salau anthony – 3 poems

IN UTERO.

Veins molded from clay,
The trees have a face that the mirror is blind to,
In utero, the disciple is the everlasting conduit,
Her words are afterlife, her breath the creator,
These come from a place that feet do not dare to tread,
An otherworldly vision, peripheral only to the blind,
The womb without flesh and blood,
Eternal stream of birthing, its dance is birdsong,
Sand and storm are one and the same,
Decay and denial duel in a delicate dance,
In utero, fingers form and the lips bear the scrolls,
The epiphany of the lack of knowing is the spiritual awakening,
Sit in silence and hear the heartbeat of metal,
An aching ancestral, from your feet shall knowledge blossom,
A million dialects yet to be transcribed shall you speak,
Birth, decay, sacred as black sun.


RHYTHMS WILT AND A THORNBUSH DIES.

Dandelions emerge from the nostril of longing,
I can hear nothing else, petals undulate and intertwine,
Melody has no tongue, its thoughts are yours to have,
Darkness was never more illuminating, see with your being,
At rhythms touch you dissolve into tune,
My feet are the roots from whence the stars bloom,
Meet their end at the beginning, baptized by breath,
Trickle down into the thornbush, a fruit is born,
You hear its screech, I want to hear it too so lend me your ears,
I gave mine so the Earth could tell a tale,
The worthiest of causes, I pose before the oils and sculpt myself,
I stand and watch myself set the thornbush ablaze,
Melody is inexistent here, your heart begins to part,
The portrait of a troubled phantom, haunted haunter,
Symphonies made flesh, dwelling amongst sand dunes,
All is erased by the eve of song.


THE COTTAGE OF BONES

The masterpiece of blood, bathed in ink and oils,
Feet tapping lightly, pronounced more than the cacophony of a thousand footfalls,
Wither between fingers if the beholder bears an intent unbenign,
Flourish in the palms of the one christened warmth,
The cottage of bones, chandeliers of vein,
Troubadours and bards by its musings bemused,
Etch into existence an etch so skeletal called existence,
All-aware, all-knowing, all-seeing, seldom sightless,
Burrow right through me, the cottage of bones bare,
A vicious, breathing bruise undulating with no care,
Ants ululate and spiders weave into birth,
Poems that heave and revere and perform a graceful ballet,
Sojourners may seek repose when the trudge turns tumultuous,
The aged may drink of its essence and revere the vigor of youth,
Of being, reminiscent of a life lived yet foreign,
Suffused with warmth, pleasure twirling in its soulful embrace,
Its mortars and bricks, infinity’s exhale.


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