My Mother
 
 
My mother died
in her sleep
 
My father
woke beside her
 
And when I
went to see her
she was pale
 
and cold
and gone
 
And I wish
I could call
my mother

 
                           It’s Always Tina
                              A Found Poem from Bob’s Burgers
 
 
Your ass is grass
and I’m gonna mow it
 
I’m no hero
I put my bra on
one boob at a time
like everyone else
 
I don’t think you can
handle how much
I can handle this
 
Oh it’s okay
I guess I wasn’t
meant to have
a good life
 
Uhhhhhhhhhhhh
 
Butts

 
                                       As Loving
 
 
You carried me around 
and grew me 
at the same time 

what a trick 

and when I erupted out of you 
you hollered 
but you were the opposite of mad 
you said all that love 
was bound to hurt 
it was so big 

you let me live 
the cliff edge of mistakes 
the wasted time 
the carelessness 
the time I misspoke 

the joys you couldn’t understand 
like my passion for academics 
and the way I am determined 
because we are chapters in a book 
connected 
yet different 

do you still remember those months 
when I kicked and rolled around 
in the nest of your ribs 

I hatched so many plans inside you 
to be confident 
decisive 
strong 

you may not know this 
but one lingered 

to grow up 
as loving 
as you.


                                      And Then
 
 
You left
me for a hobbit
 
But I gave you
flowers
and
love notes
 
And you
 
You came back

 
                                    Normal
 
 
Dewy and salty
the moon appears
above the cranberry
buildings
 
Marble stars
shine over
silent cornfields
 
It was
home

​moonlight
slowly rocking you
on the carousel
 
birdsong
lost in paradise
bubble bath soap
 
coroner's report
a sea of daffodils
on our divorce
 
on the catapult
your dreams
land on the snow
 
moonlight
you silently dream
of blossoms

​Renee Drummond-Brown is an accomplished poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a (Summa Cum Laude) graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania and The Center for Urban Biblical Ministry (CUBM). Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her fourth book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine (Liberian L. Review), Leaves of Ink Magazine, New Pittsburgh Courier, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine Magazine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. The Multicultural Student Services Office of Geneva College presented her with 2nd prize in the Undergraduate Essay Contest. Renee’ also won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally. She was Poet of the Month Winner in the prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community and in the running for Poet of the Year. She has even graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through her very unique style and her work solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

The Land of Milk and Honey
 
 
 
My brown mammary glands
extend
across the continents.
Enlarged enough
to feed the homeless.
After-all
This land ‘IZ’
red-man’s land
or
‘WUZ’ thereof.
 
 
 
The land of milk and honey
are mere bosoms
covering
the breast
of emotions and thought
resembling a vaccine;
protecting this
quote-un-quote
great AMERICAN DREAM.
Well
I too “have a dream”
like a ‘King’
 
 
 
I’m infected with your scheme of things.
Not that you care…but
I too dreamt;
a nation fed
off of milk
AND NOT
my honey.
 
 
 
 
Funny,
but you dis me
and my kids.
Sheer reality,
a loss cause
of
this great American dream
 not to include
that
chocolate Nesquik
prelude
amongst your scheme of your things.
 
 
 
Centuries
have come
and past,
but
an enslaved soul,
“made in china”
LOL
was ‘built’ to last
 Well
I too “have a dream”
like a ‘King’:
we simply died
crossing
‘YOUR’ Red Sea.
Therefore,
‘The land’ of Milk and Honey
can never satisfy me
(Nor our children’s children to be).
 
 
 
 
Dedicated to: The wet nurse.
A B.A.D. poem


Tom, Dick, Harry and John
 
 
She struggles,
for she
knows not what she does.
Excuse after excuse;
“what had ‘happen’ ‘wuz’….
 
‘Naw’ ‘cuz’~~~
 
The sins of the mother
fall harder
on the daughter,
and her daughter,
and her daughter
and her daughter
alike.
 
 
Just like the kiss of death;
but then again
a kiss
is just a kiss
is just a kiss,
but
that’s not what they’re after.
A hit or miss
at its best.
You guessed;
pain before pleasure.
Did someone mention
lust
???
Maybe not.
 
Momma
entertains
man after man.
So,
if she can do IT;
so be it,
her daughters can
and so can her grans
and so forth
and so on~~~
Like Marvin Gaye’s 78
scratched
“Let’s get it on”
and on
and on
an on.
After-all,
them daddies been long gone
in the wind.
Therefore,
 every
Tom, Dick and Harry
is equivalent
to a John’
Say it ain’t so?
 
Yeah
we know the deal
and she knows
for real.
She definitely knows
???
 
Season’s come
so,
they won’t live on
but
the wild seed
saturates
her entrenched wound
before the coming of the next sun
which springs forth
leaps and bound;
rearing up
every Tom,
Dick
Harry
and
John.
 
 
Dedicated to: YOU’RE NOT THE FATHER!
A B.A.D. poem
 

2017
 
 
 
A new day
from whence
we overcame.
What if
anything
will ever change?
Absolutely nothing!
In fact
life will resume
just the same.
 
We’ll lie
we’ll cry
we’ll cheat
even
make a
New Year’s resolution sheet;
tuck it away,
an’ sing
some of the very same ol’ same
in 1918.
 
What a shame
a new year.
Auld Lang Syne
waisted
time gone by
a different day
without
a shadow of a doubt
the same ol’
same ol’
game.
 
 
Dedicated to: Anew un-Happy New Year!
 
A B.A.D. poem
 

Trouble in My Way; I ‘Gotta’ Cry Sometime
 
 
 
Us black women
know ‘bout’ trouble.
No one hears
our faintest cries.
Nor
answers us
by and by.
 
 
 
 
In fact,
we come
under
ALL MANNER
of everyone’s attack.
After
attack
after attack.
But,
we press on,
burying
our sons
after
son
after sons.
 
 
And yet,
still yet,
with a smile
we give good measure
pressed down
shaken fold
together.
 
 
 
And still yet,
who cares
bout any o’ that?
We’re to have
absolutely
no feelings at all.
Cause
Maya said
“we rise”
“we rise”
“we rise”
but I say
“we fall”
“we fall”
“we fell”
from grace;
sheer disgrace.
What happened to the black woman?
What has she become?
She breast fed a nation
AND FORGOT
to feed
her very own!!!
 
 
All that’s left
is a ‘breastless’
mother
with
an empty chest.
But remember
“we rise”
“we rise”
“we rise”.
BUT
FOR WHAT?
No one’s even there
to catch us.
Nor
do they care
when ‘WE’ fall.
Lest we forget.
 
Shadrach,
Meshach
and a B.A.D. Negro;
WE WAS THERE
WITH YOU
in that fiery furnace
ALSO.
DON’T YOU THINK 
a black woman
don’t know.
Although a skeleton;
one thing for sure
two
for certain,
we know
we know
we know
how to eat us
some crow
and
we ALSO know
‘bout’ troubles,
THIS
FOR CERTAIN
I
DO
KNOW!
 
 
 
Dedicated to: B.A.D.
I knew all about your troubles; I had to cry sometimes.
 
A B.A.D. poem
 

She Went Forth To and Fro
 
 
 
That black bird couldn’t land,
to pluck
her olive leaf
cause she foresaw
in
“The Red Sea”
The Black Holocaust
intended for
our history.
Not the doves,
but hers
(you see)
according to
Thee.
 
Where’s her pride?
She mislaid it
somewhere
washed away at sea.
 
 
Now she wonders
to and fro
featherless wings;
away
from herself
and
even
from me.
 
 
Dedicated to:
“And he sent forth a raven,
which went forth to and fro,
until the waters
were dried up from off the earth”
(Genesis 8:7 KJV).
 
 
A B.A.D. poem
 
 
 
 
 

                       I Am a Revolution
 
Tongues of their guns kissed the bottoms of our country walls
Sand of corruption sedimented our banking malls
Bishops munching rainbow chicken bones,
singing political verses

violence is a black disease
racism is a white disease
xenophobia is epidemic
blood spilling is endemic

dissidents studying theology
eunuchs graduating criminology
Afghanistan, earthquake of religions
Pakistan, volcano of political legions
Corruption natural lotion applied in armpits heavy weights
extortion Vaseline shining on thighs on high offices

I am not revenging freedom of expression
I am bubbling with freedom of expression
I am constitution of word identity
I am poetry butter and bread
I see children blinded by propaganda peri peri
I see blinded nations

they ate the last supper jo’burg
their departure never came,
even when the rainbow sun rose
I am in the drama of the state
my temper of dignity rise and sink
my children drank the apartheid poison
I am diagnosing them with freedom passion
I am tired of academics who loot
and intellectuals who shoot

Luther is my tight comrade
I am a cheerleader
I am an African phonologist
I was born from African sound
I am renaissance home bound
propaganda is the jingle of peasants
verdict is the slogan of exiled
I am a brand of poetic tomatoes
I am diving in trees of political apples

doubtful metaphors still dance out night in the glory of African sun
barometer of poverty boxed by Khoisan
rainbow streets bling with ghettos
so what the fuss, motorcades
no longer drive, village dust highways
rhythm of rainbow eaten by dogs
blood rhymes of freedom born frees sucked
by bed bugs
daughters depleted by social anorexia
babies whipped by cultural diarrhoea
we are suffering from freedom malnutrition.
 
 
 
                      FREEDOM DISCORD

i sing for bridges too far to be crossed in Zambezia
i sing of freedom planted too far to harvested in Katanga
i sing of blood graffiti written
on Aids peeled walls of Soweto

good morning Tanzania
good morning Ethiopia
good morning Liberia
good morning kiberia

freedom mothers domesticated
into birth giving machines
beautiful sisters
cultured into money guzzling slot machines
children whipped
by whirlwinds of diarrhoea and shigella
sing salif keta
sing masekela
sing fodoba
sing fela kuti
sing makeba
sing s sokon kante
sing songs of tata Mandela
sing songs of mama and baba

human dignity is the fresh milk from the strong breasts of mothers behind the hills of home
human dignity is the blood that bubble in the conscience of my system

.good morning Vietnam
good morning Guantanamo bay
good morning Africa
good morning president
good morning Zimbabwe

children will not go down with the sinking sun
sacrificed on altars of ambition
crucified buy forces of expediency
tear graffiti scrawling
on debris of their slums of poverty and hovels of crime
we are children born out of the hot sun of Sahara and burning sands of Kalahari

we belong to the semen and condom drunk streets of home
womb of our past explode with souls of martyrs and bones of freedomites choked by ropes of stigmatization
we are morphine -fuelled and marijuana
doped youngsters whose praise
and freedom is robbed by slogan fraudsters

we are dogs breakfasting
from cucumbers and feasting condoms for supper
children of pandemic genocided villages
slaves of sugar and blood
never fondled the breasts of freedom
licked the tears of our mothers
have no dignity to celebrate
we are souls blighted in sufferings
bring us nanobitas of democracy
not shigellas of autocracy.


                       POLITICAL THEATRE

ghettos sitting on burning compost sites
political bed hoppers rubbing their noses in diplomatic shit
justice taught to eagles in trees
slogan fraudsters get praise from morphine fuelled youth and marijuana doped youngsters
dissidents reaping blood dollars from corruption stinking banking malls
who then belong to the dustbin of mythology and history
the klu klux klun, Nazi bilbergs , swastika , Gestapo , mulatto ,gook , muntu , nigger
racism is a poisoned well of our dignity
tribalism is pandemic soiling our humanity

imams burning American flags
mullahs burning Baptist bibles
mafia rubbing blood on robes
empress nagako and emperor , horopito , boarding the political train
of the grey beards
with chancellor of oxford, the duke of con naught,the prince of Monaco through the forbidden
city of Tiananmen to the skanda vale slums

singing tunes of archbishop of chicherle
at the Highgate of ritual ceremony in memories of yokozuna and plato
writing epitaphs of long gone warriors and martyrs with Madame de mote ville and the mafia laureate lalilata
writing memoirs of napoleon and Kaiser William

i sing oF deradicalization of jihadists in jungles of reberalta and home town of Jeolla
painting election vases crimson red

one day Hindu saint's and Anglican vicars will share the tubs of conscience
pontiffs and mullahs swig juices of decency
rabbis and ayatollahs burning frankincense


who killed Saddam and Vietnam
who hanged Afghanistan and Slobodan
heroes will rise from ashes of panama
warriors will rise from the dust of Jamaica
bring them the decent hamburger of power
bring them the decent sandwich of freedom.
 

​
                          Dear commissar


dear commissar
my poetry is
political baboons puffing wind of vendetta
splashes of sweet flowing buttock valleys of pay less city labourers
rough crackling red clay of sanctions smashing poverty corrupted face of my village
presidential t shirt tearing across bellies of street hustlers
mute bitter laughter of political forests after the falling of political lemon trees

dear commissar

my poetry is
foot signatures of struggle mothers and green horns
bewitched by one party state cocaine
new slogan hustlers boozing promises after herbal tea of change rhetoric
street nostrils dripping stink and garbage
tears chiselling rocky breasts of mothers who lost wombs
in the charcoal of recount

dear commissar
my poetry is
rhythm of peasant drums dancing the new gimmick
unknowingly
political jugglers eating voter drumsticks after another ballot loot.
 

                                 Treasure The Past


Dusty shoe box a child's treasure chest
old letters and stamps things from the past
grandpa's war medals a fragile pressed rose
yellowed faded report card and a piece of twine

a gold watch band some scrapings of melted wax
the whiff of a musty old cigar one metal button
three cuff links none a pair lock of thin hair
a page from an old bible psalm twenty three

grandmas silver thimble a little blue bottle
deck of cards from japan nineteen forty 
a spool of black thread  pack of sewing needles
pledge of allegiance on an old folded card

small yellowed envelopes with nothing inside
a marble and several checker pieces all red
small white ribbon silk with a pin a buffalo nickle
Aunt Marie's wedding band  a negative of her grave

S&H green stamps business card from a pharmacy
a string with nine pearls old bus pass and transfer
small shells and glass beads and a straight razor
more than a treasure box child holds the past



                      Jewels Of The New South


blue stone walkways drenched early summer rains
the palms arching above casting fronds earthward
row houses each painted a pastel rainbow shade
porches dangling crooked stacked pale blue skies

oaks live return glances toward uncivil grave stones
weathered to a smoothness engraving distant past
narrow alleys posted with old ornate wrought gates
a century and a half of cobbled streets concealed

contrasted the battery retains the sea and its guns
brown pelicans glide in a seashore symphony flight
ever present the dolphins join adding their melodies
land and seascapes on easels abounding artistry

old and young all sing the southern song of crabbing
sandbars expose a treasure chest of spiral shells
bottling shark teeth and sand dollars a starfish prize
looking afar off as tides resume the ancient parade

inward salty trawlers return to barnacled creek docks
a plate of shrimp and grits greets diners races lost
sweet the baskets crafted as the hands that weave
old markets bow themselves a symbolic confession

while the color of flags and dignity both are attained
elders purchased misery of bonds in whole grains
glory in compassion and absolution dot their crowns
jewels of the new south treasured neighbors uniting



           your bitter sea cries twice lonely


your bitter sea cries twice lonely
sleepily walking my empty feet drown 
chased by blues and greens and sand
kicking at piles of dried shells in satin

and empty colored glass party bottles
delivered politely, being all dear John letters
sprayed in high tides postage free offerings
daily correspondence to a dim castaway

the ebbing mocked in a black applause 
crabs by thousands clap boyishly high
sharp claws in reddish orange sabers
flash, high noon's droppings harden quickly

brilliant periwinkles of salt stranded warm
now display seaweed coated family trees
shadows of lost waves breaking echo ghostly
swimming in your darkness down and easterly


                     Tears Across My Page

Listening to hear my baby's footsteps
another morning, wind whistles the blues
chickens scratching along the dirt road
on the run, rooster lifts his tail once more

Early morning sun, shining grey upon me
mind swirling, inside a spring dust devil
carried along the old barbed wire fence
which once contained an acre of dreams

Rotted acorns under the live oak scattered
roots reaching up from the grave below
corpses whose hands grasping to breath
out past shadows cast of branches high

Apocalyptic landscape in a panorama 
sorrow and death beckoning to me silently
and my pen as always, it just weeps softly 
absently, dripping tears across the page


                             A Reflected Smile

In the waterfalls reflections
of blue and green and silver
splashing an ancient palette
cleanser of dryness tumbling
falling galaxy's of a star's dust
in enjoyments it sprinkles mist
rising again in pixies pinkish red
mother's third daughter's smile
 
 
She Wears Her Confession Well
she wears her confession well
while roaming dunes at dusk
bright pink painted toe nails
kicking at the cool damp sand
one step a mile at beach length
 
her dancing locks glowing red
fire as she sings a pirate song
green and white is the foaming
bashing shells hard on the shore
 
spry at home and perky in water
moonbeams casting her shadow
a reflection toward the heavens
only visible from planets above
scarlet retreats with each new tide
 
leaving just her and long seaweed
the night sky trembles and shakes
broken shells litter the grains pure
as tiny trails weave toward the water
 
the poetess ballet is ending shortly
tired hills now marching to the sea
gliding softly she joins with the
a last crash greets the yellow flame
blinding creatures intent on travel
 
rolling in she touches hibernation
salty bubbles rise the final breath
a last push and as bright scale blink
her confession seeps now back within
the mermaid sinking again unseen
 
 
           Message in a Bottle /or/ Don't Drink Twice Is My Advice

Stranded an old wine bottle
on white sands once walked
cork protective of words old
just a speed-bump for crabs
 
your crimson nails gathering
ancient seas roll along free
lights fade and regain politely
tricks of the light or your trade
 
standing on this shore
a beacon
crosswinds dry my eyes
an epitaph
 
missing among waves
a castaway
salvaging the story
Queequeg's coffin
 
a diamond shinning blue
breathing heavy on my back
sights a chart marked on me
the sounds of colors lost
 
each word a grain of those sands
or one breath of salt air sipped
the elixir joining with shadows
non nutritional ale of bowels
 
seering now the heat
drawing all universally closer
beneath the white is cool wetness
buried as a chest treasured


 
                        Cheers And Cod Cakes


nights salty breeze tasted off whiskers
tired barnacle crusted hands worked
steady stores loaded rigging tightly set
away distant bell buoy sounds as crew
boards oilskins and attitudes clamor a
language chasing cod and haddock
defines slowly rocking nights journeys
foretell above sighting birds betray schools
feeding ropes, rum, hooks and lines shoot
past weeks growling the holds filled bursting
last four planks low riding the wind homeward
cheers and cod cakes rolling as the seas
a fine bounty gathering fishermen at the
port heard church bells calling just a night
away when wind rising swells green hands
grasp boards snapping shriek of canvas being
torn down to the deep these souls a lone mile
out she gives not up her dead the widows walk
 

 
 
                      The Leaves Fall Faster Now
​
The leaves fall faster now; it won’t be long.               
Tragic ballerinas pirouette and
plié, magnificent in their death song.                          
 
Lively spring-greens once supple and strong                
fade into shadows of glory now past.
The leaves fall faster now—it won’t be long.
 
Fleeing from where they no longer belong
the honking goodbyes of geese overhead
seem to mock autumn’s splendid death song. 
                         
Wings clap a tempo that cannot prolong
ill-fated passage from life into death
as the leaves fall still faster. It won’t be long. 
 
In the distant far-off a lonely dog’s
cry chases ebbing light from a purple
pink sky, glorious in its death song.
 
The darkness takes hold, invites doubt along –
night closes swift around and within. The
leaves are nearly fallen, it won’t be long.
I will be magnificent in my death song.

 

 
                                       Old pain

is different than new.
 
It grows more complex -
richer - with the passing
of time, like
 
the taste of old scotch.
It lingers on the tongue
and in the memory. Or
 
the smell of a well-aged cigar.
It hangs in the air, sticks
to the clothes and clings
 
to the hand that held
it. We held each other
too briefly.
 
I’ve had a lifetime
to savor the loss of you.

 

 
 
                            A beach chair grieves
 

You’ve left me here
propped in this corner
to gather cobwebs,
forsaken--
a scorned lover
abandoned since late
summer, even though
the trees are now
almost bare.
 
The scent of summer
still hovers about me,
fading,
as tenuous as the lone
bronzed leaf
that struggles to hold
to the bough
that overhangs
our porch, refusing
to relinquish its place.
 
I see
through your façade,
and I even understand
your reasons—ignoble
as they are—afraid
the memories
that yet cling to me
will fade as quickly as
these ebbing days,
days alive
yet slowly
dying.
 
  
                             Strange Encounter
 

I watched a bird perched on a post      
Or was he watching me?
With learned look he cocks his head    
As if to question me.                         
 
I meet his eye as he meets mine,
            I scarcely dare to breathe.       
My gaze he holds as I hold his
            And wonder what he sees.
 
No voice intrudes, no sound invades
            Our silent meeting there. 
Yet something’s passed between us
            That weds the world we share.
 
We embrace a sacred moment
            That gives no place to fear;
But I realize with heavy heart
            It may ne’er again come near.
 
I yearn to stay a while yet
            Lost in this reverie      
But other needs are calling us,
            His impatience I can see.
 
He holds my eye a moment more,
            But broken’s now the spell.
With flap of wing and merry chirp,
He bids me fond farewell. 
 
 

​
                         Escaping the Desert
 
 
I am not
armed
for this
disconnecting
land
 
This place
is nightmare
on my wrists
 
I cut out
the parts
of my brain               
holding
the trauma
 
But it grows
back and
back and back
 
Sad
and    
bruised          
                       
She    
pretends it
never happened
 
It happened
 
In me
there is
the screaming
of it     
           
so loud
meaning leaves
the screaming

 
The Uncertainty of Affection
 
 
We telephone unhappy
 
We speak with affection
 
The moment smells of vanilla
 
I recognize the moment                 
 
We don’t always speak with affection
 
Keeping by mildness         
 
I notice the leaves
 
I know the starlit spreadlings of city in warmwind
 
I lie under a canopy of music
 
I lie under the color of wine held by a glass
 
Ghosts circle rooms
 
The dead city walks through me
 
I’m star-bathed white
 
Broken bodies are sent into distance
 
I honor the uncertainty of affection
 
I see night change above the house
 
The night offers me darkseconds
 
The night is in expectation
 
Words fall from us
 
Shadows replace syllables
 
The sound is a winding ready to leap
 
The speechattempt has a harsh effect
                                                  
A failing of softness
 
I’m broken by the not-speaking
 
I’m broken by the no-answer

 
                    You Got Stuck in My Head
 
 
baby I’m puddles
                                    meat writer
 
a lot of work
            to cut a person in half
 
yesterday came quivering back
 
            music and lights
fall through you       
 
drunk as Christmas
 
come visit me
                        I will be here alone
talking to city ghosts
 
            every skin flap a window
a worm for life                      
           
licked it clean
spit it out onto the grass
 
anger is feeling things with feeling things with feeling
 
almost had the courage
                        to kiss you the other day
 
                        an undisclosed feeling
 
your flesh jerks with animal agony                      
because you’re beautiful  
 
beautiful words
                                    want to suck on them
 
clatter on                    apple
 
darkness
                        secretly human
 
the living and the dead don’t think so
 
your face asking
 
I did not train myself to love
 
I wanted to be beyond feeling
 
it will be just like old times
I’ll tend to your business
 
say something         
                                    open wide

 
                            First Darkness
 
 
My six-year-old body
was safe before
that day
 
The years before
were sweet
 
The years before
were full of love
 
Safe to launch boats
in the blue road
 
Safe to play
in the red trees
 
I was once
a safe and happy girl
 
Then I knew what it was
to be forced to kneel
 
To have pressure on
the back of my head
 
To have a choking
in my throat
 
And a voice saying
 
Don’t
You
Want
To
Be
A
Good
Girl

 
                                        Seashell
 
 
One of the pink
tear-sized seashells
I picked for you
escaped
 
I carry it
with me now
 
How you
pass
through me
 
Our hands in air,
always just
missing
 
Always just
 
almost
 
I watch the Arabian Gulf
holding my hollow seashell
in my palm
 
Wondering
what kind of love
I’ve earned

                        The Blind Bernini
 

A beggar held his hand to me
and asked I touch my quivering life.
A green growth clasped his calves
and shuddered my skin with surety
Bernini shouts from Daphne’s sylvan mouth.
 
His beard grew wild, like blackberries,
and I thought the crushed dried juice
fermented August on his breath.
 
Love transpired in his touch,
smooth as the memory of my grandfather’s flesh,
and his eyes impressed his music on my mind.
 
The sudarium subsides.
We commune with air, the light,
the spreading touch that trickles
into nervous veins like wine.
We smile and die.
 
I touched myself,
the vital flesh unveiled,
given up to desperate mirth
shaking ripe berries
from the hedges of myself.
 
I drank then at the cracked lips,
and the lowly sheets of being
shook dry and fresh as sacrificial calves.
 
Apollo’s bow carved us from the Sun,
and I tremble love
and sink into the arms of day.
 

                               Apple Sunday
St. Patrick’s and the World War II Museum, New Orleans
 
Slicing an ambrosia at breakfast,
eight blades radiating down the core,
sets up a Sunday tone--
one blemish bruises flesh
and suckles our shameless attention.
 
Everything depends on shaking
the homeless black hand,
smooth as magnolia,
and fighting through the Latin rite
not to contemplate soap and hot water.
 
Homer burst from Ilium’s ashes
and turned our eyes forever toward
the visceral vicarage
of galleries, museums,
the riddled walls of Gandalfo,
all the lamplit mentalities
that rifle the folds of the brain
until the end of mea maxima
falls shame-faced or forgotten
as tickets littering sidewalks
cobbled of the honored dead.
 
Has gold arisen in Dresden?
Have we washed the radiance
from our hands?
 
Our eyes, gods’ eyes
brooding through fig ash,
grow blind as stones
until we grow old
and go where we do not wish
and remember.
 

                                     Picturing
 
It’s tricky to picture you
advancing your command across
Afghanistan’s grey eyes,
the rough too-fluid tread
of turret, skirt, and coupola
through the documented occupation.
 
You resolve first that morning on the mall
a minute prior to epistemology
stepping in slow circles to crush
the night’s weight of acorns
beneath your hard right sole.
 
And then through the dark
divided by the streetlights
shearing in between the blinds,
kneeling next to your bed,
 
and then, our eyes both closed,
repeating the officers’ retreat
when the sergeant tore the goat’s throat out
with a cheese knife
and looked at you across
the red right hand
fondling his scotch
and smiled.
 

                                    By Design
 

The wind whipped the hill in widening waves,
combing the curling papers out of the oaks.
The squall sliced, settled, and hung straight
and then, skipping any interlude, struck up the sun.
 
The dogwood delivered its clinging drops, swollen
and shining with a hieroglyph’s cubist eye,
and the limp leaves gathered the storm’s joy
as the water on the stove began to boil.
 
By the time I’d put the plates away
and set to scouring the pan left
standing on the stove until
the butter, cream, and salmon sheen shone gold,
 
the sky had cleared and clasped the clouds
riding the high light of their ancient names.
I bent to the wet pan’s obsidian stare
and sponged the suds against the clock.
 
Suddenly it seemed I’d shaped a Pollock,
someone I’d seen in the Pompidou
who’d pleased me more than he’d impressed,
someone whose stuff I’d said I’d recreate.
 
And so, it seemed, I had, or so the sponge,
speaking the right wrist’s mechanistic sibilants.
I stared a second at the mindless fingers’ artifice
then rinsed the pan and put it on the rack,
seeing my practiced incapacity.
 

                               Hephaestos
 
When I washed from the arch, gasping
wet shadows on the cold Appian stone,
skin stained purple as a wine-washed smile,
my Godfather offered me
a great wooden horse.
 
His four fingers--
coarse-haired stubs thick as thumbs--
gripped hammer, plane, and saw
and smoothed the lumbering flesh
in fluent curves of mane and tail,
forging sturdy flanks, cylindric ears
I promptly stuffed with pennies
(no wonder he grew so stubborn).
 
My uncle, the eighth child,
returned misshapen from the womb,
as if grandfather, just forty-six,
two years left of death,
had lost a touch of attention,
unable to give his signet again.
 
Most days the shop’s silent, dust
settling to cold shavings on the concrete floor
between his fits fiddling with a cousin’s vanity.
Rocking in his room looking out on Canal,
he stews all afternoon in his soaps.
His cackling agony cracks
into the blue-hued den,
clueing me and Grandma,
chatting about sea shells
in the orchid’s lilac shade,
to the mixed ecstasies
of aphrodisiac actresses,
 
while the glass eyes remind
me to see convexly.

​Angel Edwards from Vancouver BC is a member of SOCAN, BMI and VMA and she owns a small music publishing company.She currently performs as a solo acoustic electric singer songwriter guitarist.
Her poems are included in two international poetry anthologies "Mind Paintings" and "Between Earth and Sky" from Silver Bow Publishing and her poetry and stories have been published in dozens of literary magazines in several countries.
Her poem "Morning Flight" was published in The Long Islander Newspaper in "Walt's Corner" April 23 2015.
http://www.reverbnation.com/AngelEdwards
https://itunes.apple.com/ca/artist/angel-edwards/id282564414
https://thegalwayreview.com/2016/05/02/angel-edwards-at-the-edge-of-paradise/

Angel is preparing her first poetry,  short stories book.