Waking With Wilderness
Life is buzzing in the jungle city,
Where the mechanical birds fly overhead,
And the machines roar throughout the afternoon.
Brick trees cast their rectangular shadows
As the wind darts passed the winding streets.
The silent railway beasts rattle softly,
Following their electrical lines.
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Waves of clunkers and land yachts occupy the roads,
On their way to endless destinations.
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The chitter-chatter of human life
And twitter-tweet of the jungle city's pigeons
Fills the humid air with sound.
So much noise in what must have been a deafening sea,
For even the land here was built by man.
There is no escape,
Behind a four-walled cave,
For the electronics hum to dancing particle waves.
What was once open and free,
Moving slow and quiet,
Is condensed and constricted,
Racing with great noise at Mach-speeds.
As the heat bakes rooftops and tar lanes,
Winter hibernation is long forgotten,
And once again there is life all around.
So the day begins with Spring,
Without a cloud in the sky,
And the sun to set later at night.
It is good to see some nature exists in our robot world,
For if it did not,
I fear many more lost,
In this city jungle world.
~2015
Backstory: Waking With Wilderness is somewhat a cry for less brick, metal, and glass, and more trees, flowers, and nature. Some countries have found the perfect balance of nature vs. residential living. However, the view (as I experienced it) in New York City shows the imbalance in many areas with a heavy lean on a lack of nature. The imbalance, though pleasant for some, can be jarring for others. Humans and creatures alike have had to adapt to survive in the city landscape. Even though the layouts are typically designed in a fashion that's fantastic for businesses and apartment living, the areas can prove particularly cold and lonesome for those who thrive on a touch of countryside. I tried to capture the pros and cons of city living in my poem, haunted by the story of a woman that must have suffered terribly to commit suicide by throwing herself down a tall building's trash chute. Hence my poem cautions on living in an overly robotic, electrical, and industrial dependent world. I doubt any wilderness, city or otherwise, will make for a decent future, but thankfully what's to come isn't set in stone. I look forward to the day cities around the world embrace more of a solarpunk aesthetic and greater compassion within each building's society.
Coral's Cry
Closed eyes hear crashing thunderous horses
While hooves beat against crushed pebble shores.
Misty manes soaked with white foam,
In a sunset filled sky,
Rise and fall with the moon's tug and pull.
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Walking along,
The beckoning edge,
The white-grey winged birds scream and high above cry.
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Feet feel their way past the cracked backs of sea creatures,
Colors shimmer under the red-yellow rays of the setting sun.
Gold-lined clouds travel with the wind.
Mother of pearl,
In all forms scooped into small hands
Is gently placed against the ear.
The sea whispers long forgotten songs,
As a Siren,
Beckoning.
Strong waters grab at the ankles to sink the unexpected
Into softened granular-sand.
Walk on.
Protective and wise to the wild wonders below,
The high mountains cradle above,
Bent over and silently watching.
Across the sea's belly,
The last rays of sunlight are dancing.
It is as if the stars fell to play with the waves on earth,
To flit back and forth.
Whales trumpet their deep humming voices and splash trident tails.
Atop the rocky walls,
Motionless,
Stuck in time,
With a tune in mind.
Seaweeds slowly wrap around stationary objects,
Pulling them below such that barnacles attach
And corals make a new home.
The outside becomes smooth stone.
The inside of the clam holds a pearl,
Who the person was,
Once before.
Cold winds cover the water's face,
And one is touched by secretive ancient ways.
Pegasus thunders in the night.
Aquarius pours Pisces into the deep blue,
Out of sight.
Warm underneath,
The scaly mermaids swim,
And closed eyes hear their echoing fins.
~2015
Backstory: Homesick for South Africa, and remembering The Strand and Cape Town, I wrote Coral's Cry. No words can truly capture the beauty of my home country. The sounds, the people, and the heartbeats. "The white-grey winged birds" are the Seagulls squawking overhead as some step around or on the "cracked backs" of Mussel shells on the beach. The bent over high mountains of Table Mountain fill my memories with the sunrise and sunset colors of gold, marigold, and crimson. I've journeyed and made a new home in many countries, but my birth country anchors and grounds me in the awe of all God has made and praising Him. My birth home, Bloemfontein, often feels stuck in time or at least as if time moves slower there than anywhere else in the world. I can return and remember who I was before I left. Bloemfontein, a more dry, red clay desert versus The Strand, a gorgeous ocean blue with sunlight dancing on the surface of the water were both instrumental in my core development. Home can shape a person and though our beginnings may call to us the final destination could be across the oceans somewhere deserted or lush. At least, no matter where one travels, the whispers in the sea shells speak in similar chords.
Weaver's Web
How does the weaver weave?
Hands of beauty spun worn and bruised,
Sowing sinew and muscle tissue into the wool.
Pastille pinks and periwinkle blues,
A pointillistic vision,
Woven view.
How do I compare this to a moon-grey day?
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Barely lit,
Sullen street lamps loom over.
Bent ostrich necks,
Forgotten and alone.
Is this not the view inside the weaver's home?
However,
Woolen thoughts warm the imagination.
A woman sitting there,
With a mother's care.
Threaded in with patience,
Is the soft feel of handmade clothing,
And tapestry filled halls.
Such is the meeting of masterful painters,
And masters of the weaving world.
Beauty,
Not made,
But woven.
From the fabric of our DNA,
We give back to the fabric of the world.
Connected,
Before comprehension,
Before birth,
And before blood.
What I would give to glimpse the fabric of love.
Would it be a prism of rainbows?
Soft and delicate, or strong and unbreakable?
Only love can unite two strands,
By standing loosely at opposite ends.
Humankind,
Strands that stand,
And fit together.
A puzzle piece or braided basket,
Built on the dust of others.
We are never gone.
We shed our skin to the mud beneath our feet.
It allows us to walk until buried in the sand.
Part of a Great Master's painting,
Is neither a cycle nor a tower,
But something in between.
Woven from the fabric of the Greatest Weaver's dream.
We are the Carpenter's table,
Laid bear.
The masterpiece
He refuses to share,
But does not spare His body to treasure us,
With the utmost of care.
~2015
Backstory: The poem below was influenced not only by my Christian upbringing but also the constant awareness and thoughts concerning creation and the universe, including the origin of all we know and have yet to discover. I likened the creation of our world to weaver's hands creating patterns that tie together. The ending connects our DNA to God and His Son Jesus Christ, and to His great plan and design, whether one views God's Love as motherly and/or fatherly. Everyone has their view of how we came to be, but I enjoy contemplating the view from a Mastermind Artist's perspective.
String Memoirs
Silk hugs her body,
Chiffon waterfall.
Picture,
Essence,
Purple decor.
Cherry rose flames,
Crown the contours of her chest.
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Long translucent robe,
Pink stitched edge.
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Violet petals dance,
Across the Princess’ robe,
To sounds she creates,
On my wooden board.
With an ivory plectrum,
Long golden nails tickle treat.
Green pearls line her neck,
Swinging,
Beneath her powdered cheeks.
Dragon-crested,
Porcelain-faced,
Black-raven,
Fair.
The breeze blows the curtains across her braided hair.
She is an enchantress this bride of beauty,
Her vanilla fragrance fills the air.
In any dynasty,
My mistress and I are a seductive pair.
Graceful swan,
With precision,
Her hand picks at every silkworm string,
And Jade-built bridge.
A butterfly hugs her back,
While pearl-pendants line her curves.
In harmony,
We sing for Kings and Emperors.
~2015
Backstory: For those who enjoy Asian dramas and stories, String Memoirs, was about capturing the beauty and elegance of such shows rich with history and philosophy. I love how every person and piece of a set from the actors and actresses to the clothing and beyond are studied from the art of perfection. Everything must be in its proper place, time period, and made with the utmost of care. It's easy to romanticize perfection but living with the standards expected of royalty, for example, is an entirely different story. What do you believe strict and/or relaxed cultures pass on more to their descendants?
Sapphire Silhouette
Painted setting suns,
In bright red hues.
Fusion,
Behind snowy milk clouds.
Golden-lined linen,
A ribbon muse,
Running around rays outlined.
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Our background is silent,
Not a single sound.
We all share the magnificent view.
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Crimson-crested crown,
Apatite Cabochon blue,
With a dash of speckled brown.
Purple howlite stone,
Sky of pebbles,
I can't own.
A fantasy lagoon.
Swim and sing,
In the skies,
With angels decked in a fluorescent white.
How ancient the heavens who seem so wise.
A serene sea's breeze blows whistled tunes.
~2015
Backstory: I love colors, and that about sums up this poem. There isn't much backstory other than I was trying to find different colorful words to describe a pretty view with sunshine, clouds, sky, stars, and ocean. My favorite photos, illustrations, and paintings are typically those with a similar view or with each individual aspect mentioned above described in further detail.
Tealeaves Tarry
Teacups topped with tea leaves is an aroma pleasing to the senses.
The warm brew of fresh leaves,
Calming and rejuvenating for the skeleton.
Hydration,
Tasty liquid water,
Every sip coincides with a memory.
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A frightful rainy day or sun-kissed ray
Hides behind the window's wavy curtain display.
Clouds leave shadows where light,
It should be bursting.
​
On a table sits a library,
Behind a screen.
Books full of adventures,
Running endless schemes.
Tales that go past every imagination,
Playing countless scenes.
Images and words,
Swimming butterfly-tandems past each other.
In sync,
They form a parallel universe,
And a multiverse of wonders.
The warmth,
Of the tea,
Brews deep in the belly,
Tingling and untangling,
Any knots or anxiety.
Cookie jars filled with magical flour,
That rises and raises levels of dopamine.
Delight demands dairy,
Hence the chocolate candy coating.
Placed eloquently on a cake tray stand,
Decorated with berries and bites from far away lands.
A little tea party with teddy bears seated near,
They are the company of Kings and Queens,
In secret,
They meet here.
Each tasting a coffee bean or tea leaf
Brewed brand from un-chipped China,
Pretty porcelain.
Daintily decorated,
And vulnerable unless in the hands of a skilled artisan.
Softly sighing the breath of life,
A sleepy slumber breaks feelings of strife.
Worry not where teaspoons chime,
To milk and sugar,
And at what time.
Crème cream upside-down tornados top the coffee cups,
And cinnamon hot chocolate line the larger mugs.
Heads held high and pinkies outstretched for balance.
A beautiful display of warmth and peace.
Elegance.
~2015
Backstory: As someone unable to drink and enjoy coffee, I love drinking tea. Tealeaves Tarry allowed me the opportunity to capture my appreciation for teas and their numerous health benefits. My favorite moments to enjoy a cup of tea, with or without milk, and with or without sugar, would have to be when the rain pours heavily outside or when the sun bakes and a Boba proves extra refreshing. As a child I used to drink Rooibos tea (with honey) from South Africa to combat (what I now know were partly panic attacks as a result of high stress and anxiety levels), asthma and sinusitis symptoms. Peppermint tea from India has repeatedly aided high acidity related issues, and Rose tea particularly from Turkey has been excellent at alleviating muscle tension. Tea may be cultural but it's also quite simply social when one wants to be, and perfect for sitting alone with a favorite book, forgetting the rest of existence. A natural high if you will. One even children can enjoy with their teddybears. Tea belongs in its great variety to everyone, and seems capable of making the world more peaceful, balanced, and mindful.
Eucalyptus Scent
Minty-pepper peppermint,
From perfumed parceled plants.
Aroma of field-awoken flowers and fresh linen enchants.
Therapeutic bottled spring,
Soothing sigh,
Instantaneous relief.
Freshness on my temples and on my chubby cheeks.
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Found calming and relaxing no matter what time of year.
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In Christmas white red candy,
Herbed meats,
Spiced chutney atmosphere.
Fresh flavor for the sauces,
Relish to wild rice,
Traditional treat and rapture,
The palate cleanser does one entice.
What soothing sight to smell such balmy warmth,
Oxygen in the lungs and refreshment for the mouth.
Dilutes acidic stomachs,
Rids foul air of smells,
Even added to deodorant,
Candles made as well.
Written is an ode to the mint leaf,
No stranger to the saints.
For even they know the calm caress it brings to body,
Soul,
And cerebral veins.
~2015
Backstory: I like mint, it ain't no lie, and highly recommend giving Peppermint Crisp and After Eight a try!
Weighing Thoughts
Deep depths of measured meditative-travel.
Malarkey moments,
Momentary thoughts unravel.
Words never spoken,
Yet not unknown,
For Sophia hides in silence,
Behind the philosopher’s tongue.
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She masquerades as the owl,
Caressing the moon,
Sprouts in the mind,
Inception is her tool.
Neurotic neurons race around,
Cells are lit up.
Fiction-filled fighting,
Frictional facts,
Makes grey-white matter turn into brain maps.
Possibilities never calculated,
Three point fourteen and on,
Are we circular triangles,
Or a line dotted ion?
Where does imagery sleep,
Painting pictures pristine?
Is she a vixen-tailed paintbrush,
Excoriating esteem?
Pillow parades,
Vexed visions,
Vivaciously;
What need for dreams with ideas running audaciously?
Time demanded focus,
Depletion of energy;
Requires rest,
Research,
And developing the elementary.
Why does thinking require one to pace?
For all our thoughts would require all of Space.
~2015
Backstory: One of the toughest battles facing anyone on any day will likely be centered around decision-making thoughts. The suspense of making a choice that will ultimately lead to a change in outcome can build up intense amounts of stress. Each outcome holds the potential for great new possibilities and/or horrifying consequences. If you have watched the science fiction TV series Foundation created by David S. Goyer and Josh Friedman, (I admit one needs quite an open mind to watch the show), but if you hold on long enough the concepts and ideas that arise do ask important questions. However, most of the questions in the show center mainly around psychohistory and quantum technologies. As a writer of all sorts my mind constantly weighs one word against another, balancing dialogues with narration, and sifting through old ideas versus new ones. Even when my mind is quiet, my subconscious takes over, and whether dreaming or awake, I'm always thinking.
Ink, Lead, & Liberty
Pen ponders patiently,
Distracted by worlds illusory,
Yawning yolks creativity,
Cracking distills delivery.
What makes a wrestled writer?
What makes a tongued tool?
What makes a special story?
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What makes a you, you?
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Gift given is freedom of speech,
Free from fear not responsibility.
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Silence surrenders,
It does not teach.
Open mouths,
Mangled media,
Melancholy.
Balance or barrier,
Thin linguistic line.
Brain noodles turn limp,
Words set fire to the mind.
Mute voices can't cry.
Writers tell tales;
Writers,
Dictators,
Dictate.
Writers puppeteer puppets,
Writers fight fate.
Why does calligraphy consistently create?
Why voice the voiceless?
What does justice negate?
Why survive,
If in living,
New paths aren't paved?
~2015
Backstory: Ink, Lead, and Liberty, the title at least, was inspired by a combination of The Pledge of Allegiance's "liberty and justice for all" and The United States Declaration of Independence's "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Why did I choose the words 'ink' and 'lead' instead of 'life', 'justice', and 'happiness'? For me ink represents those who have written, shaped, and documented history. Lead represents bullets and/or blades symbolic of the battles fought to shape what we now know as history. Honestly, not everyone gets to fully experience life, justice, or happiness, and if I'm being extra honest, barely anyone experiences true liberty. Why did I keep that word then in my poem's title? Simple, because that's what I believe ink and lead are about. Our words and our deeds shape how enslaved or free we all may live, and in those freedoms we win, therein we may find life, justice, and the pursuit of happiness. The point I try to make at the end of my poem isn't one of whether life is worth living if we can't write our stories as we want them. It's that when pledges, allegiances, and declarations are written, (or any creed for that matter), they should account for changes and allow for those changes necessary to propel a people forward rather than hold them back for the sake of tradition and keeping the status quo. Safety doesn't exist in remaining stuck. One must be able and allowed to adapt, embrace positive changes, and build an education system with a firm foundation that seeks to provide vital knowledge. Knowledge such as how to discern between that which will benefit united communities as a whole rather than certain individuals based purely on their status, wealth, or otherwise. All in all, a pencil properly utilized that causes growth is a felled tree honored.
Sensual Appetite
Silky-smooth salacious desire
Of honeyed-hazelnut chocolate transpires.
Delectable drama dresses tempestuous-tongue in tempting tastes.
Velveteen cocoa-chiffon glides gracefully down perfumed-neck
In haste.
Magically melted milk coffee-caramel,
Oozes with aromatic vanilla essence of smell.
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Cinnamon fudge touched,
Palatable pleasure,
Caresses taste buds with mouth-watering favor.
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Waterfall sauce and sumptuous ambience,
Exotic goods are held by gloveless-fingertips with elegance.
Syrups suspension seeps soul-fully over,
Scrumptious saccharine,
A Casanova.
Saliva swirls thin hints of georgette,
Gastronomy.
A luscious lavish liquid-luxury.
White crisped petals line provocative pastry curves,
Whilst raspberry glides gracefully,
Leaving soft delectable purrs.
Evocative feel of deluxe and delight,
Traveling slowly down,
Tingling the thighs.
When plush flavorful-fragrance sets the mood,
An exquisite,
Delicious pleasantry,
Feels so good.
~2015
Backstory: I dabbled outside of my comfort zone in publicly posting this poem. Full transparency, I don't believe there's anything wrong with writing about the sensual side of food. What we eat elicits different responses, thems just facts. Do I feel shy writing or especially narrating such vibes...100%! One can be mature about a topic and still blush or cringe internally. I don't embarrass easily, but if successfully pushed to the point then I will absolutely go full rosy pink cheeks. Back to food. In a world where so many struggle with a love or hate relationship when it comes to eating and drinking, I feel it's necessary to be able to view responsible consumption in a healthy and celebratory manner. One shouldn't waste, not even sharing unforgettable memories such as enjoying cakes in a tea shop worth their every slice!
Death As Death
Why do poets deem death-as-death not life that has been?
Full-fulfilled is what it means.
For death-as-death does not destroy dreamt dreams.
Why do scripts see life as living?
For it is a lie,
When there is an end so fearfully nigh.
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Why do writers feel the scythe is not real?
Hades door demands a rotting corpse,
For I have heard his nagging calls.
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Why do movies play me as a shadow?
For I am light or dark,
Depending on if you lied or not.
Life-is-life that you might exist.
For being or not being,
Is how it is.
For I am the half,
Apparently dark,
For I am the Grim Reaper,
Who smirks,
But never laughs.
~2015
Backstory: Ah, good ol' Grim Reaper. Since I don't consider Death to have a gender per se even though I grew up viewing Death as a 'he', I'll be using 'they/them' pronouns. Aside note, I'd love to hear an intellectual debate on the difference between how people gender-identify themselves, others, and objects, and how and why these differ among different cultures and backgrounds. I'll add to that how gender-identification has the capacity to change over time. For example, I think it's perfectly plausible that the Grim Reaper or Death can be viewed as a man, woman, non-binary, or even as an 'it' all depending if a person views Death as thinking (subject) or unthinking (object) and as having a gender or being genderless. I also believe that Death can be all of the above depending on how a person experiences Death at different life stages. I used to be frightfully afraid of death as a child and it took me many years to come to terms with the fact that people die and it's a part of the cycle of life. I would have nightmare after nightmare, particularly ones where I experienced drowning or waking in a coffin because people thought I was dead but I actually wasn't and then suffocating to death. It's for this reason that I always believed the process of sailing the dead on a boat that's lit by a flaming arrow to be the better of funeral rituals, and I liked the poetry of going by simultaneous fire and ice for those who know Robert Frost's famous poem. Death As Death, the last stanza where the Grim Reaper smirks but doesn't laugh, is a nod to the more empathetic side of the Grim Reaper, (and hence why I think they're called 'Grim' else perhaps they'd be creepily known as the Joyful Reaper). They are typically written as a dark creature and apathetic to pain, but I've learnt over time that they can also be a gift. If you've ever played out in your mind a world where all humans live as immortals then perhaps you'll understand what I mean.
Direct Dialect
Secret symbols sign their way,
Across the lengths of every hidden page.
Delicately deciphering,
Dot and line,
See how the shapes connect,
How the meanings are derived?
Concentration,
Painstakingly copying the scribble;
Even mistakes become part of the dribble.
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Whether painted on boulder stones,
Scratched marks in honeycombs,
Etched ink in papyrus rolls,
Or typed code on luminescent monitors;
The skilled calligraphy is there for all to see.
Pronounce,
Every transliteration,
The tongue twists with anticipation.
Match sounds to words echoed,
The grapevine plays havoc with the slightest separation.
From village to village cursive of the handwritten,
It becomes distorted,
Often pillaged.
No longer the original or entirely unique,
A son-daughter form of the way the ancients did speak.
Memories are required when dictionaries get tossed,
But who can remember the name for every creature,
Emotion,
And thing before it is lost.
Each facial expression,
The body itself,
Becomes part of the code,
Part of the inner shell.
Language unites,
When love fills each tone,
But it can also separate,
If hate fills the bones.
For every sound,
Paints a picture;
It imagines a thought.
To set these in order requires one to lean on grammar,
If it is taught.
Then forming sentences,
Invisible lines of cipher exiting the body's whole,
And entering the ears of another,
Before stupidity or reason lends a retort.
Thoughts laid bare become instructions laid out,
And anyone comprehending,
Builds based on their own understanding.
Hidden beneath the logic of linguistics,
There is a subtlety,
Which turns language into an art,
A puzzle tree.
Where one word is bound by two different meanings,
For certain things are similar,
And new words come difficult to those simplifying feelings.
Cultures speak in tongues,
But tongues do not relay cultures.
So we remain in the maze of dots and lines,
Ever being altered.
~2015
Backstory: I love languages. The ability to communicate through all sorts of mediums and using every one of the senses. I know there are those who would argue that reading is the main means to require knowledge but there are many considered illiterate whom are perfectly capable of communicating with other beings. It's not lost on me that the chasms between hurt people due to miscommunication are as wide as they are deep. We chuck every interpretation and assumption into the mix and almost always with the presumption that everyone understands what the symbolisms and multiple meanings behind each word and movement means. Impossible. A million emojis couldn't capture how diverse and complex human beings prove to be, constantly developing ideas and changing our minds, and that's not including each animal and plant species ever evolving. If time travel did indeed exist, I doubt any of us would make it a minute alive. I'd argue society knows itself and can quickly spot the difference. It's tough enough for the wonderful weirdos in each age constantly having to fight so hard just to be accepted by their own communities. For many acceptance equals survival. Language is a tool, a weapon, and a privilege. LAN-guage is a local area network instrument. In the digital age where social media platforms have become our local areas for networking, I wonder whether we, a specific language, or artificially intelligent computers will be considered the primary instruments for engagement?
Untamed
Greasy locks mock the wind,
Old dusty roads,
Leathered yellow-brown skin.
Rattle snake hisses,
Skinny ribs crawl away.
Barns of rusted metal,
Sand and sorrow in the bed one stays.
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Saloon silver spurs,
Dug in heels.
Phantom pianos,
Undressed girls with lasso squeals.
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Dried weeds twist in fury,
Horizontal tornado's set alight.
Caught between hot ember and shiny amber,
Renegade and the Runner,
Take cover;
Behind broncos saddle,
Mane,
And gaskin.
Blue denim jacket
First to the trigger,
The quiver,
Metal bowstring.
Clock tower at twelve,
The noon sun blinds,
Shot-shell,
Ground runs red;
Mud,
Blood,
And heart Queen bets.
A lifetimes debt,
No settled scores,
Trading sticks and stones,
For bullets and bones.
Six feet doesn't seem enough,
To save the day;
Let weapons dust in the rough.
~2015
Backstory: Untamed, the poem, was inspired by old Wild Western movies and music such as the song, Wanted Dead or Alive by Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora.
Fishes Fathomed
Large hands pick out light stars,
From within the nothingness of the dark.
Once combined,
Now divided,
Once waters covered sky and sea;
Without difference,
Without severance.
Liquid hourglass sifting steam.
​
Uncoupled,
But linked in chemically bound chains.
Names differentiate the veins.
Hobermans’ Mini Sphere represents what I see,
The birth within is the universe to a degree.
​
In the belly,
In the heart,
Constitutes the galaxies hearth.
Bright shinning,
Multitude;
Picture,
When love first opened its eyes.
How from existence,
For isn't existence a prerequisite?
An abundance,
Unable to obliterate;
So, what was the spark,
The crumb,
Core,
The pattern's start of which we have no record?
How do reality and emotion relate?
If insight is the foresight of existence,
Is it what it is,
In hindsight?
How to be and then begin?
Something alone,
Perhaps quiet and still,
Requires another before it can shake with will.
I dip my head into a supermassive black hole to see the unseen,
In deep waters we remain as fish,
Fathomless but fathomed;
A measurement,
Without the method to measure how we've been fashioned.
Pi is questionable in its spiraling detail;
By Golden Ratio do we prevail.
Surely,
I am but a point on a line,
On intersecting circles sign,
Chaotic ordered,
Cosmos and time.
~2015
Backstory: How did the world begin? Is God the origin story, does God have an origin story, or is God the origin with an origin story? What does the absolute very beginning of all things look like and is it something observable? The start of everything, much like the end, seems perpetually wrapped in a shroud of never-ending questions, possible answers, and a lot more questions. I've always believed mathematics isn't the only means to measure the world. For the sake of everyone with Dyscalculia, I sincerely hope it isn't. Don't get me wrong, I like numbers, but I can't imagine being defined purely by equations. How boring would it be if we could measure and predict everything in existence?
The Artist
I am the beaten,
the broken,
the outcast
The one who gets hit first,
and gets up last.
I am the oppressed, the confused,
the one who cries out,
without an answer,
I am the silence.
I am doubt.
I beat against a concrete ceiling,
where trampling feet rule above,
I am the blood, the sweat,
and the tears,
but I am also love.
Refined in the fire, I burn bright.
refused at every corner,
I learn to fight.
hungry for joy, I smile.
I can't give up,
I see you,
child.
Your eyes hold the hope mine once did.
the need to protect rises from within,
somewhere deep.
my arms outstretched,
I will hold you close.
my battle is not a war,
it is peace.
I am the storyteller,
my hands are covered in ink.
my beating valves are the drums,
driving my thoughts to the brink.
here on the edge is my home,
if you push me, I will not fall.
for centuries of ancestors
fill the valley,
they speak,
and they say,
Carry On!
~2018
Backstory: I wrote my poem, The Artist, after hearing the founder of Alterna Comics, Peter Simeti, share a horrible experience he went through on Social Media. His bravery, leadership, and determination made me think about all the creatives out in the world working hard either alone or with support to build something from almost nothing for other people to enjoy. I deeply respect anyone able to continue working with the same care, passion, and humility after going through such a painful and traumatic experience. The emotional tones in my poems' narrated words comes from a place of understanding regarding mental health awareness and the impact depression plays in many artists' lives. Some artists' backstories include being subject to bullying as kids and/or as adults, betrayal, abuse, an environment that doesn't allow for growth, and/or loneliness. However, the artist, ever battling for a better future for their inner child and/or next generations, never gives up and never stops creating until their last breath. A person can be torn to shreds inside and outside and still create. A person can have a voice or be silenced and still find a way to communicate. A person, any person, can find freedom and hope in a world where art is everywhere. Everyone is The Artist, and The Artist is for everyone.
Race Against Sun
The Game
Attention competitors in this year’s Race Against Sun!
You, the chosen few, will receive rare resources to build a greenhouse
One winner will secure the well-being of their country’s future.
Your A.I., Automaton Inspectors, regret to inform: a greed inducing virus corrupted our code
Will you create a self-sustainable greenhouse without a panel to declare a winner?
Attention competitors in this year’s Race Against Sun!
You fight for the sake of your country, yourself, and your robotic companion’s survival
Desperate survivors, unable to participate in the race, wish to derail you for one reason
You, the chosen few, will receive rare resources to build a greenhouse
May the best couple win the grand prize of life itself
Grow a virtual village, share your knowledge, but guard your trust
One winner will secure the well-being of their country’s future.
The Gamers
“Nia? The virus. I can…it’s infecting me too. I want-I want money!”
Currency symbols rotate in the center of Milo’s super-black iris until Nia taps him on the head,
“You’re a five-Gen, a fifty-year-old cyborg cyclops, I know you can beat a little virus.”
“Yes, but how do I win money? How do I help you win the race and beat the virus?”
“Compartmentalize, Milo. We’ve been at this for twenty life cycles. You’ve not failed me once.”
“Nia? The virus. I can…it’s infecting me too. I want-I want money!”
“We lost money each past cycle,” Milo hiccups, his eyelid drooping beneath his flame-dyed hair.
“You didn’t fail me, Milo, and I’m determined not to fail you or our people.”
Currency symbols rotate in the center of Milo’s super-black iris until Nia taps him on the head,
“Ok, Nia. My extended offline side will help you, while my online side battles the virus.”
“Happy battles, I believe in you buddy!” Nia’s smile matches the dancing smiley in Milo’s iris,
“You’re a five-Gen, a fifty-year-old cyborg cyclops, I know you can beat a little virus.”
Races
Nia and Milo work non-stop against the ever blazing, surface scorching sun
Nia taught Milo that red symbolizes love and super-black contains endless possibilities,
“We are what we build on ourselves, and not what others attach to us.”
Milo dreams of becoming an A.I. seeking solutions on the race’s livestreamed reality show
Fear meant a sun reminiscent, hair flame-dyed, and super-black eyed A.I. was unheard of
Nia and Milo work non-stop against the ever blazing, surface scorching sun
A working hydroponic garden means surviving climate change, and retiring in a luxury ice hotel.
“I swear by my proud black plum afro and mazarine irises no one will dare disrespect us,”
Nia taught Milo that red symbolizes love and super-black contains endless possibilities,
“Born with patches of white, brown, and black skin my parents agree I’m a symbol of unity,”
Nia yells at the mirror, projected by her upgraded contact lenses, while her friend recharges.
“We are what we build on ourselves, and not what others attach to us.”
The Garden
Hydroponic seeds sprout on synthetic, spider spun wool
Robot Alpaca clones graze in printed grass fields
Oakleaf butterfly sized, solar energy collecting leaves power the self-sustainable farm house.
Wind turbines purify and desalinate the water
Water feeds the seeds grown in a lab and planted by drones in flower shaped patterns
Hydroponic seeds sprout on synthetic, spider spun wool
Robot Alpacas, built five stories high, wear web spun fluff
The excrement produced without harmful gasses fertilizes the ground beneath metal hooves
Robot Alpaca clones graze in printed grass fields
Rich soil replaces tar roads and pavement too hot for sandals and tires to tread
Waterproof and fire-resistant peanut-shaped, self-sealing domes weather the elements
Oakleaf butterfly sized, solar energy collecting leaves power the self-sustainable farm house.
M.I.L.O.
“Nia? I’m afraid I won’t be joining the panel after all, but it’s ok. I know you’ll survive.”
“You built a system based on unity, untouched by greed,”
“Dearest Nia, greed…money…is contagious. Our green home only works if it helps everyone.”
Nia kneels, a precious rare seed dropping out of her hand, “Milo, I need you. You’re my friend.”
“To defeat the virus, I need the sun that you need to beat,” Milo sighs,
“Nia? I’m afraid I won’t be joining the panel after all, but it’s ok. I know you’ll survive.”
A single teardrop falls. “Keep the stupid virus,” Nia mutters. Her fists pound their work station.
Milo extends two of his six robot arms, gripping his closest friend tight in one last hug,
“You built a system based on unity, untouched by greed,”
“The A.I. panel, our rivals’ robotic companions, and I will self-destruct in ten minutes.”
Nia braids strands of Milo’s flaming red hair around her wrist, his voice echoing as she runs,
“Dearest Nia, greed…money…is contagious. Our green home only works if it helps everyone.”
*
A sunflower graffitied on the back of a drone flies Milo’s ashes as close as possible to the sun
The residents of each green home wave a banner with the words: memories include loved ones
A rare precious seed, sprouting in a world overrun
Inside the cracks of technology booms the swiveling war and peace drums.
~2022
Backstory: A post on Instagram by qwertpoetry inspired me to write and submit my poem, "Race Against Sun", to greenhivestudio's competition. A fifth place honorable mention meant a lot as there were only meant to be three winners in total. The prompt challenge was to write about technology. I envisioned a near futuristic world where survivors compete alongside their robotic buddies for precious resources to keep their country running. The competitors are judged by a panel of artificially intelligent robots on whether or not they can find an adequate solution to build a greenhouse that can withstand the ever increasing temperatures around the world. Global climate change and diversity are the two topics I attempted to incorporate into the cascading and alternative poetry forms I used. Nia's tricolor patches of skin were inspired by the beautiful colors on our rescue dog, Ava. I chose 'black plum afro' for Nia's hair to represent Africa (given I am South African born) and the purple of plum as it is symbolic of hope and royalty. I chose red hair and a gentle character for Milo (the name an acronym for: Memories Include Loved Ones) to counter old stereotypes. "We are what we build on ourselves", speaks directly to the power that labels and the words we use to define ourselves can give, acting either as a strength or becoming like a virus focused on our weaknesses. The sunflower on the drone symbolizes not only the removal of radiation from soil and recovery of landscapes ravaged by climate change, but also of rebellion against an imposing force, which in this poem is a scorching sun. I believe that in our race against the elements it will be the tools used and actions taken to work with one another as well as for one another that will provide the proper soil in which future generations may fruitfully grow.