Heart of Man

This is a poem by Lauren Conley:

The Heart of Man

Pick and choose, one will loose.

I want to hold on, suck in all that is him.

I breathe my lungs full of you

and survive off of honey and nectar

Who is this in my belly speaking poetry to my organs?

Who injected this song into my veins?

I am infected with the heart of man.

I am aware that I, helpless,

Must give it all up to him

Now, drunk on lemons and summer,

Spill my heart to the musicians who

Do not hear,

Singing their same songs over and again.

I slept in the room with you,

You said we’d be good,

Said, “You are good to be with.”

I’m fraying at my belly and I cannot

Hold together this body of thread and cotton and yarn

Hold me. Hold my eyes shut

Hug my waist and clutch my shoulder as I

Cling to this one week of a life I cannot have.

A terrible joke, a mean tease

I tasted you and now I need to be introduced to nothing else.

Relive

Luke 12: 48b

"From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much will be asked."

I look around burgundy walls surround a wooden platform which holds my possessions high. Am I drowning in my own affluence? If I have more than one shirt am I stealing from the woman that does not have one to claim as her own? Each fabric in my closet adds shrills to the night air as they rub up against each other, a violence to the blessings I have been given. How do I justify this existence? better yet I do not want to justify but more so to rectify the injustice. I must relearn what I was taught as a child from a teacher who is not present.

I am sure those who have been given much in terms of materialism knew of those in need they would not hesitate to offer their extra coat, shirt or pants. For these things are easily replaceable and after giving there is never a qualm about not having done something to benefit the greater good of the human race. Or maybe if the words were brought forth genuinely, not tainted with the least bit of apathy but ignorance was their only fault then it is the shelter of wealth that conceals the need from them. The wealthy are willing to be charitable but do not live among the people for which they would seek to aid or be with in community.

Thus the wealthy move into neighborhoods which have manicured lawns relieving themselves under the shelter of not only their homes but their lifestyle to only on occasion see those who are in need and only on occasion open a checkbook, give monetarily to a church or non-profit organization to cross off their sunday morning checklist of how to live rightly under God.

This is what I have: closet of clothes, two bookshelves of books, artwork, and a bed. What is asked of me? Each book? Each shirt? If I have two do I steal from my sister who has none, or does the distance from the recipient free my mind to a world of apathetic wealth?

Teach me how to relive.

Lemonjellos poetry conversation II

collaborative poetry between zach pedigo and I:

Where does your mind wander?
of sand, of deserts, and strange men I ponder
each letter a grain, each man a book
each deed a stain, a life they foresook.
In the end what is known?
World's shall be shaken; tensions grown.
The ragged book, returned but words in your mind stay
yes, the hours it took, and those worlds hold their sway.

Lemonjellos poetry conversation

This poem was co-written by Zach Pedigo and I:

Caffine invades our bloodstream,
the drug of ground up joe bean.
It is a means to what end,
This blackish brew of water blend?
I sit thinking of words to write
into poet speak sinking, avoiding the witless and trite.
I am deaf to what enters your ears
yet deaf I know what those ears hear.

I wake up to you.

The warmth of the night aire called me outdoors. While riding my bike the breeze which resulted from each stroke of the pedal made me contemplate riding my bike through the night till morning. As I begin to half heartedly reason my way out of this all night vigil or voyage my mind conceives of another promising endeavour. I ride home and shove a metal water bottle in to my backpack up against a thin sheet before I head out the door into the night, I grab a pen and notebook.

I rode my bike to the water's edge, to the dilapidated wooden docks that sit on the glittering reflections of the lights. It is to the south of the docks where I decide to rest for the night snuggled under a cluster of pine trees near bushes which mask this part of the landscape in a kinder darkness.

Laying at the feet of such magnificent beings which stretch up into the dark waves of the atmosphere lets me begin to understand my place in it all. I feel sheltered and protected by the outstretched branches while at the same time captivated by the mystery of all I do not yet know about these natural sculptures.

The hard ground did not warrant much rest but the lapping waves helped to lull me asleep a few times. I woke up to a sky where stars transform into white opaque masses that drift across the sky under the aliases of cumulus and cirrus. They take this form during the day till night fall asks them to implode and become more vibrant to help the restless find their way as the rest of the world sleeps.

I wake up to the company of a fisherman on the docks and a swarm of mosquitoes above my body. I do not embrace the presence of either but ignore both in search of words that are whispered up from the grass and are recorded in ink on a milky page.

The sun rises over the distant tree tops to the east creating a warm glow upon my skin and paper. This may be one of my favorite gifts from God. The warm glow that the sun casts when she just wakes up the sleepy inhabitants of this coastal town or when she gets tired in the evening and the streets are washed over in a golden bath of dying sun's light.

The blonde hair on my arms turn into golden thread making me exceedingly better dressed than any king or queen. Although the water's silvery blue dance and the sun's orange applause of light beckon me to linger in this place longer, I must remember the intention of the day and bind myself to the duties laid out before me by a beloved friend.