I Touch Beauty Daily

I Touch Beauty Daily

Friday, May 18, 2012

A City in My House




A city in my house lies in comfort
Blanket spreads with determination
Over earth’s moving immobility
So we can rest from blinks
Wide-eyed useful functions stall

The vista from plane’s altitude
Views a city half asleep, half nodding
Within natural darkness
And semi-sleeping houses
Is the city of my house

I navigate geography’s pencil marks
No hurtful eye blinders
Up the steps into the sanctuary
All is quiet now and still
So still paper's voice sounds screechy
No singing and dancing machines

Yet, I pause at unguarded entry
All at attention, saluting sharply
Caught unawares by resting machines
Who’ve quit singing and dancing
But would not, like humans, sleep
They stare unblinking, filled with caffeine

Pinpoints of light in the sky
As beauteous as the down view  
Forcing me to guess who was where
Making me guess what was near
These pinpoints of unnatural lights
Blink not as I blink not





--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Friday, May 11, 2012

My Name Is Deaf

 
Deafness has descended now
My name stopped hearing
No longer called
    In Memory of My Mother


No longer heard
Once glorified and proclaimed
Forever as silent as my dead

Deafness does not feel music
The lilt of my name
Bestowed on me lovingly
She who breathed life into it
A priceless crown jewel
On my head preciously placed
Only my mother, queen
Called it
No one else could sing its melody
Confetti of love and affection
Rained down in glory
Unique shades and feelings
On me when she sang it

Lost that legacy untimely
She took it with her
I mourn severally
I cry severally
My name is deaf 
My name is dead

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

Image from http://feedseniors.org



Friday, May 4, 2012

Chattahoochee River


Walking the trail
Rewarded by the view
Of soft gliding water
Going about its business
Into it I gazed, seeing the bottom
No longer the Chattahoochee
Flipping, it sent me
Back many years to girlhood
Straddling that river
My Nja-aba River
Coursing through proud veins
The river of my instruction
Father’s masculine voice booming
Chanting encouragement
For this girl to master that river
Float, immerse, swim, stroke
Conquer the river, father coaxed
Encouragement the elixir
Propelling me to be its mistress
Scaling tree branches
Jumping like a lioness into feet of river
Landing like a silvery fish
Into my Nigerian river, Nja-aba
Cradled gently like a babe just born
Through civil war of self-abuse
Three tribes against language and greed
Of dusk and dawn journeys
To refluent ebb and tide to bathe, fetch
To launder, fish, drink, play
To sustain a proud village
During childhood escapes of coolness
Away from the city’s clamor
I traveled beneath the Chattahoochee
Touching the other clear bottom
The pebbles, the dictator of color
Of my Nigerian river unlike this one
Brown from abuse and neglect
With trunks discouraging friendliness
Dissuading interaction
My Nigerian river, Nja-aba
One of several nourishments
Endowing proud banded people


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.