Birds of Mecca
Their melodious awakening
a herald to our own
preceding the booming Call
that floated ethereal
through the hotel windows
tugging an eager Sun
over the mountainous horizon
they added their voice
to the harmonies
humming tinny hymns
over the heads
of the poor on Earth,
yet wealthy in the Hereafter
elated they flew, swooping
while night paid heed
to pale day
they grew louder
as the circle swelled
the revolutions steadied
flapping with the carefree vigor
of a rising Sun
they chirped above the tune
of memorized supplications,
than our bare feet could carry us
around the eternal Kaaba
yet they fell silent
before our heads
could touch the groud—
prostrating with the humbled millions
then saying their salams
I left my heart in San Francisco.
I watched it through tear filled eyes
that soaked through my disguise
now there’s a vacant space in my chest
she kept it when I left.
Three thousand miles away,
her love shines bright like golden kisses
dancing across the pacific
I miss it -
walks to the Golden Gate Bridge
every caress from her sweet lips
lingering on my ignorance
my every quiver from your
gentle touch -
I can’t get enough.
I left my heart in San Francisco,
the city where I fell in love.
White noise, and black noise
Tide of silent shining sounds
Drowning a sane man’s voice
Gaps between lost and found
Prayers stem mind and heart
Valor chains the ooze of earth
As rain lurks beneath the sun
To weather senses until dawn
Seductive sounds rising fierce
Radical rhyme, hymn—pierce
Noise of divine hues & chorus
Colorful noise peels to porous
Are you just an idea?
Inspiration spilling like colours
placing a canvas over my eyes
time is elusive when you want it
when I want the sun to rise
and let your silhouette burn
deep into a palette of mind
for me to paint as I see fit
Or are you a feeling?
A complex arrangement
of all the right metaphors
designed so I’ll feel something
anything, artificial and perfect
where words are only a visual
in the same way I made you;
another lie I could believe.
"A Poem about the Poem"
We don’t write poems,
but to the left and right of poems,
as if a great idea is a football
and poems will tackle us.
We must dodge, fake, and play coy,
keep everything under our helmets
where padding is most useful.
We see poems, but we don’t look closely;
we look over poems.
Occasionally, we see through poems
to find an image of something familiar,
like searching through a dusty trunk
from an attic for something to interpret.
We point and say, “I know that,”
though recognition does not imply knowledge.
We are so afraid of poems,
we are hesitant to call them that,
we call poems Works or Pieces.
If it’s ours, we give it a title,
something simple that hints at our purpose,
but we don’t like to call it A Poem.
That’s too vague. THE Poem? Too arrogant.
We don’t write poems,
but around poems
until their edges flake off
and they become circles.
White circles are full moons,
hackneyed images in need of revision.
And black circles have too many holes.
quiet & still
quiet & still by lisa witherspoon
stickin you in the freezer
is about my best bet for keepin you
from gettin too hot
tho i usually dig my ability to keep you heated
i am positive i’d dig even deeper
for the chance to keep you sated
i put jalapenos in yr undershorts
i keep a plate of hot grits
ready to be poured on yr crotch
but i’m not always that way
sometimes i enjoy sittin by my lonesome
curlin up with a magazine
or fingerin a good book
maybe gettin on skype with my buddies
maybe i don’t want you to play house right now
maybe i just want to get still
& pretend the world isn’t movin
& that’s all