To my own faults I am a coward
Fearing the failures, the future, the fallen crumpled optimistic dreams
Calling for character, for courage, for countless bounty of self-esteem
To my own heart I am sour
To my own mind I am weak
But he battles, he breaks, he bears the burden I alone can not contain
Yet he yearns, he yells, he yanks me from my frustrating pain
To my own self I am broken
To my own soul I will mend
red is a tangy metallic taste
in our mouths but
She is still breathing among us
Eyes dark brown like wet jungle soil
She is still singing toward us
Hair black curls like the billowing ocean at night
droplets are salty sour stings
in our eyes but
She is still dancing beside us
Skin smooth like wind beaten trees
She is still pulsing inside us
Soul deep like the mines of Johannesburg we dig
She sings in our hearts
She breathes in the sweaty, bruising heat of our mines
She pulses in our slumber
She dances in the rotten, stuffy rooms of our hostels
Freedom encumbered
She is still the burning fever
inside our fitful dreams
Into the deep
Into the red, blue, orange heated sweep
There I went
cool rain-spray stiffen the hairs on my neck
There I step
where moss thickens and vines collect
There I brave
like the tomcat who keeps eyes steady
So I slept
in the tossled grove the Sun God’s treading
So I know
how air is tasting of honeyed sweets
So I feel
summer heat where maples are sweating
Out from slur
Out from the fey steeped dreams I stir
I am here…
Douse the thin light of strain
Wet the wick to stop the coming
flicker in yonder window pane
Between the finger and the thumb
between the salt watered skin and flaming crumbs
Confess to the candle who drifts to sleep
Indifference to the brightening bland
Finger the curling plume of smoke
Taste the ash buried in the cold quartz sand
see the wisp of red ember dragonflies
swim the sea of night sapphron eyes and sugared plums
Bless the shadows who undertake my keep
sunlight’s taste of tart lemons
against pressed shut eyelids
wakes Lavender
to the dry heated day
sweet treated sway
of the low, bound oak limbs
and starry eyed prim-rose.
snake-ish and slow
slow is the waking, breaking from dreams.
And does Lavender’s making, praying seem
selfish
or stowing
of self-centered desires
but they are none of which
A Lavender color can acquire.