The Poetics Stylings of Claire T. Field

Linguist

Claire T. Feild

The linguist's territory

is broad, history's angles

best left untouched by her

translations. Oppressive

dark percolates, before

grappling the land with

its seasoned hooks.

Yet her voice creates a

linkage to the homeless

in the world, her ability

to communicate with

the dimly lit crystals

of the world, her forte.

Fluxion

Claire T. Feild

The rattled gaunt twigs nestle

against the restless barrels full

of white lightning, the barrels

rolling noisily across a barge

toward the river, what we call

the river's hoarseness, the river's

wanderings shackled by cliff

faces that grimace, their dirty

tongues sticking out, but held

in place by cliff roots that

swear to stay intact, the sonic

booms of aircraft, smoking

guns above, that tell us power

resides in the sky, pert silver

and blue mocking the river's

slow stride.

Of JD McDonnell

Waiting for Lorelei

JD McDonnell

In the crabs scittering

across the deck

into the sea-weeded nets.

I can feel she is soon.

In the leaves

whitening

over their branches

the barometrics of the ear

the crashing of waves

I can feel she is near.

In the black sky

lightning ringing against

sails shifting

batons drumming

tides changing

towings and moorings

anchored somewhere

to an earth

that has long lost track

of its sides.

I can feel her approach.

And the bowsprit

of every ship that she rides

becomes a daughter of the devil

to no surprise,

yet I let the ropes wade

as my schooner sets sail

off to sea once more.

And I stand at mast.

waiting.

waiting

waiting for my

Lorelei.

The Stylings Of Omavi Mafujo

Finally Realizing What Fingers Bleed

This is not a poem

This is not a

Collection of loose words

Saturated with mind

Sprinkled

With incessant need

This is just words

Words

Wobbly

Ordinances

Realizing

Dying

Sight

Wanton

Ordeals

Ranting

Delineating

Sounds

This is just words

As I stand up

Because too long

Have I been sitting

Kneeling

Crawling

Genuflecting myself

Before

The wills

Of other pens

As nosey fingers

Try to discern

What really separates

Poet from man

What really lies beyond

This devils pen

And why blood runs deep

But surface tensile strength

Never overcome

True depth

Elusive

As a untouched virgin

Below the age of 15

And these words can kill

They do kill

They lay waste

In every era they are uttered

They bring pain

And these words can love

They can bring orgasmic highs

In the midst

Of mental struggles

That aim to bring fatigue

But these words

Can make a broken heart

Beat again

And these words

Do tend to incite

To bring forth the feelings

Hidden deep inside

And these words

They are just words

Simple phonetic sounds

Applied to pressed and bleach wood

So that they may live

But

Do they really live

Or do they only give a semblance

Of life

As the mind sees it

So this is not a poem

Or a piece

Of expansive prose

This is not a declaration

Or even a love saturated

Orgasmic

Soliloquy

They are

Just what they are meant to be

Words

And in these words

Many may find

And many may get lost

As they take these words

To be more

Than

They really are

But are they more

None may ever know

Because

Fingers bleed uncontrollably

When ears

Open wide

And the pen becomes a bastard

That will fuck all night

And the mind

Loses sight of what is

Becomes the pen

Has such might

Only the master

Knows

What is wrong

And what is right

Understand

No

Don't understand

Just listen

Let eyes absorb red ink

Words are like dreams

They flee

When they want too

They massage

When the time is right

And only

Poet

Understand

The trails

Of word's flight

Understand

Words can bring love

Hate in a single breathe

Joy when tears adorn cheeks

Tears when joy adorns heart

That's words

And directed they can be

But elusive they tend to be

Even in the midst of a quiet storm

Words sing

Yes

They do sing

This is not a poem

This is not poetical servings

Surrounded

By trapments of emotional wake

This is not

The poet's voice

Because the poet silence

Found he had nothing more

To say

And the fingers forgot emotion

As love-hate-joy-sadness

Just rolled into one

Half-baked dream

Needy minds

Looking

Trying

Categorizing

Assuming

They know the flavor of the day

This is not

That

Poem

This is just words

As

They fall off this page

Words do die

Listen

Words do go away

Chaotically Infused Alchemical Mix [Thursday, October 26, 2006]

Copyright 2006. Omavi Mafujo

The Artistry of Ms Moods

Y Can't I B Your Muse?

You ask Y?

I have many answers, care to join me on this journey as we search thru the reasons?

You are Her Muse, the beautiful woman dipped en Mahogany, who's words connect

with yours

U "R" the 1 who stood before HIM vowing to 4sake all other's

My Muse is still out there seeking truth

praying for forgiveness

growing mentally

feeding himself spiritually

so when he does come

bringing gifts the naked eye could not C

I'll be patiently waiting with mah own treasures 4 him

You Have your muse

Her hands rub your pecan toned body

when your day is hard

Not

I

Not

Me

Her Journey is Your Journey

Hence

The

Many

Reasons You

Can

Not

Be

My

Muse.

~Ms. Moods