19 June 2018

we are people {yes?}

in union we created god.
—rustum kozain

we are peopleyeswith
ordinary liveswhom
life takes by the handon
ordinary dayslike
mary and joseph beforewho
were born to bear godand
enjoyed sleeping inwhen
it rained — and cookingand
sampling foodoff
each other’s fingers,
mevushal red in their jew
veinstwo people who
lived and diedachedwhen
one they had borne was dead…
they were peopleyeswith
ordinary liveswhom
life took by the handhome.



Pindrop Press, 2012

16 June 2018

The fist, a poem by Derek Walcott

The fist clenched round my heart
loosens a little, and I gasp
brightness; but it tightens
again. When have I ever not loved
the pain of love? But this has moved

past love to mania. This has the strong
clench of the madman, this is
gripping the ledge of unreason, before
plunging howling into the abyss.

Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live.


Derek Walcott




13 June 2018

Jurassic memories, a poem by Anonymous

Jurassic memories found in an archeological dig
I dug you up I dug you up
I found a fracture of a jaw bone, the very keystone to the past
and the future, I dug you up
The clouds that cleared to show the moon looked like Africa
the stars behind it represented all the capitol cities
I’m pretty sure Lesotho shined brightest.
Why wouldn’t it? It’s wrapped up so securely.
Surrounded by it’s mother’s love
Lesotho, my love, come nestle for a while
Mother Africa will love you and dig you up.

© http://liarliarlies.livejournal.com/33255.html



The above link is where I originally got this poem. I don't know who wrote it. I wish I did. Please let me know who did, if you happen to know, so that I may credit the poet and beg them to let me keep it up, posted, here on Poéfrika.

Lesothosaurus footprints


The mornings, a poem by Phil Rice

A cold pillow holds my head
as I listen for your words;

there is no crucifix here,
only your voice between the sheets.

Turning toward your side of the bed,
I bat my eyes at the empty space;

“You need to get up,” I hear you say,
the sound hanging sweetly in the air.

My legs, unsteadily familiar,
can’t contemplate the walk today,

so I wait until your voice is gone,
and only your breath remains

to guide my feet to the floor.


Phil Rice is a native of Tennessee who currently lives and writes in the shadows of Chicago. He serves as editor-in-chief for Canopic Publishing, and is also co-editor of Canopic Jar, a literary arts journal he founded in 1986. Everything Canopic can be found at this link. The venture is also on Facebook.

"The mornings" is reprinted here with permission by the poet



Phil Rice
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