In his presence she drowns,
gulping down shadow and shade,
in his silence, she sounds,
like an echo, slow fades,
In his arms she's bound,
like a hangman nooses' braid,
In his absence she's found,
like a discovery that's made,
upon his arrival she abounds,
like a departure which stays.
victori ©
Conversation never spoken
"Sleep now,
and we'll speak tomorrow,"
last words ever spoken,
and a promise never kept,
"It's with our sincerest apologies,
we must inform you,
of our deepest regrets,"
I hear the words,
but there's no meaning,
no metaphor, no moral,
no rhyme, nor reason,
no diction, and no depth,
even with all that missing,
the burden of sorrow,
still, weighs heavily on my chest,
Is this all that's left?
The weight of it.
The wait of it,
for a conversation interrupted,
and silenced by death,
just sobs to feed the silence,
and so many tears,
a silence so greedy, so empty,
that to feed, could take years and years,
and would still be bereft?
and the lure of conviction,
to hear that promise kept.
would pose a moral restriction,
that requires ceasing my breath.
Please do not comment,
or SMS me on the subject of this post,
I'm not suicidal, morbid or morose,
but these are the thoughts,
I can't help but host,
and so would you,
if you were in love with a ghost,
A person whose very voice,
once lifted you from the abyss,
A person whose only noise,
was jazz, and sheer bliss,
who could silence a quarrel,
just by throwing a kiss,
If a moment I could borrow,
I would tell him just this,
"I love you," <3 and seal it with a kiss,
recite sonnets by Keats and Pablo,
But sleep now my love,
We will speak tomorrow.
Victori June 2, 2015 ©
Probably won't ever wake up,
now that I met you,
find myself struck by a dream,
broadsided by an illusion,
traveling 90 R.E.M. per hour,
wind up in traction,
immobilized by sleep paralysis,
so deep, and so comatose,
that the electroencephalogram,
would begin twitching like a seizure,
activated by the high voltage, electrical,
impulse of your smile,
causing my heart to flutter,
until your tongue roll of mine,
like a sedative and reduce my heart rate.
Probably won't ever wake up,
after you've kissed me,
test my blood for barbiturates,
declare me brain dead,
use me as a melatonin donor,
as I ingest the narcolepsy,
that you're injecting,
soon I'll be be two-stepping to
your circadian rhythms,
moon walking, altered levels of
consciousness, hypnotized by,
the touch of your hands caress,
Probably won't ever wake up,
once you've touched me,
find myself catapulted
into a sleep spindle,
capsized by a brain wave,
floating upon a reverie,
foraging the darkness of your melanin,
for the light of your DNA,
reaching through the depths,
of your eyes for a love,
that's not there and,
a love that could never be,
so pardon me if I
open my eyes now,
and turn away from you,
The alarm of reality reminds me,
That I'm in love with another man, and
I'd better wake up now, that I've met you! Victori ©
Damn! superstitions what a laugh!
The number 13 never done me no harm,
I've crossed black cat's in their paths,
beautiful, cunning, strong,
they don't intimidate me,
jheri curled, afroed, dreadlocks,
whichever breed they belong,
walked under ladders,
even stepped on cracks in the sidewalk,
where I live that cain't be avoided,
sent mirrors crashin' to the floor,
be lucky to survive seven more,
Been hit by brooms,
beat by fist, and kicked,
but never been to jail,
Once, I crossed a lady twice,
still haven't burnt in hell,
'course I live there anyway,
My palms been a itchin'
but money never come,
left eye keep a' twitchin'
and half moons risin' on my thumb,
still don't got a man,
or chirren' of my own,
and if it wasn't for these cats,
I'd be livin' here alone,
twelve black cats,
have been my lucky charm,
so the thirteenth one,
won't do me any harm.
victori-©
My Poem (Version one) written 1984
Upon conception you were my only thought,
the fertile portion of my being,
I felt you grow in the womb of my mind,
from a tiny syllable, a quick thought,
and then develop into words,
long sentences from the heart.
I longed to caress you,
Once you traversed the birth canal,
I cut the umbilical cord.
I fed you metaphors,
until you were fully weaned on rhymes,
And once you were I composed you,
my love, my word, my poem,
and sent you away into the world,
a perfect reflection of your origin.
by Vickie Bass ©
MY POEM
(New Version)
Upon conception you were the focus of my attention,
the modem of my soul,
proud to be the mother of your invention,
proud to be the locus of your control,
I've felt you grow, within my brain,
from a syllable to a phrase,
Your pulse beat a soft refrain,
and your heartbeat twelve tonal arrays,
you developed in three-quarter time,
from a minute to a few days,
Once you traversed the vocal cords,
I wrapped you in tempo,
rocked you in time, fed you metaphors,
until you were fully weaned on rhymes,
I composed you,
my poem, my words my allegory,
dressed you in prose,
and sent you out into the world,
to tell our story.
by Victori April 9 2015 ©
Do you know who I am?
If I stood before you in a hurricane,
or the wing span of a duck,
on a quiet lake, near a rock,
in the spark of an eye,
in a cup of brew from Starbucks,
or within the sincere intention in a lie,
or the adrenaline in the effort of a try,
Would you know me then?
You look for me in superficial things,
like cars, and chains and flashy bling bling,
I have come to you
in the form of a woman, a man,
This poet's right hand,
even appeared to you as a lamb,
once in a burning bush,
and you still don't know,
that I am that I am,
No mystery here,
I am the spirit
that animates your soul,
And when three or more of you,
gather together in my name,
You partake of me whole,
I am that teardrop, on your page,
Am those wrinkles,
That show your age,
Am those volumes,
that speak your peace,
am that scream,
Your frustration release,
I live forever and never decease,
You kill my young prophets,
then send them home where I wait,
And I birth out another, just reincarnate,
You can't silence me I'll never be damned,
As always I am that I am. ©
