All books are merely delayed dust.
George Elliott ClarkeRoses
got thorns.
And words
do lie.
I've seen love
die.
The moon twangs its silver strings;
The river swoons into town;
The wind beds down in the pines,
Covers itself with stars.
Tags: poetry canada stars moon poem lullaby river canadian canadian-literature poc african-canadian george-elliott-clarke whylah-falls
A rural Venus, Selah rises from the
gold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweeps
petals of water from her skin. At once,
clouds begin to sob for such beauty.
Clothing drops like leaves.
"No one makes poetry,my Mme.
Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,”
I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it with
our souls.”
Desire illuminates the dark manuscript
of our skin with beetles and butterflies.
After the lightning and rain has ceased,
after the lightning and rain of lovemaking
has ceased, Selah will dive again into the
sunflower-open river.
Tags: poetry canada literature poem canadian canadian-literature poc george-elliott-clarke whylah-falls woc
In school, I hated poetry - those skinny,
Malnourished poems that professors love;
The bad grammar and dirty words that catch
In the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.
Pablo, your words are rain I run through,
Grass I sleep in.
Tags: poetry canada poem canadian canadian-literature african-canadian george-elliott-clarke africadia wyhlah-falls
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