Exuberance: Lifshin, Douglas, Chakraborty, Wakefield - aaduna NPM: Day 25

THE CELTIC  BIRD GODDESS' WILD SONG

you'll see me in Celtic

jewels, in tapestries,

carvings. I'm there in

the most gorgeous leaves,

echoes of my feathers

are in the swirl of rivers.

When you hear the

beauty of wings, what I

touched is touched again.

I run with the horse

goddess, with the swans,

the bull, those women,

half women, half ghostly

bird, a reminder of

strength and courage.

You will find me in your

dreams some night

it begins to snow just

after a full moon, my

feathers on your deck the

first night impatiens

wilt in the freeze. Just let

what has been closed

in you open to feeling, let

intuition unfold like a

bruise blue tulip

© 2012 Lyn Lifshin                           

Vienna, Virginia  

Lyn Lifshin (photo provided)

* * *

Cry Fe De Youth

The smiles of youth were pried

from our eyes at an early age—

kept like concubines;

caged, but in love with this

asphalt and brick equivocator.

Riddles the streets speak

are not at all unique; but

things fall apart

at particular speeds.

Gleams in fathers' eyes grew

into prepubescent prevaricators.

By then we'd learned to duck Red Dogs

Artful dodgers—

even the wind would be a greater inheritance

than the remnants our fathers left us.

We are the children birthed,

then aborted; life discarded

after birth.

The westside's streets run red

as God drags destiny's brush across the city,

painting the pavement wet.

Heaven's tears overflow from mamas' hearts,

washing the trash-stained streets.

The westside is as black as

it is when Earth

turns its back towards the sun:

dark or light, young supernovas shine—

so effervescently bright,

dying out far too soon. Hood stars

spiraling through the night,

falling to earth; yet

no wishes are made,

only prayers and plans

for discount funerals and nine-nights.

An ordinary grace,

somewhere between lost and found.

Guilty or not,

we pay a repulsive penny—

dreaming, like gangsta Velveteen Rabbits,

imagining being

"r–e–a–l".

From books to bricks in short lifetimes;

crack made these stories, violence shaped these lines.

May they engage in no gunplay,

so that the peace may reach the light of day.

© 2012 Melvin Douglas

Atlanta, Georgia 

Melvin Douglas (photo provided)

* * *

In Search of Thy Epic

i

lemons tangle, incestuously

as the wreck murmur

like those drops of water

of her creepy young father

warmth of the dead, dancing

along the edge

of adam’s apple

made her sigh voluptuous

so salty brethrens grew

upon her treamed curves

so filthy brambles grew

upon my mused verse

like her creepy young feather….

ii

her hooves dazzle my sky

as the fog conceive me

and the dogs spiral around

i break her water

as the genie blurs the sky

and she turns back, softly pale

i dollop her cracks

sophisticated, as the hedgehogs are

and she spurns the field

once again

iii

her crawls melt into

jupiter’s swirling souls

like bird nests, burning

her ruffled naivety

washes the birds away

like soft cobbles, circling

her shredded innocence

numbs the garnished ether

like church chord, faltering

iv

she cracks her shell

headless blood bursts out

ooh the fisrt day of featherless god

anger riots over the road

leading to bethelhem, once more

dwindling bloodstains fill her

and headless children flake off

she frightens those drops

v

i peel  her off

from frozen blue

thus  happens dance

she sparkles, dead

that stream I touch

fishes feed on me

my soul, diseased

sings river, or grass

as death moans.

vi

her viperous dance looms

over the mushy sky

as i learn to loath

she arrives, dead

rooting under the crown

as i learn to vanish

so I am shrunk

and she is shrivelled

as the forest moves

© 2013 Amitava Chakraborty                       

Tokyo, Japan 

Amitava Chakraborty (photo provided)

 * * *

Harlem Morning

There’s something more in the sky-head

than apprehension of clouds,

/distant capricious weather

& the mourning papers haven’t been read yet

Harlem where I woke

this morning,

A world where it’s been so long

From Hughes &

Other celebrants

Kin to color as the ruse.

Its history is now

A second ago, there

It goes agin

A minute hunger

In a large broad breath

Consider,

Blood of a chin cut

Shaving ages away,

Face reflexive of

Many worlds’ disorders

A woman’s oblong

Legs extend in the shower

Through the centuries

Shaving a way scars for growth

Consider, the various advantages of wanderings

Whenever we go to work

To make our endings meet…

On the way

An early worker too

Rivets fear

Tending towards tenements too gone to be had

& I’m astonished at this diss belief.

Africa seeps through the pavement.

We are not ugly or unaware

A sun patient with its planets

&Time will till

I know histories lie.

At lunch for instance

I finally did eat a newspaper

And it seems I died yesterday

A forlorn shadow.

                                                                                                           

© 2016 Jacques Wakefield                

Laurelton, New York 

Jacques Wakefield (photo provided)

 *   *   *

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