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

to

explore it

and excite.

Make it quiver with delight.

One could

seek out hidden places

oft forbidden places.

Then

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.

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.
 

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

as

she swims to the limit of her fathom

and

almost disappears.

She 

slowly returns 

dressed only in dampness

and

 wrings her hair upon a log strewn beach.

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?

Perhaps the sky is falling

Sometimes I dream I hear

some muffled drumming

but soon 

the drumming stops

then

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

but

the dreadful beat remains