raise your sons

 

We’re hypocrites,
teaching our children to be humble,
and with the same breath,
showing them how to be attached to things,
this anxiety that we’ve left in our wills,
shall be inherited by them as boulders,
if we don’t quite simply,
practise what we preach,
and release the world from our grasp,
so that it can unshackle us from it slavery.

W.E.

Teach your children how to be alone

I owe everything I am to loneliness,
and thus, my children will know,

I’ve buried in the comfort of the fields inside,
so that all the seeds of antiquity will grow,

if you want advice on acquiring a kingdom,
and riches beyond of which you can show,

plant a seed, a deed and cover all your secrets,
learn patience, and from your garden, reap what you sew.

There’s method to the madness,
but it’s only madness in the eyes of the mad,
the clinically insane,
the pathologically mundane,
conformist, sheep-like,
and in pain.

It hurts them to step outside the normality of triviality,
of inability,
mediocrity,
so if I teach and nurture my children,
train them well in the science of the self,
teach them peace and comfort and inner wealth,
to be comfortable in their own shells,
I’m apparently abnormal,
a radical of sorts,
reduced to label of this or that,
because I choose not to sell their souls,
or trust them to anyone but themselves.

It becomes very apparent,
it’s not that they disagree with me,
nor find my reasoning outrageous,
it’s envy, jealousy and laziness,
that they, don’t have the fibre, nor zeal,
to do the same.

W.E.

-numb

14064232_575105222669493_4636429835504884249_n

Sometimes words spoken,
Hands shaken,
Deals hearkened,
By hearts hardened,
Cause the pictures to speak louder.
 
Your words spoke too loud this time,
And deafened this boy to the sound,
Of naught else but his consciousness.
 
Taught awareness of self at so young,
What will become,
What does he now have to overcome,
Your war drums,
Your missile hums,
Turning homes into slums,
How,
How will this all be undone?
 
When the rhetoric of your politics,
is the same shit,
Same song, sung,
Same outcomes,
This boy sits,
As you pit your wits,
Numb.
 
W.E.

love and light

13925560_622783034565629_3168448315804908389_o
– love and light

Love and light

Teach them love

Teach them light

Teach them they don’t matter

And when they serve others

Then in the eyes of the world

They will be sons of illume

Daughters with spiritual wombs

They will drag chivalry on its face in jealous rage as it wonders how these little atoms of light surpassed its station like an arrow through a target

Because you aligned them

Right from the start

______________________________________

Enjoying love and light and watching my children share the same.

And they always share.

My whole philosophy on their upbringing is a hope they become the humans, others turn to, when they forget how to be one.

Giving birth to the earth

sadness

 

Sadness;
The moment where words that lived with me so long,

Leave.

They stand at the departure gate of my lips,
And you know,
Once they turn their back,
It will be moments before they take flight,
To belong in someone else’s home.

Words, those gypsies,
Finding new homes,
Were they ever meant to depart,
And leave me alone?

They’re the children you give birth to,
And live with you for all those years,
Then one day, they leave you,
Awash with loneliness’s tears.

But a writer is fertile,
Always able to fall pregnant,
Our bellies are always swollen with words,
Waiting to give birth,
Always rotund, large of girth,
In one parable, one paragraph,
Back bent with the weight of the earth.
It’s a labour of love,
This labour of a lifetimes worth,
For the one line,
Sometimes a lifetime,
We’ll wait, we’ll search.
We’re not just writing, speaking, prattling,
With our words,
We’re giving birth,
To the earth.

-W.E.

My opus of poetry

opus4

Dear child,
You are my opus of poetry.
-W.E.

 

Sometimes,
I wish I was a woman.

Nine months of poetry I would write to last your lifetime.


I’d cook and feed myself with my own hands blowing a prayer over each meal.


I’d read every book of prose, love and of God I could find.


I’d worship, fallen in prostration, yet dancing in elation, weeping for everything inside me to transfer to you.


From milk I would give you for as long as you suckle,


To stare at you in forty years and say,

He is, she is,
My opus of poetry.
-W.E.