Something that has become lost on my brothers


Of what use do I have for a love that I cannot hurt with,
a love that leaves no scars.

How do I leave road maps back to you?
Knots in a rope,
a leaf trail,
footprints that return me into your soul.

I’m not deceived by a love that is sanitised and unwilling to scold,
smooth mountains never make much for climbing.

There’s nothing that excites me,
in a complicated face,
neither am I aroused,
by the curves and voluptuousness,
that makes a mockery of men.

I’d much rather the plainness of a woman,
who goes by unnoticed,
yet harbours a universe inside,
an outside wreck perhaps,
an inside wonder.

W.E.

 

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.

writers block – 4

 

If you need to win the conversation,
you’ve lost the art of communication.

Most people talk at,
instead of to people,
over,
instead of into,
through piercing arrows,
instead of soothing aloe,
and they wonder,
why they are not heard.

And it is no different for a writer,
how can anyone receive your words,
if all you want to do is be read,
if you don’t want to run your fingers through the mind of a reader.

W.E.

Tongue tied guilt

When my lips don’t know how to dance with my tongue,
when my teeth are chattering to an orchestral clamour,
it means there is begging in my mouth,
the echo from with in,
urging, urging, urging,
purging for for a litany of words to be written.

I can do that with my hands,
like building a home,
fixing a car,
fighting a human,
I can imagine things,
manifest them through my limbs with relative ease,
I can write you your own deepest thoughts,
but this mouth meat,
is the gateway to everything that is wrong in the world,
and so I’ll leave it guarded and keep it tied like the rabid dog it is.

Why are these hands so capable though,
and silence such an easy scapegoat,
why is my tongue guilty by default,
with no fair trial at all,
and yet my hands are unshackled and free to do as they please.

It feels as though I’ve bought into it all,
that keeping your mouth shut is so rewardable,
and keeping your hands busy, also rewardable,
a convenience for mediocrity,
insurance for government and society.

Meanwhile, this heart aches to speak out,
they’ve cut my tongue into obedient pieces,
a relationship with God,
slave-hood cloaked as humility,
a closet poet,
a fixer of things only around his immediate circle.

W.E.

CREDIT: Image by Hiroharu Matsumoto

 

loving with your bones

Some words are just so intimately dear,
I love the vulnerability of them,
the pouring,
and yet there’s an ache for reciprocity,
by the sheer fact you’re standing,
on such a tender branch of expression,
moving only so much as the breeze allows you,
at the mercy of your words being accepted.

That place is torturous,
humiliating and uplifting at once,
to be graced by a zephyr or swept by a tornado,
still, on that branch,
eyes closed and in another place,
lips still moist with your hearts empty,
unafraid and pensive.

How do you express intimacy without being meek,
and show your bones in hope she’ll hold them,
how do you conjure yet another way,
to assure, to inspire, to tell the truth of who you are?

I’m not good at anything but a slow release of my thoughts,
that’s why I’ll immortalise you with prose,
take my time one word at a time,
one thought a day,
and because she’s patient with me
the opus will be epic.

W.E.