown peaches Decorating my feet Like the kisses you left On the inside of my lungs
Parade Morgana Phoenix Do you hear that? Can you hear the drums and horns? Off in the distance, there is dancing and balloons and it is coming this way! That beat - vibrating off my skin Don’t you see the sparkle of brilliant colors in my eyes? My smile? Damn, that parade is jamming! The color-guard is coming in I’m gonna pick up a flag Waving this banner high Stopping traffic while little kids clap along Have you seen me dance to the beat of my own drum? Have you seen the colors I can paint the world in? Have you seen my inner 5 year old and the way she stares in wonder? Have you seen the trail I’ve blazed? The rain can come and I will dance in it Face turned up Smiling Once I left the shadows and felt the sun
I grabbed hold Let it burn as I swallowed one of its rays There is always summer in this heart And the band plays on...
Hummingbird Morgana Phoenix You are as much art as artist The boldness of the Colors in your craft Are a reflection of you And your paint speckled denim You hold a paintbrush With the same confidence in your walk Your dance, your talk Your energy nearly levitates you The jewelry that decorates you Glows like NYC on a rainy night Your inner light Is like That full moon You stopped to photograph One Friday night You are an ever changing canvas Each moment as stunning as the last Are you aware of the depth in your eyes? The beam in your smile? The glow of your skin? The fire in your conversations? Your aura is the color of love You are hummingbird A constant flurry of beautiful motion I see you, one day As an Abuelita, On brownstone steps Reading Tarot for teenage girls With cards you’ve painted
Scenes from your life Because there is so much color In you
Mi Madre Patria Karla Rodriguez Lavish green mountains Ample like the hips that birthed you And the breasts that fed you life and energy That birthed and nurtured a nation Of violence and bloodshed Where the sins of the father came back for their sons To judge and punish them But what about their daughters? What sins are we paying for? And our children? And our children’s children? And our children’s children’s children? What about my children? Whose sins will they be paying for? Don’t let their youth slip away without have tasted Arepas de choclo, empanadas, arequipe, sancocho Spring rain in the mountain valley Holding her first sparkler on xmas eve Grandma’s red nail polish So that she can find her balance When life strikes its first blow to her gut And makes her feel like she’s drowning under wave after crashing wave And the salt water quickly starts to take up the room of air But she’ll grit her teeth and bear it She’ll push and push upward until she finds the surface Until she climbs out of that black hole And gasps for one more fighting breath Like so many before her.
Always Be You Karla Rodriguez Hmm! what am I going to do with you?! That stoic face, like the calm stillness of a lake But don’t let that fool you! Look at that hair! Those sweet brown curls that I could get lost in like summer days People are going to think you’re the soft pink petal of an orchid You have your father’s rough, calloused, been-workin-all-damn-day hands And we wouldn’t want you any other way Those large almond eyes that look like endless cotton clouds in the sky And why wouldn’t they want to look into an endless ocean? With questions always brewing between those ears girl Pillow soft lips, put on that red lipstick boo You look like a Queen Oh no no no my dear, don’t look down, Keep your eye on the prize Just like that little pouch down by your stomach Listen to it. It’s not just for holding babies Or your favorite homemade apple pie slice Now what rebellious, intellectual, and comical tattooed man is going to resist you? Stop defending yourself. I don’t need to hear it! Stop trying to tell me I’m wrong. I won’t change! Neither will a lot of people, and that’s okay. Because you shouldn’t change either, just grow. Be difficult Be opinionated
Be smart Keep going till you’re blue in the face Question Hold them accountable Be comfortable Be friendly Be loud Sing more Keep dreaming You are equal, but different Always be you.
Landscape Lisa Smith Tall Piney woods Sway full-bodied in the wind. The shadow of steeples always near The dull, low, murmur of the prison count siren. A giant blowing into an old glass bottle Day in, day out surrounded by walls The forest The church And prisons. Preachers and Teachers are my people Baptists as far back as I know Proud people Godly folk Not ashamed of the twang in their voice, Or the Bible that nuzzles up with the gun in the glove compartment. Poor wandering preacher A young wife who left school to fulfill her duty Two small kids: boy, girl Three hostages bound by holy matrimony. How often was my father told to be a man, As tears from pain welled in his eyes? A small boy Beaten, switched, belted, and probably worse. Did Grandad quote scripture, While he whipped? Or did the demons of his past take hold And his eyes glaze over The way my father’s later would? Did the churches know?
Were there whispers at potluck? Is that why he fled? Church to church, Was help ever offered to the poor wife? Or did she have to make the bed, She chose to lie in? Only the boy was beaten But all were terrorized. I wonder what advent was like in that house What did the Christmas tree look like? Did my grandma play piano and warble Oh Holy Night, While my dad and aunt hung the ornaments? Father was always warm on Christmas morn. We’d eat the sticky buns my mom had prepared Sometimes though I’d see sadness in his eye He did his best to break the cycle, I think. Sometimes it’s hard to say that: My sister, screaming, beneath his bare back Him holding her with one arm, And the ping-pong paddle Breaking across her back. Not all his demons were mastered. I was so young; My fear was born that day. But Baptists are if nothing else, One’s to forgive (on the surface at least) Recommit to God Atone, atone, atone for their sins For all have sinned Fallen short Wanting, glory. You don’t have to be re-baptized
That’s not strictly allowed Once saved always saved Whether you like it or not So one day in Paradise I guess I’m doomed to walk Side, by side, The miserable manipulative Abuser That created my father.
Barb Lisa Smith When the arrow pierces deep, soft tissue Hold on. Don’t remove it Or you’ll bleed out. Instead, hold on. Until you can snap off the shaft Let the head remain. The heart will heal around the point Changing the beat forever But forcing it to pump harder.
FOR BROTHAS WHO THINK IT IS OKAY TO INTRUDE ON MY SIDEWALK SPACE Raq Mayoral You must not know whose presence you are in So I’mma explain I am the One It is my song that opens up heaven’s gate My touch heals your wounds My kisses stop wars I taught the gazelle how to be graceful Eagles ask how I elevate so high And the mighty redwoods learned to stand tall from me The sun tries to out glow my light but only the moon rivals for She is my direct reflection Love is in my eyes Peace is my voice I know you’re hypnotized by my hips’ switch and how they exclaim Queen’s here, Queen’s here Hell yeah, I’m here Stepping in the cement of your memories These prints become immortalized like all the world is Brahman’s Chinese Theatre I’m like a mouse to an elephant but with the royalty of a lioness A needle in the haystack struck by lightning The black widow in her damp silky web at daybreak I am something to behold And you can’t touch this Unless you ask first
MIS(S)TAKEN SEX Raq Mayoral desecrated by men swords & shafts remove all love no feeling left of summer kissing our fleshy hills sweet nectar no longer is produced by our yoni flowers what to make of women with no womb? arsoned with terror Stonehenged decorated with piles of ivory bones caves are more inviting ‘cause intruders made homes here in these fields of white lilies, soft and swaying they did not heed the pleading screams they held down daughters for their own righteousness they did justice in their minds and turned heaven into the devil’s playground what’s left of these angels are shells of their former selves unlike a butterfly out of a cocoon they are not stunning nor soaring they are scared shitless do not touch her do not touch me we are not yours to touch we are suppose to choose who we let enter our Queendom but somehow a Trojan horse arrived and now we are conquered and defeated and misplaced by those who we knew to be our knights in shining armor
Work Katherine Webber Then ink runs with a tear splash as dimples appear on the paper lead snaps on today’s date bound to frustration by men in matched striped shirts same meeting same outcome the cardigan thread unraveled by chewed fingernails Now red shoes, lips, necklace commanding the head of the table diary and pen at the ready knowledge drawn from this grand building new ideas given by the river flowing past light reflects off blue eyes as dimples appear next to my smile
Stories to be written Katherine Webber I treasure the warm glow I get thinking about Bing and all that she did an atlas full of countries, experiences and activities I wipe away tears for all that was left undone books left unread in a library and I think of all the girls for whom school is no option the stories never written, never told the thrill a uniform, ribbons neatly tie plaits, stiff new squeaky shoes rows of desks facing blackboards, graffiti from those years gone by teacher with chalky fingers standing tall eager to each sharpened pencils, blank pages, old text books at the ready but like the car accident in the desert, poverty is a killer of futures unwritten
i am fire. Michelina Ferrera descendant of tired immigrants trapped in a hurricane of americana daughter of compassionate tongue (lightening) granddaughter of thunder a universe inside the walls of her skin each star illuminating new galaxies to explore adorning each curve once a sleeping dragon, now a mistress of creation hips once seen as mountains filled with lost travelers, now give birth to generations the winds of her spirit spark revolutions of healing my gravitational force pulls you in deeper and deeper and deeper
you will never be the same. Michelina Ferrera your flesh weighs heavy on your spirit so deep are the wounds you carry you cannot even see yourself generations of mothering worn on your hips they carry stories, lies, deceit i am the daughter of two continents that never fully met in my own body though they both live here now they have never found peace my legs, large and looming a chrysalis that hangs from my waist waiting, waiting to be accepted longing for love, touch, transformation & dainty summer shorts when really, they command purpose all of these curves... spill into a hatred that can barely be contained the slippery sides of mountain trails that travelers aim to conquer before sunset or rest in throughout the cold night uncharted trails lead so hopelessly to a river the river repeating back to me all of my body’s shame my body’s monster lives there shouting. screaming. begging to never be forgotten.
For Sandra Cristina Preda Like each morning’s conflagration over Arizona you rise and dance yourself electric, perform the ritual of adornment beads/ bangles/ bless as though jewelry were water for baptism and bare skin, a holy beggar. You could teach me something about controlled fires. You, who found humor in the dead potted cactus, beauty in the moldy corn husks, faith in the Made in China sticker on the bottom of the Virgen de Guadalupe statue you made a shrine to when you got into Columbia and tried bringing Harlem a piece of the desert. You could teach me about slow burns, love and forgetfulness spells, how to make and use knives. Your voice, sun-drenched with a side of don’t mess,
is what I imagine they dub episodes of I Love Lucy with in Mexico. You are what Frida Kahlo might have made had she been given only yellows. What Cortés might have seen and turned back from had he paused on the shore and looked into the sun. When we drink too much, you start speaking Spanish, I speak Romanian, and we understand each other perfectly. Which is to say, we are tangled like the roots of our languages, we are two branches stretching skyward from the same tree.
Land Cristina Preda A potato field, bare. The last harvest of a generous season. A fire let loose, but it was supposed to have been a controlled blaze. Acres and acres of fat, leftover potatoes roasted beneath topsoil. What the barometer of the country might have read: The last generous season. A plane ticket. Five years between us, but an entire hemisphere, incomprehensible as a language not yet spoken or heard. The indelible imprint of weather. How despite desert climate there is always a chill. To misremember hunger as the idolater of food, of wine. To gorge oneself beyond vulgarity and still hanker, always, for more.
Historical & Ancestral Narratives Ariana Allensworth above my dresser hangs a sepia toned landscape of my elders keeled over in a deep fraternal moment of laughter i pass it daily, uplifted always at my fly, funky and fierce bloodline a visual time capsule of the time before crack before daddy went to Vietnam and came back wounded, on the outside, but inside too before crack pipes sucked out their youthful glow and tooth-filled smiles before the letters to San Quentin had begun their resilience radiates, like the sun, onto me
Love Letter to Self Ariana Allensworth Dearest Ariana, New York City Here, you are like shea butter, tough on the surface but easily spread thin Just like Mom Your disposition a bit too sunny Dreaming on pacific standard time of palm trees and warm afternoons in a papasan chair. No money saved, just living check to check with a room full of heavy books, incense, thrifted garments and one too many film negatives. Some eucalyptus leaves too, cuz they smell like home. Waiting for the next chance to uproot. What’s stopping you? There’s something about this city that’s so damn hard to quit. Can’t quite locate it yet. Heirlooms of your multiethnic roots adorn every crevice of your room. You’re a shape shifter; no victim to two dueling binaries- you’ve embraced every nuance of your multihood. Dreams of radical possibilities and sherbet colored rainbows. At unease as you feel the fierce, fearless idealism of your adolescence chipping away. How does one sustain political courage? Stay true.
My Reflection: Katie Hanna I have avoided mirrors for so long that I have forgotten what I look like. I see my breasts every day hanging out of my shirt with a child dangling from one or the other his feet walking on my shoulders down my arms, from one leg to the other. the tugging and pulling of once taut skin resembles the pull of cow hide as it becomes leather or the nakedness of a plucked chickenits like that of a dead animal. Each day my breasts whisper secrets to my belly buttononce a long lost cousin, but now a neighbor they creep closer to day by day. they tell stories of days when men suckled from my breasts and played with my nipples in the darkness of classrooms. when was the last time a man has even touched them, now? I sit on a deflated balloon, handfulls to the touch if you dare get past their sight. This is a body only a blind man can appreciate. this is no 22 year old, not even 25 year old. it has been sucked, fucked, plucked, punched and bruised and taken for gold. it has even bore a child.
it’s been mine and yours and even theirs but not for some time- if everhas anyone held it as sacred or prayed to its alter of saggy nourishing breasts of pudgy universe holding wombs of fat fingers and hands carried through generations of skin with fine lines and acne alike Nope, all wicks left un-singed all incense still in its box. the only sacrifice has been me.
Things I can do with my body Esther Karin Mngodo I can praise loudly I can worship humbly I can kiss tenderly I can heal gently I can peal frequently I can sing like a bird And bring joy to my soul I can laugh and transcend My energy like an echo I can dance unapologetically with a rhythm of my own I can hug intensely I can write profusely I can breathe deeply I can live fiercely I can love passionately I can love, passionately
Ngorongoro Esther Karin Mngodo the first time I gazed into you, I saw magic I saw what I wanted to see in myself I saw brave, I saw bold, I saw raw life I saw what I never thought could be possible gentleness and fierceness co-existing in the same body fire and water blending into each other in public like it was natural I was in awe I was out of breath You are a breath of fresh air and I gazed upon your beauty Like a child who had just seen his mother for the first time eyes wide open, iris dilated Like a mother, who had just seen her child for the first time heart wide open, love fixated I saw how you wore jewels of the heart with such humility praise of your name had nothing to do with your frame but your character the quality of your mind was impeccable You are the open skies of Ngorongoro, naked and bare for all to see you opened your mouth and like a gentle breeze your silence kissed my soul whispering gently to my core You are the Ngorongoro crater The womb of nature
Wild at heart Yet sensitively humble to a kind remark I wanted to be you I wanted to have what you have I wanted to be loved as you were not because I hated you but only because you had the guts to be you, And that my love, makes you so damn beautiful
A wound. Hokuma Karimova A wound. A well - so dark and deep. So moist, so chilling. What lies beneath. A secret - violent and intriguing. Yours to keep. No tests to use, to uncover. Don’t grind your teeth. Won’t find it, on the surface of a golden coin. Won’t find it, in silver linings of stormy clouds. You’ll find it, in quick punches, straight to the groin. In whiplash of love - like sharp teeth of hounds. You are the prey. Don’t run. It’s way too late. Freeze, look around. The world is spinning. Heart bruised. Eyes red. Won’t smile at your fate? Stand tall. Time’s left. Your heart still beating. Look up. Night sky. Dark, but stars still shine. Look down. Your feet, glued to this Earth. A glass. A sip. Drink up the numbing wine. Cheers to your life! For whatever it is worth.
Power of Love Hokuma Karimova Desire. A raging fire in the woods. Absorbing oxygen and spitting yellow. Destroying green. Leaving black goods. Thick smoke. All wild, nothing mellow. A power pushing forth. Aimed at domination, Of everything around. Deleting all, by chance. But in the deadliness, there’s passion. Inspiration. So mesmerizing. Taking your breath all in a glance. Start struck, in awe. A powerless captivation. The way love takes us by surprise. A treasure chest, filled with temptation. You cannot help and walk to your demise. And when its through. You sit in smoke and ash. The charcoal stains your skin, your heart. Wondering - all power gone in just a flash! The heat too hot. It tore you right apart. They say don’t play with fire. You’ll burn yourself. They say be careful, what you wish for. You thought you’re different. You’ve got stealth. So why so shattered? Crying on the floor.