KBPoetry

You make and gave the earth skates to spin

through space. You gave galaxies their winding. 

Lord, more than the earth calls to you. For stars

ask you their name, you from whom they receive 

their lumen. 

There is a galaxy within me. 

Spinning and swallowing stars;

Strangling light.

My pride, a black hole. I can not gauge

nor measure its limits, but you can. The 

confusion, the murmurs, the high calls 

for repentance and confrontation, openness

of this tense, yet gaping, hole in my universe.

It stretches me.

It sucks me in.

It pulls me asunder.

O God, it all can be daunting.

I am pulled for goodness sake. 

A guitar string pulled, plucked, does not question

The finger of its’ player. 

For it knows it must suffer 

For the sake 

Of music. 

A rainbow of dim cloud hovers

An ominous umbrella over my form;

I awaken within its penumbra.

Though the heart pulls strings tighter

Than a harpist’s harp

Than a shepherd’s lyre:

My God stays.

Abiding in unapproachable light; 

Prism cutting through rainbow, even eternal color

Brighter than an eternal sunshine;

Desert, famine, and extreme thirst; I’ve known.

I’ve suffered settling for dry water. 

My heart reasoned (within itself) 

That there within moved a desire, unmet

A fulfillment groaned in strange unutterable words

a cry deeper than sadness.

A language of death unrealized, even dying.

Though our story began not by a well, -

you’ve Known me and my several faulty water-pots. 

And though my soul has holes, still gaping, 

Verily I tell you, they were all con-artists— masters of sham

Pretending to be foundation, such stuff that our feminine dreams could be made on.

In my case, two claimed lover. Claimed loyalty. Claimed laudable.

Verily I tell you, we’re all con-artists all pretending to be what we are not.

Why place such weighty blame on those who claimed to love when they could not did not love?

Claiming love is one heavy crime requires stealth, clothing far mightier far more deceiving than a sheep’s.

Requires a currency of clothing That once belonged to us—

Where are our clothes?

In your case, dear friend, your lovers did not claim to be anything for you.

November ‘15

Passion is a place; I know it full well, deep in its clutches, even while I sleep. I dream of its texture, its smell, its taste. I follow wherever it goes. Its joy feeds me and lifts me up on a high hill a lofty altar— gives me distance, high,

With smooth soft corners, a vignette. I sleep in its warmth, bathe in its fire. The taste melts my displeasure. It seasons my joy. When I climb its summit I’m safe. The hill of delight, in what one loves, keeps one high above the chaos. Passion is a well

or so I thought. Ruin hides in its taste. My passion escapes me and leaves no joy. Unchecked, unbridled, she left me to hill up regrets alone. Passion is deep, high, and low. Is a deep trench, fathomless well when unguarded it chokes, yes, while you sleep.

A panoply of things that once brought joy and great delight, like hugs and picnics; hill tops and fantasy of child and man; high heels and envy. I had vision had well executed plans. I wrote, in deep sleep, poems that would quench my young selfish taste.

Passion is a place, a house on a hill where a young boy once climbed to get lust high He had a man’s appetite and was well fed in a room with sun bright corners; sleep welcomed him with openness. Now the taste no longer is what once was; a sad joy.

My passion has mood indigo, gets high off memory. Forgets little. Is well acquainted with longing for days that sleep never to awaken. She has blue taste. New lessons await her, She resists joy that comes with now and levels the Hope hill.

Dragon Song

I know these four walls of silence. Each face a different facet of desire, or a fear, which I nurse like a precious child. Close to my heart they rest, never far, never leaving the lull of my chest. Each silent rib cage hug; they breathe, like dragon.

Their sing song voices stitch their desire, weave their staffs, and sing half notes--so precious-- into the soft hide of my ear drum. Far, never leaving the home of my chest. Each crescendo soothes the sleeping dragon and warm the chambers of my heart’s face.

My four walls hold a rare treasure, precious, myself in its unstable state, so far from perfection. Desire unmet, each fear left unchecked, soft breathing dragon harass me no more. Some day you I face, with a sword of pure gold desire.

During the night watch, I long for love far beyond a true hold, my mind kisses each moment. Waving, before the dragon awakes and takes what is left to her face. A wishful dreamer, spell bound desire, her poison is what she holds precious.

Morning comes and I lie awake. Each day begins in silence. Each dragon is a different day. Every face holds a different song, sundry desire, for each one of us. Our wishes, precious, and never ours. Their fulfillment is far.

I speak only of my heart, the dragon, Ember and smoke, brimstone battle I face. Breath and kindle of cold blue desire. One day tame, she will rest like a precious child. Close to the divine heart, never far, always nestled and trusting, for each

I can be tea parties and caffeine

Complete with madness of Hatter.

I am starting to fall in love with

I am all statistic and intention

All squints and droopy tired eyes.

All coffee stained teeth. I am coffee-breathed.

It is May and I am not in love.

Like last May, but the May before that—I believe I was But perhaps, I was not.

So let’s just say that For some time now, May has not been a time for me to fall in love.

And perhaps, I never was.

Mmm, but I do desire someone to hold: like a warm blanket Something romantic to anticipate: like a summer morning But most of all something to dread— to break my heart: like a summer night.

The bad voice tells me constantly, "there is nothing poetic" tells me overly, "there is nothing lovely"  Sits on my heart telling me overtly, "there is nothing aesthetic"

About God’s love for me

That that love has just as much comfort as a thousand burned needle points

July 7, 2015

I have spent most, If not all, Of my life in a crimson dank cave Behind closed lips.

I have a head full, full, full, Of hair, Full— To the brim with ideas, encased In a skull with a lock To which I have swallowed and Devoured the key.

In my mouth, In the crimson dank cave, Behind closed lips, There are two towers that guard the door To my voice, Yet there is a gaping moat Placed between them.

So, For most:— if not all of my life, I have been hiding in my mouth. Hiding inside my head. Trying to hide what’s been inside— My thoughts, yes;

when we were spring fresh in our dalliance, When trees smelled feminine when we were ne’er-do-wells with our midnight tete-a-tetes Where we’d meet and leave cactus seeds and succulent corpses on the dust for the pebbles to catch and nestle between their pebbly pimply chins, like a bad itch or irretrievable yawn.

We were in a phase of love. I was in aphasia.

We were a field of dandelions in a dry desert. The lavender of France bespeckled with purple, and honey of the comb gold translucent—laden with sweet potential; coconut water and cactus milk, the sky so vast and the leaves so green

‘Parents & Home’

By Kourtney Naomi

The thing ‘bout home—

It has good light

Good good sunlight

that invites itself in

to the secret corners of your room

that’s changed several shades

since childhood.

The smell is no longer just right

and you yourself are always caught

vacillating between two

extremes  

Being defined by both

borrowing some stuff from each:

1.Pride

&

2.Hypersensitivity

The thing ‘bout home—

it used to be kinda good

before all those things happened

The many many things

that tore like wear and tear

on the inner seams of old jeans

My parents—-

My parents be keeping me dressed

Dressed and warm and I often do

pray

That they live longer than I do. Longer

than I longer than I.

Daddy,

when we was little,

would wrap us up

like cuban cigar snug

and He’d triple layer

in longjohn tube socks Timberland corduroy and turtleneck—

On me, he’d place a denim baseball cap;

In the wintertime

we was real warm.  

***************

but When something falls off the shelf of your soul,

Like a nut or a loose bolt from

the rusted pipe of the old sink

in the old bathroom

that had paint peeling off the wall

It’s been remodeled now though—

You can’t pick it back up;

It’s fallen too far through.

The house used to be real old and decrepit

The floor was spitefully wooden—-

Stabbing wooden daggers through the soles of

baby toddler kiddie feet And mommy,

mommy would take a safety pin and matchburn the tip

and pierce the skin just right,

she got the daggers; she got them real good—

You could peep your eye through the floorboards and see to the earth’s core,

The sofas was rainbow colored,

The mirrors was made of kaleidoscope glass,

And My parents—

My parents was keeping us dressed—

Dressed and warm because they knew

"Recipe"

Recipe 

If you are what you eat:

I am the essence of bananas; I am creme of wheat.

I am butter cookies that melt like sugar drop—

I am arugula salad; I am lollipop.

I am Earl Grey, in blue cup, on winter morn—

I am black bean soup; I am roasted corn. 

I am crispy juicy bacon; I am golden honey—

I am hollandaise sauce on egg that is runny. 

I can be grumpy like gruel eaten day after day

I can be pleasant like caribbean mango in May 

I can be sad like boxed chocolate eaten heartbroken in bed

I can be joyous like manna that God to the Israelites fed

I can be spicy like cayenne pepper jolting the tongue

Or irritable like sandpaper running over a drum 

As capricious as flavor that is daily consumed,

I am like ocean wave; easily swayed by the moon.

He that walks beside me, 

in front and behind me—

He hems me in.

When I take my life upon myself, 

He absorbs my pride;

He forgives my sin. 

On my own, I am a recipe for disaster—

When with God, I find comfort in supping with 

Glass and incorporeal crystal, 

Sound. 

Heat, pressure, bubble, steam,

Smell.

Winter's cold, 

Touch.

Finger prick--Chicken-Soup flavored breath.

Eternity on my mind.

I see me, traced in life-line.

Silhouetted in His grace.

This, is the five sensed reality

I choose to face. 

It gets better.

Sometimes in life

tunnels are where growth--in all its glory--

happens.

Meanwwhile,

I always thought it was deep

ankle

knee deep

eye-level deep

six feet deep

in holes.