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your home alphabet science sword silence

THE BLESSING OF TREES My blood flows in your sap My being perched in your branches My body rests in your trunk While your roots portend my future Your leaves paint the story of life’s seasons and soul Your spirit calls the wild things to your breast I am lifted by the wind in the moment MINDFUL— Lord, thank you for the blessing of trees

A long time ago I used to lean on a fence to watch my son play on a playground   That's just a memory   I've seen fences used to keep people from stepping on plants, pilfering trees   Those got old too   Now my new wife daydreams about our future house and its fenced herbs and vegetables   My mind likes to wrap itself around that idea

I met a man who owned a car an unhappy soul tied down by bits of steel and glass, I gave him my only pair of boots and cautioned him to walk away. I found them cleaned and polished in the backseat of his prison. You fool you fool I cried and set his car on fire. At last I knew he understood as I watched him walk towards the sunrise, a smile upon his feet.

Rudy the red rooster toots his trumpet to wake us at dawn and at noon leads his ten hefty hens across our green lawn, feathers fluffing and flouncing, beaks cackling and clucking toes two stepping and tapping to the rhythmic snoring of the feral feline full of Fancy Feast snoozing on the sofa in our sun porch while we watch through the window as we lunch on tuna salad sandwiches and iced tea.

The Muse, up before the sun, will shake me awake. “Wake up, you lout; the iron’s hot. Brush, take your pill, breakfast, pee. Get up!” she’ll shout   and I’ll obey, dismiss the doubt that she’s no more than a dawn dream, mythic close to this cursed drought, that she’s enceinte with form, with theme,   and will serve up both as I dash to my desk, uncap my pen and luminously versify. Sure, she’ll come tomorrow—that’s when.

TWO AUTHORS, DIFFERENT GENERATIONS, AND A SINGLE MINDSET: A PEEP AT THE RIGHTFUL KING Igbaba Sunday Ph.D. (Department of Theatre Arts, Nasarawa State University Lafia)   In a world where greed, power, and self-interest have gradually replaced unity, compassion, and communal love, The Rightful King  emerges as a creative torch lighting the path toward reconciliation and peace. Co-written by Nigerian playwright Umar O. Abdul and American writer Kenneth Weene, the play stands as

With its creature incoherence, with its engine bent on nothing,   with its edge and its existence and its fuse that refuses no night,   the bat allows everything beyond itself to rush   in against its echo.   I would live there listening for shapes   I might add to my own.   In that world of sound, what maps, what songs?

Life, what are we here for? We must find a way to answer this question moment to moment providing for ourselves shelter and income and the civility to pay debts   in between filling our stomachs   and those of fellow humans   with and without indifferences now until the end of time.

How do you respond when someone calls you a tall drink of water? I mean, when it comes to the mentality of old men like this, I really have no intention of quenching anybody’s thirst.

Hearing that loud bang I ran from my room Breathless, to the sound Seeing nothing in my frame of sight Rationalizing there is no reason Still a fear envelopes me My heart races and palms sweat Mentally my mind takes a leap and bound Appearing then, shapes where none had existed Smelling odors that do not belong Hearing now, voices long gone Excited, a raw energy courses over my body Moving quickly inspecting all crevices Bracing myself for one more surprise Looking in that la

for Japey   I remember warmth and think of being with you late nights balconies under the city sky we would just talk and watch the world go by.

among rhododendrons a mansion built for pleasure a pool full of water lilies a dark lotus the color of Krishna— these things reveal themselves in a play of light and shadow like golden carp in a murky pond or like a moment startled awake by a red bird

you want a monster fine, i will embrace my darker side;   will let the light flicker and go out   so you can witness a woman you’ll never feast on with fangs and claws   my tongue will become a sword and i will lay you to rest   blow by blow i will rip apart your ego until you are no longer masked—   you thought a werewolf could defeat a damphyr? think again, my tongue will be your silver bullet.

The air of the Almighty, the breath of the unseen from the deep beyond, the emptiness yet relevant, an earthly transformation to the rustling of the leaves and the power behind the rustling, the home of all motion, the giver and taker of life, the air almighty.

Married on Monday Divorced on Tuesday Mustang Ranch Wednesday VD Thursday Cured on Friday Slept thru Saturday Virgin Sunday Remarried Monday Fed up Tuesday Pregnant Wednesday But not Thursday Suicide Friday Stomach pump Saturday Reborn Sunday Prayed for Monday…

The mind The mind of every kind Is sensitive It’s true   Potentially It knows no bounds Awareness Sees right through   When awake It liberates Everything we do   Infiltrating beauty Becomes our duty Creating peace For us That’s true