To be human

I do it because it is there
And I love to be home and hosed

I take wrong risks
And want to be settled and married.

I have met my soul mate, often,
And loved deeply

I spread my memes,
Not my genes,

I give, love, lose and win

I live.

and I meditate on mortality
having lived extremely,
passionately and fully,
if I died tomorrow
it would piss me off
but it wouldn't kill me.

These are hardly poet's hands
far too scarred and gnarled with age
with skin as dry as desert sands
yet they still scribble on this page

life goes by
as fast as hummingbirds
on tiny wings
too full of motion to see
she's not restless like me
she knows her place
finds her duty and
applies it

searching for nectar
stopping only
to realign herself

i watch from the balcony
her busy attitude reminds me
i cannot be tied
cannot be settled
always knowing there is more

and like the hummingbird
the next flower is adventure
next new scent
next new person i meet

This one is a "textural tone" poem, in the sense that it needs to be RECITED to better understand the intended rhythm and texture of the piece.
I'd be interested to hear any thoughts on howc successful you think this was.
P.S. The reference to "sectional fantasy want" is just an internal architectural joke...
Psyve
.
.

LADY IN RED, LADY IN WHITE
-------------------------------------------
© Cyrus Dali Vesuvala

deep under the green
rivulet run
I cast away the masks
and feel the soul bleeding

there is much of histories
torn from diaries
aflame
embers rising
like snowflakes
climbing

the slow whirl

timeless the dark
where dreams
lay in wait

sharpening their claws
and licking their paws

OK Jess, here's my "angry " poem. Await your pastoral............stan

I go to make withdrawal now
from the place I used to bank
where everybody smiles at you
..........like sharks

The place that I made payment to
for over fifteen years you see
on a home I'd come to think was mine
and lived with my family

until I lost my job

as result of
BANK FAILURES

at the root of motherhood
the dawn of civilization
how could I have mistaken
God for my father and cut the
throat of the Magdalene?

the burden of the sky is to bear no defense against
the weavers of treachery,
words are pulp fiction
and pronounced in syllables
with the accent on denials,

recruit the marching flowers with the sing-song of
the drum, its rhythm a temple in an oasis where
priests fornicate with their sinless prayers
and the wealthy masturbate with spoils of ill-begotten gain

you said you wrote
to become popular and i
scratched my head
knowing
that very thing
isn't achievable

with your ego intact
as hard as needles on a porcupine
i suspect your sting wounds

she reminds me of
how classicists took ordinary
and made ugly perfect
how you took her with words
turned her from who she was
to madonna with child
so vividly white
everyone forgot marble is cold

IF FLOWERS STILL BLOOM IN BEIRUT

A chill cuts through my valley,
There's whispers on the wind,
The air is rife with rumours:
Tonight more boys are coming in!

Silently, in pairs or single:
Some are men, some hardly boys.
Some, with money in their pockets,
Some, with bullets in their toys.

Too young to understand their orders,
But the children living there
Know death comes across the borders:
Fear hangs heavy in the air…

I broke the break
the bond
this weakness

youve flooded
me where I dwell
but I can swim

and well

and My Mermaid
guide will smile

so I set you down
with the greatest respect
you glittering phrase
your thick upset

and bravely weakly
find my strengths
in surrendering