Death, love

Resting Endearment

 

Confluent in my mouth,
Tonight I taste the turmeric essence of
Everything you told

That endearing echo remains
The nickname that gave
Oh “little one, little one”
Eventually must age
And
The thread frays

Like an untouchable
Covered in ashes of the thousands
From the same fire of the pyre
An atlas, we all must toil

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Art by: Gregory Colbert

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Relationship

The Surreal Token

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In fields danced
The howling tornadoes
Where did we go?
A voice wearied from
The dark censored hosts

Feeling old, pills were taken
And laughter misplaced,
Into the Samaras box,
Of the museum floor

As moles dream,
Be the world
Be the king
Ruling time’s
Borrowed tempo

Disordered grandeur
A shrouded relief
From the subjective
Neglected overcrusted
Microwaves,
And ignored lint
Covered floors,
To slip on
For divorce is conjured,
Only in the tempest’s mind

What lies ahead?
A tunnel out,
To our 21st century
Artifacts
A layered forest
Of fordite trees
Where you cut off
A piece to keep,
To heal as your
Modern token

Walkin towards
A rosette memory,
Beamin an old song,
From afar,
That you wrote
Underneath a point
Above the dipper
Your veins were a freezin…
“With all the colors in the room,
Why did your’s have to be blue?”

For: Ben
Words: Nara
Art: Lucas Samaras

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Mine Na Poem 5

Memory Dust

A mirror that covered a doorway, to the inside of my adolescence has shattered in my ebony mind.  
And the door is a door again.
Ajar and echoes laughter… Skeleton key hangs from the vintage knob.                                          

I enter and I’m back in that lilac room with the pale yellow and rose print quilt…often wrapped up in.

How many hours did I spend alone? — Countless, with colored drip candles burning and Mazzy Star’s melodic heaviness over the stereo.
Staring into that huge mirror on an acid trip….warn not to, but I did. What did I see? A parallel of me? Not quite. It moves drip by drip…slowly and then zigzags down into unknown colors.              

I was a witness to my own aging.
The memory ephemeral today, movement of living and like she sang “Turning into dust.”

Poem: Naomi Ruth Saharski W.                             Music: Mazzy Star

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