Tuesday, April 5, 2011

As I listened for GOD the other day
I was certain I heard 
a woman say 
no more wars or killing
only love.

I listened again at break of day
I know I heard 
the Mother GOD say
no more hunger
only love.

Listen gently as dusk draws nigh
and you will hear
Sister GOD cry
no strife no hatred
only love.

Listen for silence night or day
and you will agree
as you pray
the God's not mysterious
she's only love. 

To imagine
your body
explore it
and excite.
Make it quiver with delight.
One could
seek out hidden places
oft forbidden places.
with the tongue a feathers twist
thrill the small things
often missed.
To your breasts
to trace the swelling nips
then each upon it's turn
caress them with the lips.
Roll you slowly and just for fun
plant two kisses on your bum.
Then wash your feet and I suppose
for our delight suckle each and every toe.
I could do these things and more
spend eternity to explore
your mind your soul your entire being.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The Risen By Rich Ryfe.

Is it funny? Is dyin funny? Should anyone laugh at dyin'?
Hell yeah.  Death is a reality if you think it is.
But if you know death is a momentary change
in the endless flight of soul then,
it don't mean shit.
If you know death is the end of one life
and the beginning of another
then it don't mean shit.
Sacrilegious? Sure.  Arrogant? Fuckin right.
Not fearing death renders a major weapon mute,
flat.  Ineffective.
Fear of death has bludgeoned us
for most of our lives.
Fear of death has been a way to confine us,
retard us, force us to quake and quiver, and beg:
"Yayas massa, you the boss massa, I be nobody Massa.
God knows it takes the uppity soul of an ethereal
Nigga to preach death be not proud.
and it cannot be. Because it takes you from
one place to another over and over again.
Nothing proud in that. Nothing Noble. Nothing illuminating.
Just repetition belying the paucity of gloomy imagination
huddled in the lumpy flesh that serve as vessels.
Death don't mean shit.
When you've seen it, heard it, let it take all you know,
it stumbles like the black face clown, perplexed, unemployed,
empty- handed and forgotten...
Which is why the risen, laugh in its face.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Silently without a ripple
she slides into the lastre of the water
until her hair fans out upon
a reflection of stars.
Arms stretch feet flutter
she swims to the limit of her fathom
almost disappears.
slowly returns 
dressed only in dampness
 wrings her hair upon a log strewn beach.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Tell me a poem,
she says.

I have but one,
 says I.

The sun rose today
with your
face on it.
Poor Lucy from Alde Bye Gorge

What if
there is no beginning
or no end
and the only creation
is recreation?

What if my atoms were the atoms of
an ancient slave
working on the pyramids?

Maybe the bone Lucy uses
as a hammer
to crack a nut
is from the hip of my ancient cousin.

Perhaps our atoms dwell
in the body of a hound
that snitches a morsel 
from Lucy's lunch.

What if
there is only life and death
or death and life?

Perhaps it is all just magic?

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Perhaps the sky is falling

Sometimes I dream I hear
some muffled drumming
but soon 
the drumming stops
after a silent minute drums on .

The drummer says
he drums for the soldiers
of this war.
Or was it the last?
Or is it the next?
In some dreams 
the drummers change
the dreadful beat remains