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| Lineage With a Chair | |
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(Half Drunk Muse) Half Drunk Muse has submitted the text to our publication, but has been delayed in getting us the authors name and the city, state, country of the author. Contact us with the title of the totem, first line of your poem, and this important information. We will be happy to give proper credit to the writers. She was walking and tripping over tree trunk shadows and sunlight walking up to the library entrance she was one who felt as though she had always been moving even if only internally and could not if you asked her to point out any certain stance she felt she maintained instead stirred on in her mind from such a silly question anyway, she wondered that morning meeting faces of women outside the brick building if any of them had pleasured themselves this day like she had, in some way with finger or friend she’d spend years of her life wondering of other women, the older ones, recalling being young and exploring herself then it has not yet died or stalled though sometimes feels wrong, so she was walking and tripping over toddlers with texts and sunlight through windows falling over shadowed desks and watching the mothers through the corner of her eye and wondering if they touched themselves and how often they cried. (Half Drunk Muse) Suitcases mapped with important dates trumpets paint the absent beating of an artificial presence destined for hierarchy Mute faces wrapped in fixed rates and puppets lie faint to resent the concre(a)te seating initial pheasants rest in with no commentary When lovers don't love And Fathers say they are strangers LIFE IS A SENTENCE WE ALL CHOOSE TO IMPRISON When sunsets don't set And Mothers listen to the stranglers FOREVER IS AN INDEPENDENCE DESTINED FOR REVISION When lovers don’t love And Brothers taste mono LIFE IS A SENTENCE WE ALL CHOOSE TO IMPRISION When sunrises don't rise And Sisters smelt of goodbye, but felt hello FOREVER IS AN INDEPENDENCE DESTINED FOR REVISION Entrusting my energy for the poverty of your identity I would rise for you, but I won't settle for you. Funerals & speechless.names.anew Daughters in denial sleep with memoirs of you Pastel bridges, a common misconception Minus the alphabet's best deception The still air melts me in a clear view Chances (we) are but spectators of sunrise curfews I would rise for you, but I won't settle for you. (Half Drunk Muse) Dare to tear That corner of air Where swans fly And clouds with faces sing That bring joy of remembering Or pain behind locked doors The key is to sit for a while And contemplate One’s fate A clean slate (Half Drunk Muse) Roots stemming from song, clouds billowing like smoke from my history, migrating behind locked doors, soaring beyond the edge of the page, trapped in this elusive atmosphere. The feelings growing, ground up, flow from lips, the sound of soul. Am I exposing the secrets of the past or am I covering reality with dreams? (Half Drunk Muse) Between steps the chair stalks undeterred by gridiron slapstick The swansong is forgotten only because the door is bolted shut. (Half Drunk Muse) You had fallen, and forgotten secret ways and paths of healing. The world lay bleeding, and rotten in its own sense of higher feeling. Until the dismembered days remind you of dirty calisthenics, I will be beneath the rainbow geese in the locked room of a three-walled cabin. I will pound the clouds with mallets and serve the rain with shallots. I have four legs and little else. A sleek destroyer, by myself in this consequence of dreaming. The auburn evening settles with an autonomic feeling. The grass ere long will soon be gone and dust will be your ceiling. (Half Drunk Muse) Locked in by mothers teachings Lore passed on to me My dreams taking flight (Half Drunk Muse) Trying to let it go, but I am finding at every step it will show. My past, my lineage, forgotten memories, faint whispers that can be heard as screams in extreme temperatures. Using the backs of my forefathers to step above the confusion that builds in my belly. Questions about how I arrived. Why I arrived. I live in fake bliss but dream of a locked away satisfaction of life I may never have. My roots run deep with you, are histories intertwine side by side together and yet you look at me, look past me to the outside of me. Not seeing you but seeing a mistake traveled into your clan that you feared and hated but was yet so mysterious. My soul sings outloud to hide my pain, my burdens, my unforgiveness locked away you. Trying to let it go. (Half Drunk Muse) If we are a cross Between the fates of our parents Where are we to hide? (Half Drunk Muse) I once knew a teacher woman who told me about her younger days Her boy from the hood and her parents who hated him The gun they robbed convenience stores with And her worst two nights in jail Her son who’s in prison and doesn’t know why The jazz musician husband who beat her and her kids Back in Brooklyn, the 70’s maybe And the son who still doesn’t know why (Half Drunk Muse) Here I sit on the brink of my own, wings spread wide. The breath of God carries me as I sore to new heights. Voices of hallow sing desperately throughout the night. Visions of future are clouded but bright. Chains of fear take there hold, to try to break the bold. Armies of pain crush the hopes of the desperate. In the monment of no return, I surrender to all that I understand. Lineage with a chair, how did I make it here. (Half Drunk Muse) Lineage with chair Wise men from the Bible can recall how the mustard seed starts off small, then fiercely grows to terror-tall. And so too Mother nature breeds a special human cryptic seed deep within the Earth, which also shoots up to grasp the sky as it strikes out for independence and worth, no wonder why. The seed must need support a chair, symbol of man's base to care, I fear. Here too forerunner of men today the small 'identity' on bended knee, fixes all with a blank stare like Satin's look of devil may care. The seed shoots up the stem to do its stuff to split asunder and pierces through to grasp at anything blue, the building, the blocks of DNA too. Hence tagged with illustrious label the Nation's force awoke in different ways to control up top the fight to breed and scheme, the genders continue to succeed. Somewhere there chaps, a door bangs shut as bolts and locks rattle loud and to this backdrop Jeremy, a Joseph or Joe will copy and do his stuff. Cast a look back and remember our genetic trail started way down there, below the chair. because we were simply there. Wise up to the power supreme there rests a motor simple and true. At the 25th hour in line I know where I come from but I wonder do you? -Cleveland W. Gibson, (Author of Billabongo) Faringdon, Oxon, United Kingdom |
