peaches and cream

late season love awashed in the glow of sunsets and anticipation...

anxiously waiting to be picked before falling to the ground. bruised but still the best kind of sweet. 

just look up and reach for me..I am..waiting.

...to nourish you.

-asabi

Praise Jam

It's the end of the "Welcome Weekend". The excitement has officially worn off. I'm wimpy so 2 days of getting up before dawn, being severely de-decaffeinated and sober and being forced to sleep in a hot box of a room with two strangers is taking its toll. I know this feeling. It's depression and its found me in Yogaville.

I was feeling pretty lonely  at this point but the universe knew exactly what I needed in the form of an invitation to a "Praise Jam" by one of the Ashram Yogis. Initially I wasn't extremely interested. I was raised Catholic and we tend to be a bit more reserved in our worship so unless praise jam was some awesome new spread to put on my whole wheat toast I wouldn't necessarily be so inclined to participate.

        

I decided to accept the invitation and went some of the other LYTs and Yogis in Training to a house off the quad but walking distance. There I find a dog that looks like Lassie and a sage of a cat in the home of a bearded man that hugs everyone as they walk in. He starts to give instructions: Pick up a book on the table, find a passage that "speaks" to you and read it. "Shyness will ruin the jam" he warns. We each rummage through the options. Rumi..Hafiz...Whyte and many more. We started with a harmony of "OMs" until the universe found its way into the music. Guitars, drums, harmonicas played as we swayed and read our individual passages...














More people arrived as we packed the living room. Real Yogis, soon to be Yogis, and me. I am not sure who I am at this moment except an observer falling in love with David Whyte, falling in love with these people in this room, falling in love with God and realizing where there is a OM there is a way.

.

Day 351

Today's photo inspiration is #the_sky

 "When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water." - Gwendolyn Brooks

Day 326

Today's photo inspiration is #lost

This little lady bug got lost and somehow found her way in my kitchen. She promised me good luck and I with gratitude took her back outside so she could find her way home.

Day 184

Today's photo inspiration is #seasonal

"Expect to have hope rekindled. Expect your prayers to be answered in wondrous ways. The dry seasons in life do not last. The rains will come again." - Sarah Ban Breathnach

Dat 172

Today's photo inspiration is #sun.

 "What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or does it explode?" -Langston Hughes

Day 157 (Happy Birthday Malika)

Today's photo inspiration is #cement

I know this is just that..cement..a tombstone and nothing more. I always knew she wasn't there but it doesn't lessen my grief sometimes.

Today would be her 39th birthday and she remains where she has always been...in my heart.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there,

I do not sleep.

I am in a thousand winds that blow,

I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain,

I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quiet room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there.

I do not die.

- Mary Elizabeth Frye

National Poetry Month Bids Adieu

April came and went in a flash and while National Poetry Month is officially over I hope you will take an interest in poetry throughout the whole year.

I personally discovered some new amazing poets and hope you enjoyed the poetry posts I chose to note this month and will continue to showcase in the future.

On an even more personal level this past month has inspired me to pen a couple of my own here and here after having a very long creative slump. Hopefully, I can continue the trend.

In the meantime..I leave you with one of my favorite poems from Charles Bukowski

Here's to the bluebirds in all of our hearts...

how to bare what we can not bear

Fighting
Yearning
Trying
Tearing up
Back broke
Searching
Re-searching

While God plays hide and go seek
So much stronger and fragile
Then we imagined 

We would be

Enough character for a lifetime
We tire of the plot turns

How do we bear it all?

On our shoulders?
In our hearts?

Failing
Crashing
Flailing
Arms
Praying hands
Bruised finger tips
On a jagged precipice


Holding on to a not so dear life
Slipping quickly

Hoping passers-by
Will do more than just stare.

Hoping somebody
Will help to bear the weight

Hoping somebody 

Will remember.. 

Love is the answer.

When the rest have long forgotten 

What the question was.

-Asabi

Cape Coast Castle

I made love to you, & it loomed there.
We sat on the small veranda of the cottage,
& listened hours to the sea talk.
I didn't have to look up to see if it was still there.
For days, it followed us along polluted beaches
where the boys herded cows 
& the girls danced for the boys,
to the moneychanger,
& then to the marketplace.
It went away when the ghost of my mother
found me sitting beneath a palm, 
but it was in the van with us on a road trip to the country
as we zoomed past thatch houses.
It was definitely there when a few dollars
exchanged hands & we were hurried
through customs, past the guards.
I was standing in the airport in Amsterdam,
sipping a glass of red wine, half lost in Van Gogh's
swarm of colors, & it was there, brooding in a corner.
I walked into the public toilet, thinking of W.E.B.
buried in a mausoleum, & all his books & papers
going to dust, & there it was, in that private moment,
the same image: obscene because it was built
to endure time, stronger than their houses & altars.
The seeds of melon. The seeds of okra in trade winds
headed to a new world. I walked back into the throng
of strangers, but it followed me. I could see the path
slaves traveled, & I knew when they first saw it
all their high gods knelt on the ground.
Why did I taste salt water in my mouth?
We stood in line for another plane, 
& when the plane rose over the city
I knew it was there, crossing the Atlantic.
Not a feeling, but a longing. I was in Accra
again, gazing up at the vaulted cathedral ceiling
of the compound. I could see the ships at dusk
rising out of the lull of "Amazing Grace," cresting 
the waves. The governor stood on his balcony,
holding a sword, pointing to a woman
in the courtyard, saying, That one.
Bring me that tall, ample wench.
Enslaved hands dragged her to the center,
then they threw buckets of water on her, 
but she tried to fight. They penned her to the ground.
She was crying. They prodded her up the stairs. One step,
& then another. Oh, yeah, she still had some fight in her,
but the governor's power was absolute. He said,
There's a tyranny of language in my fluted bones.
There's a poetry on every page of the good book.
There's God's work to be done in a forsaken land. 
There's a whole tribe in this one, but I'll break them
before they're in the womb, before they're conceived,
before they're even thought of. Come, up here, 
don't be afraid, up here to the governor's quarters,
up here where laws are made. I haven't delivered
the head of Pompey or John the Baptist
on a big silver tray, but I own your past, 
present, & future. You're special.
You're not like the others. Yes, 
I'll break you with fists & cat-o'-nine.
I'll thoroughly break you, head to feet, 
but sister I'll break you most dearly
with sweet words.

-Yusef Komunyakaa

My Father Is a Retired Magician

(for ifa, p.t., & bisa)

my father is a retired magician
which accounts for my irregular behavior
everythin comes outta magic hats
or bottles wit no bottoms & parakeets
are as easy to get as a couple a rabbits
or 3 fifty cent pieces/ 1958

my daddy retired from magic & took
up another trade cuz this friend of mine
from the 3rd grade asked to be made white 
on the spot

what cd any self-respectin colored american magician
do wit such a outlandish request/ cept
put all them razzamatazz hocus pocus zippity-do-dah
thingamajigs away cuz
colored chirren believin in magic
waz becomin politically dangerous for the race
& waznt nobody gonna be made white
on the spot      just
from a clap of my daddy's hands

& the reason i'm so peculiar's 
cuz i been studyin up on my daddy's technique
& everythin i do is magic these days
& it's very colored
very now you see it/ now you
dont mess wit me
                 i come from a family of retired
sorcerers/ active houngans & pennyante fortune tellers
wit 41 million spirits critturs & celestial bodies  
on our side
              i'll listen to yr problems
              help wit yr career     yr lover     yr wanderin spouse
              make yr grandma's stay in heaven more gratifyin
              ease yr mother thru menopause & show yr son
              how to clean his room

YES YES YES       3 wishes is all you get
     scarlet ribbons for yr hair
        benwa balls via hong kong
           a miniature of machu picchu

all things are possible
but aint no colored magician in her right mind
gonna make you     white
        i mean
        this is blk magic
you lookin at
          & i'm fixin you up good/ fixin you up good n colored
& you gonna be colored all yr life
& you gonna love it/ bein colored/ all yr life/ colored & love it
love it/ bein colored/

Spell #7 from Upnorth-Outwest Geechee Jibara Quik Magic Trance Manual for Technologically Stressed Third World People

- Ntozake Shange

Quilts

(for Sally Sellers) Like a fading piece of cloth 
I am a failure

No longer do I cover tables filled with food and laughter 
My seams are frayed my hems falling my strength no longer able
To hold the hot and cold

I wish for those first days 
When just woven I could keep water 
From seeping through 
Repelled stains with the tightness of my weave 
Dazzled the sunlight with my 
Reflection 

I grow old though pleased with my memories 
The tasks I can no longer complete 
Are balanced by the love of the tasks gone past I offer no apology only this plea: 

When I am frayed and strained and drizzle at the end 
Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt 
That I might keep some child warm 
And some old person with no one else to talk to 
Will hear my whispers

 And cuddle near - Nikki Giovanni

Never give all the heart

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

- W. B. Yeats

After Love

There is no magic any more,
      We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
      Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea—
      There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
      Beside the shore.

But though the pool is safe from storm
      And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
      For all its peace.

- Sara Teasdale

Muse & Drudge [why these blues come from us]

why these blues come from us

 threadbare material soils

 the original colored 

pregnant with heavenly spirit

 stop running from the gift 

slow down to catch up with it 

knots mend the string quilt

 of kente stripped when kin split 

white covers of black material 

dense fabric that obeys its own logic 

shadows pieced together tears and all 

unfurling sheets of bluish music 

burning cloth in a public place

 a crime against the state

 raised the cost of free expression 

smoke rose to offer a blessing

 - Harryette Mullen

Muse & Drudge [just as I am I come]

just as I am I come
knee bent and body bowed 
this here's sorrow's home 
my body's southern song

cram all you can 
into jelly jam 
preserve a feeling 
keep it sweet 

so beautiful it was 
presumptuous to alter 
the shape of my pleasure
in doing or making

proceed with abandon 
finding yourself where you are 
and who you're playing for 
what stray companion

- Harryette Mullen

This Was Once a Love Poem

This was once a love poem,




before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short, before it found itself sitting, perplexed and a little embarrassed, on the fender of a parked car, while many people passed by without turning their heads.




It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement. It remembers choosing these shoes, this scarf or tie.




Once, it drank beer for breakfast, drifted its feet in a river side by side with the feet of another.




Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy, dropping its head so the hair would fall forward, so the eyes would not be seen.




IT spoke with passion of history, of art.




It was lovely then, this poem. 




Under its chin, no fold of skin softened. Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat. What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall. 




An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks. The longing has not diminished. 




Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat, the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.




Yes, it decides: Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots. 




When it finds itself disquieted by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,




 it will touch them—one, then another— with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.



-Jane Hirshfield 

Choke

Of all the ways of forgetting
not turning the pilot on is not
                             the worst

The house is intact
you are floating
in time
buckets of it streaming through
                  the windows

youth turned it up I think
or on & fell asleep

Remembering to do.
You are too intact
the dappled sunlight on the lawn
or pots of darkness
like salt instead of depths

Still once I turned it up
the popping commenced
like applause for the present
tense
the site of my sway

Larry's new car is wide & safe
a woman's voice conducts
us left & right
she's crazy he laughs
again & again

my shrink said buy it now
about the car

I told him about my phenomenal streak
of winning & when the stakes 
rose I began to bid low & 
not at all
I could have won; you choked
he said.

Woof. To not choke
is I suppose to experience
to hold it in & go forth
though you need the heat

The sun had not done more
suddenly for a while

it's like we took off our skin
and said it is hot.
It's like we sold our skin
& said where did everyone go?

when the weather's too hot for comfort
& we can't have ice-cream cones
it ain't no sin
to take off your skin
& dance around in your bones

- Eileen Myles

I saw a man pursuing the horizon

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never—"

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.

 - Stephen Crane

A child said, What is the grass?

A child said, What is the grass? 
fetching it to me with full hands; 

How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. 

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. 

Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;

It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps, And here you are the mother's laps. 

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. 

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! 

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. 

What do you think has become of the young and old men? 
What do you think has become of the women and children? 
They are alive and well somewhere; 

The smallest sprouts show there is really no death, 
And if ever there was it led forward life, 
and does not wait at the end to arrest it, 
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses, 
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

 -Walt Whitman