August 30, 2009

This Is Meant To Be Spoken

I did a little late night experimenting with the prose poem...

This Is Meant To Be Spoken
A Prose Poem

And this is meant to be spoken.
I heard a song today that asked why love sometimes feels like a battlefield. A battered land of warriors, holding their lover's heart in their bare hands. Savages. But you - you are a poet. Whether you feel it or not, your heart shelters a beast - sleepy and collective now, but fierce and resilient when awaken. Like I always say: When in Love or in Lust, we are simply animals. Nearly civilized. The body always wants what it cannot hold. And I don't know if you understand what I'm saying. This is meant to be spoken. This is meant to meet you halfway. To hold you. Calm the belly of the beast and tell you that I'm still here. Living. Ready and scared, but eager. Not like a warrior. Like a poet. My offering is rich and only comes in one flavor. My breast and hips are ripe. Warm sweet milk for tiny mouths. But I am getting ahead of myself now. Do you understand? This is meant to be spoken. Yesterday, I confessed my secrets to an old man in a cardboard box as he chanted aloud "A CHANGE IS COMIN' ON....OH CHANGE, COME ON"! And you probably won't believe me when I say this, but I believe him. These leaves will rust come September. And though I like to think that it is deeper than autumn leaves, you've failed to paint me a different picture. I want to see you, one morning, as you embrace the new sky and expand the edges, spreading them wide and thin. And at that very moment I will pray that no one ever takes it away - your live and smiling spirit. Understand? I don't want to wake up early another morning and yearn the warm sighs of possibilities on my neck. I like to sit on the edge - simmering in the palm of Love waiting to be swallowed. I apologize if I lost you. I just want you to know that you don't have me fooled. Under your skin, tucked away is the truth. Rotting words that have lived for ages - passed down to you from generations before your time like an unwanted piece of furniture. A burden. And those words have learned to settle, comfortably, in the center of who you are - just waiting. Waiting for a lady, a poet like me, to come and stir them into a boiling soup. Sip slow, love. We are beautiful.
This is beautiful.


Click here for more info on a prose poem!

1 comment:

Marcia M said...

A beautiful piece.