Beneath, Beyond & In-between

Original Poems by M. Mejeh

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I proclaim, loudly to be seen;

for to be seen is like asking to be loved. in other terminology less exposing. My days pass through the sieve of my consciousness and for months, I’ve lived peacefully, partially through well timed distractions and forced the truth into pants pockets already full of notes to self unopened sheets and sheets of crumpled reminders  wasting the gift of my existence trying to be seen. is it the aloofness that makes nauseous? Or is it the fact that my spirit is living breathing, existing thing

I am not here for your education. not when my entire being is dense, and lush and green with wonder not when it stretches far beyond the bounds of the atmospherical quality that propels futures forward and makes tomorrow tangible

I have lived this life, this life of forgetting this shrinking life, where each day becomes heavier and migraines become a frequent cause of discomfort and breathing becomes unsettled in my chest, less, the need to rise with the sun only to be scorched by it.

I must tell you, that I will carry my things. I will carry my things on my back, exit and never say a word.

It is not my place to explain all this god in my bones

—remembering the moment when I began to grow skyward

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Sometimes the salt and the heat rises in my chest, and my fingernails feel like tearing the veil away from the surface of your irises

Sometimes, the pendulum in my head picks up so much velocity, that it pulls the weight of my steps almost to the core of the earth, and soon enough thoughts swarm about my spirit like locust.  

Compromising quietly, the whispers skulk about my consciousness keeping me awake enough to be restless, yet asleep enough to dream and when I do, I find myself on a journey fighting against the ideology of love yet captivated by what I cannot positively state is the source of my confusion

So I begin,   emptying out old boxes ravaging through the attic, using my hands to suss out depressions in the soil that are arid and dead from silently stockpiling grievances underground

still.

Still, I find myself traveling at warp speed catching myself floating in flight suspended between my future and my past, between a resolution and the will to investigate why I briefly entertain refuge in arms that have never held anything but the blood of angels

I ponder, long and begin to recognize the faint staleness; fractals fragmented, spread over universes; a likeness preserved in speckled spheres of glass spinning in discordant orbit around the sun (or something like it) something hot and bright and bubbling spitting into a space where no oxygen exists where neither you or I or them  exist and somehow, all that nothingness reminds me, that I’m

free.

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I bring you the sky

you gift me rain

the springtime of this love shakes my bones because my beauty is a self-evident truth,

and you behold me with eyes that believe

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You love me, like a river do

but,

it hadn't occurred to me that I too, was the wind.

—revelations, while meditating

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Loving you Feels so free.  I can't imagine feeling any other way, but like the air.

conscious love notes, for my love

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Your spirit is the garment of kings

conscious love notes, for my love.

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[Retro]grade.

This ground is mine. All of it.

Every calloused rock cut glass speckled between the flagstone

unevenly set

damp from rain

drying out, stained and weathered, eroding pavement weeds that war with blossoms that push the concrete up and away

this sedimentary jungle is all mine.

All of it.

Every silent step the rattling of bones in the sewer drain take the strain of remembering in which life my bodies lie

Each breath ricochets through heart fibers tearing through softer centers I’ve wrung dry of debris

(I was waiting for the right time to commence the resurgence, of all this wonder in its sun-kissed candor, many times reclaimed. Needless to say, love is like water, but there are times the edges of my mouth remain dry from refusal to drink)

Trying to make sense of what I already attributed sound logic, my heart feels that this particular formulation needs revision

and presently, I am without the energetic components to take myself apart

For the 8th or 12th time. I’ve lost count

I’ve lost count of the moments I’ve caught myself holding my own head underwater; the weight of fear can make it impossible to swim to the surface not cognizant if the sheer magnificence of my composition the size of the heart, it’s magnitude and medicinal properties

suffice to be its own savior.

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I share the poems I write for myself, with you. —because your love and these poems are sacred too

M.Mejeh 

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I noticed myself singing while I was on my way while I was on my way up Madison Avenue, and the things is, I’ve actually been singing quite a bit.

I’ve been humming like the night does around twilight and before dawn, like those deep visceral vibrations that stretch over the roofs of mouths and buildings and their exhaust fans, that echo

echo

echo

the buzz of swallows that rise with the sun.

But it’s their persistent song that gets me, the way they fly and perch so gallantly, to pause and breathe, and hum their unfettered tune, threading it softly through the mangled nest of wires that hang loosely above our street.

Our street.

Where not a soul knows the hum of your soul like I. Maybe that’s why I’m singing,

or because your entire being in its majestic entirety is the essence of flying and standing still

simultaneously,

(if you can fashion the analogous concept of how crisp the air must feel to nightingales, or how moist the soil down and about the roots of a tree must feel to the kiss of rain)

what I means is

what I means is

what I means is that this love— this juicy, tender, tear down the wall thing, this unlearn, rewire, reset it all, thing this I know that caged birds sing better free thing, this come as you are but know who I be thing, this firewater and bare skin gingering thing,

this I am Eden and divine premonition—my thing, thing

this no longer afraid to love cause me and I have a thing - thing,

the realization that I can hold you for ages beyond forever still and grow wings thing,   that man should be measured by the size of his heart and the weight of his character thing,

this seismic, effervescent, sedimentary love akin to mountains thing

and yet, there are universes still to be unearthed, this fact is quite marvelous to entertain in fact, the very microcosm of miracle that has been placed between your heart and mine is simply a beauty to behold,  beholden to the fact that eyes are accustomed to their own light refracted through the soul of another, interpreted as physics, as the aforementioned are almost never regarded, and the alchemy of your love tells me of the beyond

that beyond this, I will always be everywhere time lies,

for even gods are in search of better clocks to measure its minutia

against so they’ve selected us

being the sole parties to this paradise of sorts the blending and birthing of new terrain to traverse makes this particular journey ripe with amazement  

and I for one, keep humming and humming and humming

because the tune is too good, too good to not bathe in the intricacies of your love and the fact that you have been blessed with such lovely bones

—on my way up Madison Avenue, to catch the M96 bus

[melvsmankind-blog]

sink,  sink to the bottom, like pebbles in a glass no, like saliva   that stings  as it runs down the back of your throat drowning, dreams that sour your tongue that run down the insides of your jaw until you can feel it in your ears sinking, into the hollow of your clavicle clawing downard  into the rising heat from your belly full, and yet empty, emptied, many times over rising like the tide, no, like smoke rising from the tinder kindling rekindling the knot in your throat as it begins to grow, and reflect the glow of embers the sour, underneath your tongue, funnels into your chest and your heart quickens it beats a pace that competes with thoughts strewn about like music on a stand, blown about by a fierce wind  through an open window you feel sick, ordering, re-ordering, breathing, clearing, there is time, but there isn’t and it all is beginning to feel like  someone shut off the air, it’s all very constricting when you realize that  this  lesson in loving, like this, may strip you

bare.

—washing the dishes in the kitchen sink that have been sitting there for two days.