I lost time today…misplaced it completely
as I sat, wondering how
the lavender takes body and position
in the skies above.
Does it wish its way up there?
Does it woo with song and dance?
Notes so sweet floating on air
to paint and wash and seize its chance
to smear its bloody beauty stain
upon the sky’s face once so plain
just blue…and now in wonder-grains
of beauty brief that won’t remain…
I lost time today…
Lately it’s been getting harder,
harder to breathe…my chest
is burdened, weighed down,
constricted and heaving
and breath, a woman writhing in labor,
gasps and tears at air so thick
it only gives up in pieces ragged
and jagged and grippy.
The older I get, the harder it is
to breathe.
Doctors call it asthma, they say
I’ve had it all my life
(who knew? Not I!)
And me none the wiser, I just
worked so hard and suffered harder
and swam straight on thru strife.
But recently, I coughed real hard!
And what I thought was sputum
was really a fresh bud coughed up
and then spit out for good!
That’s when I realized, my lungs
have turned into a flower bed
of Mama’s Blossoms Fragrant
and oh so beautiful.
| — | Beau Taplin // U n d e r s t a n d i n g |
Past Lady Liberty, looming silent still
thru slant snow, icy, cold,
frozen feet firmly planted
atop the broken chains
of captives loosed, unbound.
Past her seeming sightless eyes
fixed on an end unseen (as yet)
by mortal eye, and unfelt by
frozen human hearts transfixed,
addicted to poisonous demon draughts,
dolorous naughts of racism,
oppression,
of hate.
I fly steady on…I fly.
My breath a billows sucking air
frozen cold in sips so sharp
in hurty breaths constricted, choked,
and exhalations honk their way
from my leaping, working chest
tugging me on towards Her Light,
into Liberty’s coming sun.
Follow…follow past frozen
Liberty so stark and solitary
standing witness silent
but never mute!
Follow me bravely
and let your frozen breath
be transformed into
HONKS of freedom
to the ones enslaved
still by fear and hatred.
I fly on, true.
I fly on.
“She was like a forest,
like the dark interlacing
of the oakwood,
humming inaudibly
with myriad unfolding buds.
Meanwhile
the birds of desire
were asleep
in the vast interlaced
intricacy of her body.”
— D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
I saw these pictures laid out just now…and oh how I laughed!
Constance, how often have you found yourself
in a situation in life that is basically just uncooked fries?
They are raw, frozen, and must endure some heat
to be transformed into something
edible and delicious.
And yet, you fear the flame, you dread the pain
and thus you look to magic for escape
the magic place inside that we all have.
Magic isn’t free, no! It involves
a different kind of pain, more permanent,
more costly and more precious in its gift.
Hey, open up your heart and let a smile
consume your face like sun consumes the night!
And get you in the oven…get you in your fight!!
and let your fries be cooked so you can eat
and with such joy your days you’ll rise to greet!!
| — | Friedrich Nietzsche, from a letter to Peter Gast |
I am laughing as I read this quote
this poor man sounding like Bill Grogan’s Goat
who swallowed the farmer’s red long underwear
and now has indigestion everywhere!
remain…poet…radical…sense…the word
that sentence is red long underwear
giving me indigestion, and as I bleat
I cough it up down at the rail road tracks
and flag the passing train that hurtles by
rolling towards the trestle out, destroyed!
how can I remain a poetess? I am still “main”
and thus have no access to “re”…just main
and Poetry? She scoffs at notions, high pretensions
such as “most” and “sense” when grafted
to the context of the Word.
NAY! This heart poetic, precious is defined,
is described, is found and measured
in the shadow cast and context of the Word
*in the beginning was/is/shallbe*
and in the Word “sense” is mere nonsense,
and radical is a sub-atomic particle straining free
and remain is so redundant, oh so boring
and goats munch red underwear and choke
I am a poetess, because the Word
and Poetry my mistress and my Queen
and nonsense is outside sense as dark is light
and I “main” my flow, my creative Delight
I am Charissa Grace and I am free
so sorry for Nietzsche, too fearful to be
Charissa's Grace Notes 
You must be logged in to post a comment.