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blacknessonseapoet

Poem no. 244

POEM TITLE

BLACK POT

POEM

Like an epistle to the apostles,

l bleed this ink to a dying patient

whose skin becomes black like charcoal

as grim reaper frightens her hands -

with an ailment/waiting for medicine

as she gazed at my countenance;

screaming for chilled water like a child

to quench the burning psyche

but; I panned out with this letter.


Dear Doris Dorian,

I bleed this ink with my stethoscope

as medicinal missives heal like anointing oil

cause; this fracture bone of yours is incurable

but chase fear from stealing your mind

cause; nature is the headmaster of life.


Dear Doris Dorian,

there is a city like one village

where nature heals men & women.

this ailment of yours is like an ant

in the hand of nature

cause; this village choir masters chant moon & sky


pen writes in two shades -

to heal & teach.

fly to this village city

where nature heals like a seer

my mother calls it a tavern;

its sea is like a black pot

but the soil is white as snow

fishes swimming & making minds recess

even the drummers are sailing & rejuvenating


Dear Doris Dorian,

this healing will come in pot's street

no soul will request a bill from you

for they live freely like this free air.


this is a written letter of how a sailor -

sailing & partying day & night -

marry the atmosphere as an alien.

the olive trees & birds echoe

& swim

dine & wine as the sun shines

for this village city.


culture is like a dye that never dies

cause; nature is the headmaster.


this is my mother’s inscription,

“out of the fruits

in a garden

there is one that has the virus

I know of medicinal leaf

as the chirping parrots

nest on the tree that bears fruits

to feed an empty stomach


in the black sea near Edinburgh

fishes welcoming the ship like our annual feast

telling tales of sparkling sites

where ancient tales built mansions


learn the storytelling skill

as we sail in the black sea

telling the beauty of nature.

there leaves like men here

trees protruding in the sea

for milk flowing in the barn.


before I wrote my first poetry

Robert Louis held my hands to carve

& weave words in the spirit

for mastery comes from his region.

what about Robert Burns, burning the mind with knowledge

as we sail in his ship

to write more books in our climes.”

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