You are the man newly arriving
at history’s worm-ravaged door,
the woman whose shadows are salves
upon the bleeding breasts of the earth,
the infant whose heartbeat
floods every harp in Paradise.
Muscled like the Rockies,
nurturing like the Ohio
you can split a boulder or caress
a lily with equal finesse, exactly
thank you, as you damn well please.
Not a song of yourself but one
of many selves do you sing––
unity embracing multiplicity giving
glorious birth to individuality:
a clown whose buffoonery heals,
a poet whose rhyme resurrects,
the scholar whose thoughts fire lasers,
the child whose smiles breed gods,
the hope whose pain raises joy,
the joy whose hope flowers pain,
the father whose power shines wisdom,
the mother whose grace vibrates power.
Not a wasteland do you claim but a valley
pregnant with stones bursting into
blossoms and flies exploding into light:
Do you howl? Yes we howl!
Soulscreams out of Africa,
mindscreams out of Europe,
heartscreams out of Mexico,
this tasty gumbo of mixed up beauty
as sweet as Sister Moon straddling
brother Sun, bitter as a cheated womb
shouting fire at the ocean.
Yours is a heart split/thrown-away/fortified
where demons’ eyes spit hot secrets
at the long cool gazes of angels,
where a lake of blood kneels
before thirteen golden thrones:
to this music only do you dance your dance,
by its rhythm rearrange your soul.
You are the carpenter just getting here
stumbling through history’s barely hanging door;
from time’s rusted hinges come squeals
like things of hell trapped in heaven,
one touch and a knob of starless night
turns evolves into a dawn
necklaced with two brand new suns.
A man newly-arrived and arriving:
the whir of your spirit speeds up
propelling cells and dreams alike
onto the next open stage, placing bids
and souls on the table, moving like fate
towards the emancipation of love in your lifetime.
by Aberjhani
Black Skylark ZPed Music Player
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Reading this "Self-Knowledge in the New Millennium" with the eyes of the soul one sighes and flies on ontological wings of awareness energized by the light of the diamond words of this jewel that enriches The American Fine Letters.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
The world must be reborn.
Edwin
More Whitman than Emily Dickinson, panoramas rather than miniatures.
I guess that's why they call it America; everything on a grand scale.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.