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Poem (for the Blues Singers)

Poems are not places.
There are no maps for centuries
where the geography of skin
is anonymous in memory.
I am a second hand dream
in concrete slabs of silence.
Somewhere bones speak
for my name/over fibers
of their secrets.  My poems
are wandering, meandering
in crevices between distances
and tombs.  Where my voice
is bound with hammering against
the anvil of truth.
Poems are bridges, neon
reaches across worlds
where language seeks
a voice for itself.  Where words
are steps up towers
of perception. I exist
in language I invent
out of ruins.  Out of
the nameless sand wind
scatters as my soul
I exist in lines of spirits.
Who gather in longings
blues singers peddle for
sweat.  I exist, landless,
cropping my dreams in soil
from distances and silence
only travelers of the Middle Passage
Sterling Plumpp
And so my fellow blues singers and travelers of the Middle Passage,
indeed poems are not places but bridges, neon reaches across worlds.
And we are vocies bound with hammering against the anvil of truth.
I wish you peace but most of all I wish you TRUTH.
Have a great weekend family.
About tenthltr2u (1074 Articles)
A child of the 60's I often feel out of place in the world as it exist today. Too much excess, too much materialism, too few people who genuinely care or give a damn. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. Antoine de Saint-Exupery

5 Comments on Poem (for the Blues Singers)

  1. Excellent – on your other entries are you published?


  2. It is the sound of truth, the echos of authenic knowlegdes whispering and riveting the magnificents saturated in the bile of man’s inhumanity trying to cover the glory of "WE", "ME", "I", "YOU", yet the irony and the secret and the not so secret is that all that you are, can be, have been, would’ve been, could’ve been, will be, dare to be, runs through your veins; you need not seek outside of the "self" for validation for the blood pumping through your being is the testament that they were here, that we are here and greatness is only but a thought away.
    DSB Rhapsody © 2007


  3. Hello family,
    First to Sheldon, no I’m not published but thanks for the compliment.  Most of the things I post are poems that strike me as I come across them. Generally they relate to my mood at the time of something that I feel needs to be said based on events of the day.  However, there are several on my space that are original. 
    To the Fabulous One – we absolutely need not seek beyond self for validation for everything we are is within our grasp.  The challenge is being able to find self and more importantly remain true to it.
    Thanks for visiting my neigborhood,


  4. Why does it always seem like poetry is born of angst or ectasy?  Is our creativity choked by the mundane?


  5. Unfortunately this appears to be the case.
    Thanks for visiting my neighborhood,


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