here for wonder

Yes, let it not be said that I have attempted avoidance that I have attempted. Let it not be said. Let it not be said that I left it left it there to die that I did not touch it with my toe dislodge it watch it fall Let it not be said that I overdid it didn’t do enough let it go without even trying let it not be said let it not be said that we will not do anything in response to this because we failed to notice Let it not be said that there was nothing to say at all nothing t

I am apparently a witch. Voodoo mom, my children call me. Balance me, my skeptical son who pleads, by text by phone or email. I can’t feel my feet on the ground, I can’t breath I can’t see I can’t stand. And in the silence in another town, across the country across the world. I hold up the faceted weight the mysterious stone; my amethyst, or paperclip on a string and watch for a moment the stealthy circle rise. And ask the questions I have learnt to ask, leading straight to t

We must stop all this clamor, this clutter of virtual advice. 1,2,3,4, This is how you do it… bullet points. We may die from it. Who are we, I mean really? So many experts? Pardon me if I pause here, skeptical. Writers, good ones, have voices. Should they use these hallowed things always to advise? To opine, yes. Please. We cannot help ourselves, but this frantic race to tell each other how. Please, please, let it stop. For the sake of all that is holy please Shut Up. There i

It is possible To lie beneath The bed Of your beloved Amid the mites And dust and dark Straining to watch The stillness Of the bedsprings Chewing thoughtfully On biltong* Dried and Salted Drenched in coriander As settlers did in wagon Circles curved Against the African night It is possible to wait Interminably For sounds Beyond cicadas Of bare feet On bare wood For this face you love With such a Desperate first love To appear as planned And yet suddenly Looking, seeing This s

It will not budge It’s dead in the water Silvery bloated On the surface Floating Lifeless …But I love it I love it with my eyes And what’s behind them The neural web of me Slime and sublime Inside my skin Behind my eyes I love it with my heart All of its butchered bright redness It’s rhythm, arrhythm, It’s beaten immediacy I love it with an incapacity To ignore An intuition of attention A horrible compulsion A twisted addiction I love it with my fingertips That itch to find i

I will not worship language Although I love it It only points It hints Swipes at Something it Cannot Describe For that I will Be thankful Respect But bow before? For then I would miss The real show So don’t tell me To revere I will not For then I should mistake What I have Come here For. Art: Maze | James Jean #poetry #wisdom #language #literature

It is simple. you say many I say one I want to save silence from indulgent forays by unhumbled minds believing cacophony to be a sound one stops and listens for attentively as if big words made more sense because they thunder in so many syllables are thunderous resonate shamelessly making it well nigh impossible to hear the beauty singular and pure that lies beneath waiting for you to listen. Art: Untitled (Baby) | Zena Holloway #Simplify #poetry #

How dare you ask me To feel sorry For you Who are too beautiful too thin And so young How dare you require my Understanding When you have everything Big and shiny What would I not do If I had All that How dare you expect Sympathy You who are too clever by half And pleased with it too Overweening Demanding attention And getting it Then feigning modesty It is impossible for me To feel you Through the layers Of an I who have nothing I who have No-one I wish I was you You who too