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100 Days of Art – Day 3: The Sound of My Heart


This man’s voice is pure poetry. This man, is my man.

Originally posted on Just Me:

click “play” then read.
(For Mariamor)

if i’d listened to my heart …

in the days when artistry crept, a humid dawn
over my wooded life that startled me awake
and i remember it was like falling from a dream
after a mosquito-infested night. i rose,
heard the bass in my head, and it sang,
loud, clarion, and
in God’s baritone, “You.”

my heart heard it, but i’d been taught
by empty love
to live in my head. i was good in my head
“brilliant,” the teachers whispered
“make him one of us.”
and so one of them, one of you, none of me
i became.
and so when my heart sang,
thume, pum, bum, bapadoo, thume, poom,
my frightened mind hid amid the rubble
of my grandmother’s utility room

i utilized the shit-stowed stench
to quench my heart’s yearnings
convinced myself—the good son—dad
could ill…

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Sunrise over Granada, Spain

The Black Lioness of Granada

Sunrise over Granada, Spain

I cannot speak to you, because I am mute.
I cannot touch you for I do not have hands to caress you with.
My skin is beauty incarnate,
Though it is cold from years of forgetting,
And dirty from the dust of an unfamiliar land.
You do not see how I am in my soul;
My pomegranate heart, once sanguine and vital,
That would pulse like the stars,
Trembling with the yearning of love,
And the enchantment of a sacred treasure.
My head covered with the veil of the blessed moon;
Kissed by the sun upon its rising;
Oh merciful Allah sat by my side.
My Granada, my Pomegranate heart,
Supplanted by the Monkey-Lion
Who stands upon my body,
Once sensitive
And full.
Without invite,
Without care.
Without knowing what passes
Beneath its feet,
And its averted eyes.
The poetry of an age,
Where I was the only black lioness,
Amongst lion-masked monkeys.
The sins of the false rulers,
Weighing heavily upon my shoulders,
Like an eternal slumber,
Imprisoned in falsified words,
That would paint my eyes with Lapis,
And my hair with coal,
And my complexion with the mud
Of their footprints.
Those with the skin of silver,
And the copper-red hair.
Who cut out my tongue,
With their blades of piety,
And their soft, weak hands,
Stained with the promise of salvation.
But they did not save me.
Those who would leave me like this,
Without voice, without life,
Without hands.
Unable to shout for help;
Unable to tell my story.
But at the end of it all,
I am still here,
And I will see you.
Waiting for you to notice me.
Waiting for you to touch me.
Hoping that you will remember me,
As I once was.
Waiting for the return,
Of my one true love,
My black-maned Lion,
Beautiful and alive.
Hoping that I will live again,
In your eyes and in your heart.

*Translated into English from the original Spanish, posted on my photography blog Roving Bess.

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Monkey – MPoWriMo

It’s fine to pet the monkey,
If all the monkey wants
Is to be petted.
But without knowing what
The monkey really wants,
The monkey is just a dumb monkey.
Cute and sweet,
And sometimes funny,
But mostly misunderstood.

When the monkey is sad,
No one sees,
Because there are no words
Or changes of expression.
Calm, looks the same as sad.
Sad, looks the same as tired.
Tired looks the same as peaceful,
And peaceful looks the same as deep, in, thought.
Monkey speaks a different language,
A language no one gets.
Monkey knows how to laugh,
And to be afraid,
And it can scream and shout
All it wants, but it’s just
Monkey being monkey.
Sometimes monkey does that,
Though no one seems to know why.

No reason for monkey to be upset,
When monkey has it all:
A warm bed,
A roof,
And more treats than it can shake a stick at.
Monkey is well petted.
Why should monkey complain?
Monkey is ungrateful.
Poor, stupid, but sweet, dumb monkey.
Monkey cannot understand,
It speaks a different language,
That only other monkeys get.

Except monkey is not a pet,
And monkey isn’t dumb.
Monkey does not need words,
To make itself understood.
Monkey is not cute and sweet.
Monkey is not having fun.
Monkey is not, even, monkey,
It’s just a label it was given,
And a label it did not accept.

This being has its own agenda,
A purpose to its life.
This being has a brilliant mind,
That separates it from others.
This being is whole and vital,
And has as much right to stand tall,
As those who claim to pet it.
This being is not owned,
Or controlled beyond its choosing.
This being is not anything
That anyone could describe with words,
Speaks a different language,
A language no one gets.
This being does not need permission,
To earn its self-respect.


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Of Friends and Foes

I do not like insincerity,
It irks me to the core,
Be my friend,
Or not,
For I will not give you more,
If you do not commit your heart,
Then leave it at the door.
As I will fully give of me,
I expect the very same of thee.
No half-measures,
No short-cuts,
No hidden pleasures,
No false starts.
Do not find me
With veiled promise,
For I will see you,
Clear and honest.
Intuition is my friend always,
Keeping true and close,
Those very friends who stay.

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Smithsonian, Sculpture

A Blessing

All that I am,
I have to give,
Even my torrid heart.
If all that I am is this old heart,
Then my life is surely had.
Beaten once by fortitude,
My weakness my desire,
I cannot strive to be so strong,
If along the way I tire.
Judge me not; this broken heart,
That beats its timeless rhythm,
It beats for you,
All of you,
Who dare to even listen.
The pain it heals to have this heart,
My words cannot express;
A schism sealed by tales so old,
That thought is not permission,
To grant it life beyond this soul,
Unless all is long forgiven.
God bless my broken heart.
My broken heart God bless.


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The Pride of Venice

What light through yonder window breaks?
The artifice of all that’s fake.
An understated memory of love gone bad;
The window now shuttered and ivy clad.
Wherefore art thou young cavalier,
That you should rent such grief from here?
Fair Romieta; young Julio wandering woods so dark and strange,
In search of freedoms not yet given names;
Yet like seeds cast upon the breeze,
Your love escapes the hands of thieves,
Who would have you bound and cast aside,
Lest you break the Winged-Lion’s pride.
But times do pass, and history blossoms,
With the swell of change that you dreamed could happen.
Naïve, yet brave you were strong Nave, fair Maid,
Would that others be less afraid.


Seventeen lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane,
Telling me I’ve overslept, even though my eyes have only closed.
Seventeen lamenting seagulls reminding me that life goes on, despite my tired legs and heaving chest, and desire to tape their beaks and my eyes shut.
Sixteen lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane. If I’m to be awake when I should sleep, because the sea-raptors decree it so, then one less will not be missed. After all life goes on, and I will be lamenting far longer than they.
Sixteen more nights, then no lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane, to remind me that nothing ever really changed.
Who needs sleep when you’re alive and full of chips and fish, and taking life on the wing?
Sea-chicken tastes just as good as a late night snack, enjoyed with a nice-cold beer to numb the head and wash down birdie cries,
That boast so loudly, and so proudly of my and their demise.