the encounter (napowrimo #5)

part 1

felt hands and hips
before i saw your face;
let myself fall into a slow wine
forgetting the club rule:

always watch for signals
from forward-facing girlfriends
when being danced with from behind...

abandoned myself to the rhythm...
first the dj's
then yours.

but it was cool
'cause i turned around
and the strong hands
were cloaked in pretty brown skin
the full lips were a nice bonus.

i wondered
what you looked like
in full sun,
away from disco balls
and fog machines.

on a whim,
i kissed you goodbye.
you whispered an island breeze
and i smiled,
grateful.

ambidextrous (napowrimo #4)

my magic is white
before your hands trace my spine...
then, hips drum dark beats.




{a brief explanation: for some, white magic--or the right-hand path--is considered chaste and/or decidedly non-sexual. sex magick, tantra, and other sensual pleasures used as spiritual disciplines are deemed "left-handed". the left hand path is often maligned as completely "evil" and full of "black magic", when really there are positive and negative poles of each. e.g., white magic used to manipulate emotions and free will--such as a "come back to me" spell--could also be considered negative.}

the split, redux (napowrimo #3)

a poem fashioned from prose, in two parts.

1.
sekhmet's come to clean house--
reminding you
that violence and intelligence
are not always mutually exclusive. 

lioness eyes gleam with razor-wit
kind only to respectful seekers,
cursing all others.

don't make her cut you...

ever-purifying fire of change,
evolution's catalyst; 
queen whose pleasure comes before all else.

2.
sweetest thing
this side of honeycombs
and sugar cane.

full of love mantras,
gossamer dreams,
and pleasing ways.

she rests
in flowing waters
moved by compassion and kindness.

love makes any sorrow irrelevant.

besides,
who could ever notice
the tears of a mermaid?

haiku (napowrimo #2)

he speaks to me. i
am lost in lucid brown eyes,
trying to translate.

love manifest

i have received many answers to this...

but even in my gratitude, i have felt empty, like i have nothing to give in return for all the wonders that have been placed at my feet.

then i realized, it's true that i am empty...but only in the sense of a beautiful vessel waiting to hold fine perfume or rare, precious oil. 

my heart is cleansed and ready to receive--the best kind of emptiness.

i am still myself. still whole. there is plenty to offer.

i have just learned to give wisely. 

primordial (napowrimo #1)

not all wombs open as easily as legs.

there are many ways to warm a bed
and feed from breasts. 

there was a time
when a woman unto herself
was understood
and embraced
as a different kind of ideal.

over time,
politics became important.
the men got suspicious
and aroused the suspicion of our sisters...

She said:
"it's all right.
from now on, you will just have to be brave.
respect that this path will be laced with broken glass
instead of leisure.
but you will know who you are.
and, if you learn your lessons well,
i will guarantee you want for nothing."

so, daughter,
we have always been here.

yes, some turned bitter
seeing our sisters' comforts;
the years of smug smiles and haughty glances
inspired the negative side of darkness.

therein lies the worst of our reputation.

still...
most of us
were simply good
and misunderstood.

vocalist

when you sing your spirit
i have to keep mine
from rushing out of my mouth
to greet you.

blessed {or: a retelling of my birthstory}

{original posting}

my arrival was cloaked in silence
rest. immobility.
more like a wake than a birth...

there was praying
worry
wringing of hands...

i was early but
cosmically punctual;
i had to belong
to neptune:
ruler of murky and
clear waters
destined to duality,
soul comprehension.

the prayer became protection
prenatal apprehension an excuse for fierce independence
"no need to worry...i am here."
hands that rubbed themselves raw
in anticipated grief
were rarely turned to me in anger
but fed/held/clothed me
with love
instead.

relearned priestess rites thru
house-playing shame
...the universe has to
make up for our deletions;
denied rites of passage become
misplaced ashe
creeping into unicorn wallpapered bedrooms...

anyway...

lived life in books and magazines
...it was like the written word
was never lost to me
i'd kept
the histories/mysteries/stories/wisdom
too long
to forget.

my womb is lined with
cave etchings
sumerian script and
griot lessons
hieroglyphs they haven't uncovered on earth yet...

if they could decipher menstruation,
they'd find many women
are actually treasure maps.

goddess heritage my birthright
not because i'm african--but because i remember.

willfully refusing amnesia
in the face of babylon.

the ritual

they placed me on the altar...the tea they'd given me dulled my senses, made me sluggish and weary.

i snapped awake when i saw the knife hovering above my head, then my heart...

i begged them to spare me--anything but death. suddenly lucid, i wiggled my naked torso, struggling against the binding on my hands and feet, still begging, don't spill my blood...

an elder woman heard me and stopped the priest's hand. 

her will is strong, she said. if she does not want to die, she must be put on trial.

a new season...

spring is coming...

she always brings hyperawareness;
a near constant state of arousal.

all my senses light up.
breezes feel like kisses;
i can smell the earth before/after the rain;
my heart blossoms with the tree buds;
the wind sounds different.

coats and clothing slowly thin out.

small pleasures include
a day without socks,
going to lunch without a jacket.

i've been blessed with deep, sweet love dreams
i revel in their deliciousness as i write them down...

i feel delicious
luscious
sweet
lusty
desiring...

something like
a perfect peach
waiting to be split open
inhaled
then devoured...

{he's gotta have a pretty mouth...}

of course,
summer is my true season.

but the prelude is nearly as nice.