Poems For Planets: Mercury 

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The Solar system, like everything else, is fuel for creative outlet. It can tell story upon story, with angles, stories and legacies tied to every part that has a hand in building the system. This lovely trail of planets starts off with Mercury. For Mercury, mi primera planeta, I dedicate a prose poem.

Mercury, Hermes!

This I write for you!!

 

All is clear now. For all the fire in you, I see why the merchants favor you. Your favor has granted them service so fortifying and fortunate it has doubled the coin that aids their keep. How we bundle and build a bounty of riches has so much to be owed to you.

The intricacies of trickery are the secrets song of which you are bard. The timbre of tall tells, the tone of truth has you in its sinews.

You are first to brace that brazen heat and hold your orbit true. You dare to mingle so closely with the seed of a Titan and tell so well of what is built from Olympus. You speak so as we may eat from the fruits of knowledge. Sealing in a sweet garden the nectar, that on winged foot, is trickled to the ear of those that need it most.

From the first note to the last you know to lead from the lighted world to the shadows depth. Along that narrow trail that tracks to the black you offer guidance. When all has lost its stay with the light, to Pluto and Hades you lead. The far reaches of plutos face and hades’ shade are no strange terrain to you.

B.N

I Call Him Brother 

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Raised under the same roof we each earned our names, though I have always called him brother. Children of the sun, sprung from what cultured raised, carved bold under the gold pip of Africa’s scepter. The fiery flesh of that mighty watcher  colored us with grace, showered our shoulder with the warmth needed to see family in unfamiliar faces.

“I am because we are,” Ubuntu was sold to us, and value was offered in. Ubuntu was sewn in us with a power of greater kings, threaded into our souls in the taut threads of culture. We were thirsty, young tongues lapping up the streams of what was learned before us. We heard the drums of dreams from the bosom of the bearded men and the tongue of queens who wrapped there crowns around there heads would sing up the sense to stave off evil spirits. Under the same sun we each earned our names, though I have always called him Brother!

My brothers stubborn features refused to forget the blessings of home. Although the cold days and frosty nights of a new world made horse a voice that has forgotten the rhythms of home, his crown remains thick with the coils of a tightly knit family. I’ve never had to ask if Ubuntu remains known to him, his actions have always reminded me that home is never far from his graces. His tongue may be forgetful but the estuaries of his heart echo with the roar of the mighty rivers that nourished our mothers brothers. There is enough of him in us to always learn a new picture of home.

One day he asked me, “Whose brother am I?”

These were bitter seeds, they grew sour on my tongue as I watched him question his blessings. As I watch him question his world I am forced to swallow his truth.

“Whose brother am i?” he asked.

My Brother was lost.

You see it seems to some that he wears a counterfeit crown. Because their pictures of his brothers are painted by men, finite and foolish, they draw borders around love and leave him wanting for a home. They don’t know there is a brush whose strokes paint wonders into a mans heart, words are worth too little to count who is kin to your kind. Be kind to your kin lest your mind swim with waste as you allow tall walls to stifle the flow of a love that runs deep. Brother, they have mistaken prison bars for castle gates, yoked their eyes to there tongue, they have forgotten the warmth that recognizes family in unfamiliar faces, pay them no mind.

I am because we are. Their mothers brother might never have looked like us, every part of their soul shares our spirit. Raised under the same sky each of us must earn our own name, though I would always call them brother.

 

Jump 

There is no one there to catch me, but I would love to learn to fly. My eyes, playing along the loose edges of certainty, cliff faces and curbs, I’m courting a potent notion with intentions of taking flight. A featherless free fall that could grant a taste of freedom.

Leap!

How fine I’d feel, untethered from any holding onto earth. I have no desire to be held captive by these footprints beneath my feet. I’ll make my mark then leap, liberated in glorious flight until gravity decides otherwise. She is the stubborn voice intent on foiling any escape.

I Leap anyway!

I can’t begin to count the takes offs that didn’t make, the break ups she couldn’t take, you see gravity is a crude lover who just won’t take “No” for an answer. She pulls at me with every leap, I feel her begging for my decent. I’ve  learned to time my leave from her, I heave myself from ever knowing her and count the feet until we meet again. It’s a tiresome dance that I endure until my legs have spent there strength, there is no excuse to settle for the prisons of stale foot prints.

Leap!

Inside these lofty bounds I see the power of possibility. My heart flutters around my chest, intoxicated with pure adrenaline. The never knowing has grown addictive, it has nurtured a readiness to fail. Now  I always look and leap, this way I can see her embraces coming. I never know the tangibility of a dream until the leap confirms it’s fullness. I could speculate and spectate but that’s is how mysterys stand untested.

So I Leap!

At my footings edge there lies a world of questions only bravery can answer. There are no new answers to these in the well worn tracks of comfort. I constantly test my courtship with certainty at the edges of reason, leaping into the haze to confirm the mystery of my possibilities.

Life is too short to settle for the prisons of stale foot prints.

Leap

Silence

It’s a soft cloud that settles after so much rain, after the tumultuous applause of tongues simmers away to allow a mist to claim the room. It’s a safe place sometimes, it saves our grace when there is chaos and there are too many decibels to deal with, held softly it grants a respite from the stampede of life’s less tranquil spectrums. Silence slides through empty homes when life is spent, when days are sent to slumber, it paints into the night a thin slip of light that allows the smallest lungs, from beneath the blades of grass, to serenade the night.

Sometimes silence thunders, it harbors echos of a life already lived. When the traffic of everyday is drowned out by silence, inside us, the cannons of old wars reverberate their anguish. The dialogues that refuse to die, live inside the quiet moments that still the senses. Silence rouses the nocturnal voices that are rested while the world of sounds is active, the voices that find you when the world around you pauses for rest. Silence is never silence, the echos are waiting, silence allows for another spectrum of life that has no opening for anyone but you.

Allowed to its share of life, silence is a loving gesture, a needed gesture. I could dance in the cacophony of my senses wildest celebration for senseless stretches of time, however the constant crashing of waves eats away at my shores. When the waves simmer and still their frenzy for a moment, a host of game is invited into the flow, and for a moment I can take stock of my quarry. I can see what it is that is attracted to to swim amidst my flow. When we get busy living it’s hard to see what we are drawing into our intimate space, I take the quiet as a cue to watch for the elements that thread through these echos of a life lived, I thin the heard accordingly.

In listening to the sounds of silence, I have learned the rhythm. The ebb and flow of the outside world bleeding in, of my inside world beating out. I listen, and move my feet to the hidden cadence of that harmony.

Him for Her

There was a cruel miscarriage of justice written in ash and embers. The amber glow of spent vigour twisted the vines that once hugged the old tree. Once brilliant with chlorophyll and teaming with life, the luminous veins were the symbol of a hope that lived before the sky summoned it’s executioner. Now ashen and frail they lay strewn amongst the blades of grass, robbed of vitality, bearing no semblance to there original beauty.

From the speckled screen of privilege, I was kept safe at a distance, watching the ruckus unfold. The storm would rile itself up with that thunderous call and response that claimed the stormy nights. The room would shake as the air, taught by the rain and imposing clouds, was cut clean by the limbs of lights that stretched down. Outside my looking pane, out of reach of the reality of it all, nature was claiming its dominion over nature. My mother told me that lightning never strikes the same place twice. I’ve heard the words repeated time and time again, now looking on at the remains of the old tree, smitten by the sky, I prayed the heavens would spare that patch of earth another bout of fury.

I can’t remember when it was that I stopped running from those thunderous claps. I never took note of the way the fear molded itself into fascination. I out grew the cowering and faced into the storm from the safety of my window. A veil clear enough to never hide whats there to see, but veil enough to to ensure I didn’t taste the sting of the moment.

The elements wear their emotions on there sleeves, never resigning themselves to the judgment of onlookers. The thunder has been praised and vilified, none of this had altered its readiness to do its bidding. Staring at the remains of the old tree I see that beauty has hidden bite, nature has hidden might, the sharp sparks of heaven could strike as marvelous, or touch upon earth with ugly hues of destruction. There is a pantomime of ether that will wind to unfold in unexpected endings, in unexpected beginnings, unexpected majesty and mourning.

 

 

There was a cruel a miscarriage of justice written in ash and embers. The amber glow of unchecked rage, rattled off in storms that ate away at her. Such jagged diction, then taken as norm, was gifted thoughtlessly until they touched on the sinews of that lone soul brave enough to stand tall in the open, weathering the storms.

I hate that I wasn’t the only one watching as another cloudy day claimed her smile as the hope that coursed her veins was claimed by thunder. Her voice was lost in the wash of a horse wind begging her to “Remember her place.”

“What place?” I thought.

Sadly I knew.

There are only so many storm that privilege can shelter me away from. With out the rain on my back I’m numb to the reality of the stand, I forfeit forever my watching post.

My sister. I will be counted in the forest that will grow around you. I will be there to stand by you when the world is all raindrops and fire. I will stand tall, rooted deeply, footing firm and far reaching so every storm will tread tentatively before washing the ground around you. She fights for her right to stand tall in the bitter air. She stands tall to outlive the roar of the witless lumberjacks chains, intent on binding her strength. I have watched those branches tapped for way too long, limbs leaking with majesty, bleeding your sustenance dry. Your crooked bark outlines the story that was written in silence, the broken Armour that recounts the nights fighting against the storm.

When the sky is all raindrops and fire, I promise to stand with you.

The Fast 

Hearty handfuls of everything here and now have well and truly clouded the system. Arteries are thick with the residues of satisfaction. The breath is now shallow. Tasting the sweetness of now has stolen from a true enjoyment of the atmosphere. The peripheral mind atrophies when it’s allowed to dwindle in the somber swirls of comfort. The obesity of malcontent hasn’t been an issue to the body well suited to the wasted patch of immediacy.
Starve the ego, let it drain its own energies with the complaints it’s more than ready to deposit, but too cowardly to withdraw from. Sometimes that lethargy needs to meet its match. Fast, sweat out the evil seeds. Something offers itself up when the slate is wiped clean.
Don’t act as though you’ve never though about it. You washed up on the shores of your greatest dreams and found yourself prisoner to the harbour. The helm of your vessel was too sweet a temptation to touch on the uninterrupted forest that lines the coast. The vessel isn’t a bad omen or an enemy to your voyage so far. It kept you in good stead, when the waves were peaking over the bow and testing the firmness of your journey it was there for you. Your ship held fast, though you were lost and wondering, it kept you far enough above the swim to afford you breath. Beaching on the coast was a blessing and a curse, you haven’t found your Atlantis, but el dorado is within reach.
Burn that cask of fermented thought, let the plumes of distress signal in your intent to be the next brave soul to wonder “what if?” and journey far enough to find an answer.
Fast.
Sweat away the labours of your fears and give in to the little spark of effervescence that weened you off the shores of the other world and into the tumultuous sheet of adventure you survived, to make a home on the shores of possibility.
I can never promise safety. If I did you’d be unamused by such a sterile venture. You have managed to conquer the seas of uncertainty and found a new adventure. The new night that shrouds your courage illuminates when you are brave enough to part with the match sticks that steal from the wonder of the naked stars.
Adventure is calling. Fast your heart, mind and body. Weed out the impurities, allow the garden of your true potential a fighting chance to sprout wonders.

His Fathers Son

It was around that age

When young soldiers begin

To grab hold of the world around them

in hopes of moulding their wings,

That he was met with silence.

That echoes cackled,

Crackling against the walls

Of his mother’s house,

Whispering secrets that speak with

The knowledge of a world that

Lived Before the empty rooms and picture frames.

Before home was a safe space for two,

And he woukdnt think twice

about befriending the stranger half of his name.

You see

For Little man….

Father was “him”,

a string of tales told, then cut cold,

Once he was old enough to shoulder the hymns.

Hed follow the djinn

Into whirls of make believe

to prise the gospel of a ghost from the relics

That littered their home.

An old watch,

A broken guitar and

his mother’s broken smile.

She sang sweetness into a stale story of kinship.

Sip by sip

Offering peace

A lucid liquors of speach

To Blur the lines of a character

Long since removed from action

Too broken a fraction to make whole

Every story told

Seemed mightier than the man frozen behind the frames

Folded under her tongue was a name

She learned to handle with care.

She sang

A crooked verse.

She sang

To settle his soul.

Sang to settle his soles,

His feet,

Were teeth,

Chewing up ever mile of yarn she spun,

Pacing to piece together pictures

Of the world before the silence.

She sang to seal the silence.

Singing

Until the sliding scales of her fiction

Settled into soured notes

And silence choked her diction

A friction yoked her

victim to the boats we rock

When we venture out in search of new worlds

The sickness of a sea

Sewn into peaks and valleys

She would have gladly kept hidden.

But still,

He was always the last one dancing when the music stopped

Always the last one sipping at the bittersweet tonic,

Of a time gone by.

Not yet introduced to the weight of the morning after the fact.

His mother

mused in melodies fraught with confusion,

Tracing her notes with care to show his father was no illusion.

Yes his father always moving,

And its hard to pin down shooting stars,

Just to save him something to wish for.

The Cadences in her carry ons of this phantom faced kin,

We’re wild with dissonance,

clouding his innocence,

Sometimes

I think,

she thought

He was him.

Because

He has his eyes, they say,

He has his lies,

they say,

He has his,

spirit,

but there is nothing in it

Because he can’t remember his ways.

The man was a fugitive.

Always on the run.

Avoiding in laws, never involved in trials,

Slipping into the night seeking solace in gile,

he knew the exits well.

Exit wounds swelled with reasons for his

leaving and never knowing him well.

The cloak and dagger deviant, cut the holes in family ties.

He left a home that taught the bond that only family ties.

You see

For Little

Father was always “him”,

a string of tales, told, then cut cold,

When I was old enough to shoulder the hymns.

But

He will be always tied to his truth.

He is his father son,

And everyday I worry what that would means for him.

Because

He has MY eyes they say

But shouls he should have MY lies

They say he has MY spirit

But there is nothing in it

If I cannot show him the way.

I have paraded with patch work pride

So as to hide my broken half.

Walking the four corners

To fork honour

Into a mouth full of words I can share

With this budding king

Blood and kin of a fool

I wish I knew

How a jester can do just

To be a gesture of love and legacy.

He’s been looking for a father,

I have been looking for sense.

I have shattered so many memories

In his mother’s heart

Why would I wait and watch start

To paint his pride on they way I did.

Watch my seed twist into the crooked sun

Of his father fire

I am tired

Of watching broken men

Raising broken sons.

I am tired

I am broken

I am “Him”

Running With Wolves

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The forest is thick  deep in the misty black. Footsteps echo among the forgotten leaves, the mighty pines hang boldly over the lair where the wolf pack roams.

Never forget the pack. We cut our teeth on the remains of victory. In defeat we concur our inconsistencies. We run to the sound of a drum held taught by the sinews of that which was never able to break our spirit. I have forgotten a world without the howling of my brothers. Where once I believed in the silent revery, I grew to learn the vigor that wins the true spoils of growth. It was in that union of fire that I was washed of fear and complacency. The sweat poured, diluted my cowardice as I educated my body on the price of victory.

It was a lesson late in fruition, when it matured a new side to silence had gained value. I was able to learn that the hollow words are the undoing of a cub who runs with the pack. Amongst women and men who let the intensity of there conviction live in action the weakest of the pack learns integrity from the front of the ranks. Battle hardened, bleeding out the fear and learning never to shy from the fray.Whoever dares to meet the challenge is rewarded in turn.

I stumbled into a clan that does not entertain false promise. I’m running with the pack, the conviction of my march into the hunt will determine if I go hungry.

Wake Up Call.

 

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I was challenged by my notion of passion. The thought caught me at an important part of my day, the moment when my alarm wakes me up for the first time. It’s always the same, I feel a heaviness in my body, my eyes timidly sip in the light, and I’m met by the snooze paradox, there is a split second decision to be made, to keep pushing or lay still.

I got into the habit of setting more than one alarm, I didn’t trust myself. This means that if I missed the first alarm, there would be a second, third and fourth to follow to rouse me and succeed where the first one failed.

I have over analysed that morning struggle for a long time. I always blamed the lethargy on my nutrition and sleeping pattern, I felt as though the reason I wasn’t as energized by that call to action was simply down to the fact that I wasn’t well rested and my body wasn’t fueled right. That argument made sense until the weekend rolled around. After a late nights sleep and having skipped a meal the night before I met the morning ready, raring to go, I was up before the sun had a chance to sneak in into my through the gap between my curtains.

It hit me, my will to rise wasn’t seeded in my diet, or the quality of my sleep, it was summoned from higher up. I wont deny the importance of food and sleep, but I ignore the excitement that filled my hear waking up to a blank canvas beckoning my mark.When my day was a fresh sheet I could carve and claim as my own it excited me. On the other hand when I was met by a paint by numbers scenario to step into my steps stuttered. Having to trace over somebody else’s work robbed me of planting my chance seed at the heart of it all. Something about being limited to the white spaces dotted around the page stole from the fun of the whole page.

People talk about the importance of “whys” an awful lot. I understood the concept well, I felt I lived inside the idea for a long time, for a very long time, I was wrong. We can retrospectively rationalize anything given half a chance, as humans we excel here. I was always ready, I held a hand full of reasons to offer up when I was presented with a question as to why I am a certain way. The whole idea of naming things, gave me a comfort in the mystery of everything, the devil we know is better than the devil we dont. I guess I was too eager to have an answer for the questions I had no answers to, I was rushing away from assumed uncertainty, I didn’t take enough time to answer them myself. I understand now that I don’t always have to have the answer. Sometimes its okay not to know, sometimes it’s better. It makes it feel better when you feel around that empty space and learn the true nature of it all, instead of padding the holes in our knowledge with an answer that sustains the illusion of control.

If you ask me 5 years from now, 5 months from now, or even 5 days from now, “What gets you up every morning?” my answer will probably change. But today… It’s this,

 I’m just excited to get better everyday. I’ve found this crazy canvas that would take a lifetime to paint, and I’m ready for the challenge. Allow me freedom to paint my masterpiece.

Are you working on your masterpiece?

 

S.K

 

Passing Time

 

It’s all well and good writing all day, I love it. Spending hour after hour picking apart and piecing together these word pictures. If I could, I would live inside these patiently woven word capsules and never catch sight of day. Words tend to take me places, crazy places where mystery meets magic and the wonders never cease. Reality, the cruel creature she is, strips me of my juvenile fancy to stay at play, so I have to take to finding solace and joy in the land of the living.

I’m a man of simple pleasures. I have a few vices that keep me human, a few friends who keep me toeing the fine line of sanity and a few core principles, these help steer this crazy fare ground ride in the right direction.
I try to feed my various faculties well. I got in the habit of making sure that my mind, body and heart were always getting there fair share of the pie. As with most things, the more I fed them, the more they grew. The more they grew, the more they wanted to consume. My entire life is now spent catering to these faculties.

I used to own a small book shelf, a quaint little thing. It held an assortment of fiction and nonfiction, from from a hand full of authors. That little bookshelf stopped being enough years ago. I discovered  that I always had to know more, I always had to read more, I always had to learn, leafing deep into the paper hides of everything that tickled my curiosity. My small collection has grown in size. Since I started feeding my mind I’ve had to reach out for more content to appease its hunger. I now have  a bookshelf, a duffle bags, and an assortment of storage boxes filled with literature I’ve digested, and literature waiting to be soaked in. I like to read.

The books and the writing cater to a more sedentary life style. I balance the quiet of the study desk with the action and vigour of sport. I was once a very keen basketball player, playing through all 7 days of the week if the opportunity presented itself. Of late, I’ve had to enjoy the sport more sporadically than I would like to. This hasn’t been a barrier enough to dwindle my physical exploits. I make the effort to work up a decent sweat as often as I can. I’ve recently started setting myself some challenges, something to keep me pushing the envelope and working to get better, fitter, faster, stronger. I’ve ran a few races with surprising success, a couple 10k’s and a Half Marathon. More recently I’ve taken up a new sport to sharpen me up a bit. Its all exciting stuff, hard work, but truly exciting stuff. I’ve always enjoyed the lessons in discipline that sport has been able to teach me. Eating well was always a true test of discipline, having to turn my nose up at a banquette of baked goods has been testing.

When all is said and done, I like to take time to take care of my relationships. Depending on who you talk to, I take to this with varying degrees of consistency. The down side to chasing storms is that you lose track of time, after the dust settles, everything appears strange and out of place, with your bearing a little off. In light of all the sacrifices I’ve had to make in pursuit of this vision of mine, a few faces have stayed close by despite the bouts of radio silence. Its hard to ignore those faces, without those faces the initial fear would have swallowed me whole and I wouldn’t have dared to try. Taking the time to share moments with these people is precious, it makes sure my heart is filled with all the right stuff. Whenever I step back to life I take the time to laugh, cry and make memories with them.

When I am not writing I try to make my days count. At times it feels as though there aren’t enough hours in a day, but for each day there is time enough for savouring moments. There are moments to grow, moments learn, moments to love, moments to live.

Blissful Nomad