Hold…but do not hold.

There is not a thing in this life, that can be held onto;

Books, and their knowledge, do not follow us into the grave,

Nor the weight of a lover’s hand on the hip,

The warm mist of steamy tea coating your upper lip,

The richness of chocolate marvels melting, blooming

flooding.

 

There is not a thing that is permanent;

Stars burn out,

Day turns to night,

Cold slips into warmth.

 

Do not fret for a thing that will make no sense to dead

lips;

Do not mourn for a thing that will not light up dead eyes;

Do not wear anger, or pride, or hurt like a new funeral suit–

The dirt is full of decaying threads.

 

Sit still, and feel the beat of your heart in your chest,

Run wild, and forego the weight of regret,

Linger, and taste the sweetness of breath,

Soar, and enjoy the thrill of ‘trivial’ perils–

 

But do not, in the fullness of living,

The great pleasure of feeling,

The mad pace of achieving,

Forget

That none of it will go to the ground, or the flame,

or the waters with you.

 

Hold…but do not hold.

 

K.N.O.W. Sabbath, August 26th, 2016. 01.16 a.m.

 

Old Lines.

Do you ever have old lines of poems you’ve written,

float ’round your mind?

Words of love and loss, fear and anguish,

Traipsing ‘long, like sour-sweet candy,

As you think of all the lines you’ve written,

and the feelings that have birthed them,

And smile with nostalgia at the sweetness of warm

pictures,

Or stumbled for a moment, as a thing so beautiful

your words will never hold them–

Never paint them with letter, the way your heart, and mind,

and eyes,

Have painted them on ink-less void–

Takes hold of your spirit, and makes you wish for it again?

 

 

Have you ever touched a thing,

Laid your cheek to the surface of sunshine,

Sank into the overwhelming cold of nothing,

And put your pen to white sheet, torn sheet, yellow sheet,

grey sheet,

Skin, heart, soul,

With the rushing blood of ink begging to be let free,

Whispering to share it, capture ‘it’, and give it away

So that ‘it’ can be tasted, and felt:

Owned temporarily–a sensation so nameless, that it lifts you, and weights

you all at once?

 

 

K.N.O.W. Friday, Sabbath evening, August 26th, 2016. 20:45 hrs.

Possession.

Disclaimer: Mom, Dad, Di, Pastor, I have absolutely no idea what I’m writing about. I solemnly swear this is all too much reading.😐

Rated: M  (Trigger warnings apply for sexual themes.)

Prayers to the Holy Father rise up, swift, and gentle, swaying, pleading on behalf of my thoughts, and my tongue, in advance; And although they rise above my head fervently…are inked in prayer booklet like the stories I write…more urgent is my desire to possess you;

Possess you…

I want to possess you, sink into your skin, burn your lips with a heat that is both pleasure, and pain, beginning, and end, until you whisper the name of God, sing His praises wholy, and certainly because all at once The Universe has unfolded before you, and I have gifted it to you–star, and moon, and rising sun–bitten glory into the surface of your skin where it spreads: fierce, bright, red, glowing–flushing your neck, and chest, and arms, glazing you like fire at the birthplace of fine china, and colourful, unbroken glass;

Unzip me: unzip the mask that holds me, and savour; Savour the revelation of loss, and gain; Touch: touch until it is not you, but I, who inhabits you; until it is not your breaths, but mine, that kiss you from the inside out–unwind you, unravel the taste that is your mouth, the heat that is your blood, spilling over, pulsing, spreading between us, consuming us both, as we twain, seek our escape;

Surrender. Do not make me beg. Do not steal prayers from me that are meant to ghost your skin.

Surrender. Surrender to the whisper of your hair against my neck; the weighted, easy pressure of your fingers pressed into the dip of my back, uneven curve of my spine–

Sink. Fall breathless against my breast; let the moisture of your exhausted exhalations bead my…

Sink. Do not request that our demons be exorcised. Forget them; forget them with the grip of my fingers in your hair; forget them with the first taste, the third taste, the last taste, the impression of teeth against skin.

Sink.

K.N.O.W. Tuesday, July 5 thru Wednesday, July 6, 2016. 22:30 hrs to 00:39 hours.

Author’s note: I blushed the whole, damn way through this.

Passport Stamped

The Things I Miss.

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hot ‘tarmac’ beneath bare feet– slippers abandoned, and fingers

splayed upon the road, seeking to capture warmth for themselves;

 

heat simmering across empty streets, empty roads– waves swimming

in the midday sun: people hiding, waiting, watching the sun;

 

the fragrance of curry in the still air– while savouring cook-up, and swank,

pondering met-em, and the power of sweet dumplings in soup, over

heavy ‘duffs’ (doughs?) in met-em loaded with ripe plantains, and good fish;

 

the grating of coconut, the grinding of handheld mills– mortars filled with

the heavy ‘thump, thump, thump’ of pestles pounding plantains;

 

settling onto dusty, uneven floorboards– church pews half-empty, as

congregants kneel in front: skin aches from the cruelty of sand grains,

intercessor’s prayer drifts, soothing afternoon air enters…carries with it

the sound of children playing in sandy, gravel-strewn streets;

 

walking on cracked sea-walls– slippers in one hand, other…sometimes outstretched,

chasing away vertigo, flirting with gravity until slippers are abandoned:

easing over the edge, pausing to find grip, and toe-hold,

earning bruises for clumsy descents,

having slippers thrown down (be careful! people does throw all kind of thing…),

walking, watching water inch in, feeling water lash out;

 

sapodillas cracked open– so sweet…damn it, so sticky;

 

teeth breaking the skin of ripe cashews– jaw clenching, mouth flooding: half,

the flavour of ripe red flesh giving away to white inside, half, mouth watering,

salivating;

 

half-ripe mangoes– sharp, sweet, tangy, rich with salt, and vinegar, ‘hot, hot’:

the sear of peppers;

 

sitting on the upstairs verandah– wide concrete rail, cool beneath thigh: traffic rushing,

house vibrating from speeding, loaded truck (girl! get down from there!);

 

peaked concrete fence, guava tree’s friend– sitting between branches, ignoring

crawling black ants, the press of concrete against bare-foot: belly full, jaw aching,

book forgotten under arm, tree forgotten after cutlass’ touch (what?! you cut it down?!),

and fancy, incomprehensible new fence winks, with its gold-painted iron points;

 

granny’s fish broth– calaloo, and carrots floating: dish made for two, until she migrates…before

the world falls apart, before the months run together;

 

afternoons watching t.v. up close– sitting on the back of the big chair (couch?): one

afternoon nearly taking the glass-filled t.v. cabinet down, as it tips over when it is grabbed

when someone slips a little too far down the wrong side of the chair back…

it is let go, it rumbles, it settles, glass clinks…a heart beats wild, fast, hard;

 

aunty’s erratic, fast driving– clutching handholds in the ceiling, thanking God

we all pray: praying for safe arrival, thrilled, delighted, as the needle inches higher

(now…do ministers even drive?);

 

you;

her;

me?

 

K.N.O.W. Sunday, June 26, 2016. 12.30 p.m.