-love letters

I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.

Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.

-W.E.

completion

completion
All this time,
you think this wall of me,
is the reflection I seek?

Swollen solitude,
until feet in one place assures you,
you have no place.

There’s nothing as caressing as silence,
when your life has been cavernous with noise,
bottled up rage is louder than any scream vocalised,
and that is why her silence is so appealing.

I despise the man that inflates his flesh,
gorges his appetite until he is inflamed with pus,
with the trickery of trophy women,
loud, lusting and yet longing,
and they both assume,
their flamboyance will carry them,
into the memory of pages,
nay,
into no ones poem.

W.E.

-vows

vows
-vows

I don’t have ball in my throat
I have a boulder in my neck
A mountain on my back
A planet in my prostate

My universe has always imploded
And now the residue is about to find its way out
Into streams of hurt and rivers of torture
This gap is so wide to walk around

How, how do I not fall
Not choke
Not crumble under the weight
Not gasp and quake

How ever do I knead the mend into my being
When the one ingredient needed to make this soul rise
Is you

How, can this colon heal
When I felt your absence all those years ago

I held on
I held on for so long

Do you know how hard it is
To use food as a bandage
And pretend all is well

Easy to swallow
Hard for it to find it’s way
And fill the gap of your attention being diverted

Cancer doesn’t just visit one randomly
Something has to die one way or the other
Perhaps lose someone
Until cancer becomes the intimate lover

Thus it embraced me with its claws
Gnashed it’s teeth into me thirty years ago
And I’ve worn its wedding ring ever since

Now we celebrate our vows
In sickness and in health, till death do us part

My colon has burst
My kidneys have rotted
I’m a man apart
Cancer, has my heart

W.E.

all that glitters is not gold

all-that-glitters-is-not-gold
all that glitters is not gold

whilst the idea of me is alluring
the reality of me is frightening
lucky for me
my pen is prettier than my face

W.E.

 
don’t get carried away,
with the way my words settle into your soul,
carve a nest into your heart,
and send a quiver through your lungs.

gasp, gasp,
there it is,
that skip of a beat,
as if I were talking to you,
fret not,
nor flatter yourself,
I am long gone,
in love with a being that doesn’t exist,
so your intrepid arrow,
will always miss.

W.E.

the seed that hides in the shadows

david-uzochukwu-surreal-portraits-photography-865963
We’re seeds waiting to burst,
to impregnate you with poetry,
and fill your womb with our vulnerabilities,
because we know our origin,
are familiar with it’s perfume.

Naturally, the poetry of a woman’s body,
will only be understood by poets,
because we understand lines,
we curve words,
we cursive around vernacular,
until it tingles the hairs on your clavicles.

And why, we ask?
Why do you seek those who have no vernacular,
only then to look down on us,
when we write you more poetry,
write you, more you.

We don’t see you in disjointed pieces,
of fleshen lust,
body parts of Frankenstein making,
we see you as the sharer of the apple,
we ate, as you ate, tempted by words,
and only then,
was our nakedness made apparent,
but still we write,
of losing the innocence in silken verse.

Come eat, if but a morsel,
and become immortal,
forever seen through ripe pomegranate blood of heaven,
if it weren’t a sin,  we’d worship you,
and God would certainly understand the heart of poet,
we’re not blasphemous, we but love his gift to us,
and yet still, you long for the tongue tied,
the glittering fodder of men,
we pale into shadows,
writing and writing, and writing, and writing and waiting…..

This affair with words has us mad,
as we long to carve out the perfect prose,
with the precision of a zelij craftsman,
geometry to perfection, balance and scale and rhyme and rose,
and hope to plant it in you,
a seed that grows….
waiting still in shadows.

W.E.

Art by David Uzochukwu – he is quickly becoming one of my favourites.