Womankind 

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Scrambling to find the maps hidden in medicine songs we sing in tongues unfamiliar. Earth quaking beneath feat, as if history wants to shake lose the lost notion of itself. Something buried wants to be remembered by us all, and screams through the rumbling, the crumbling of all that seemed so permanent. Firmament sparkling dew drops so few, yet in each one my face a reflection of you. A point on Indra’s Web trying to learn how to read the wind again, a global back turned to spirit fueling hurricaned ends. Canned goods and donations that won’t ever make it to every starving hand, and the band plays a beat to an old familiar tune, until all hears the music of love’s everlasting boon.
Speakers more portable than hearts, and violence more aimed than darts. Landfills filled with more food than carts, and the disenfranchised everywhere homeless in every single part.

And we hurry to remember how to read the sky, before all the generations of lessons slowly fade and fly, as if to some secret place that can no longer be reached, except by rubber bullets, war, and teeth. Peace we say peace, humanity has yet to learn, it seems we have more power than any of us earned. To turn an ecosystem swiftly against itself, we’ve pickeled hearts in jars and put them up on the shelf, so that we may know the contents of blood from microscopic view, and still be left in wondrous awe knowing not what connects me to you.

Can you please play the music that comforts unspeakable woe, wire case ancient reminders to rekindle conscious flow, cosmic net catching light from galactic edge, trimming and expanding mind to make perfectly shaped hedge, but not like foodless and fruitless lawns all across the world, but the kind that kisses vanity until its confusion untwirls, from every single third eye covered so deep in bind, so that where it sees a cage becomes seed of limitless mind.

And how is it that tomorrow still comes when hope is all but gone, and where does forbearance come from when one fiber short of strong, and who can we count on when the walk is just too long, and who orchestrated such beauty played on my inner ear as song.

Something so unspeakable, but see here she shines, it’s the arrival of the Divine Feminine to free womankind.

Celestial Palms 

The tops of the tall trees applauded their wind filled leaves, and as butterfly nets, we gathered the words to open the other’s heart out of thin air. Tongues flapping as translucent wings kissed by constellation starlight’s grace. We spoke of the sky, tried to be as giving as the sun. Warm.

He said to me “You are an explosion of joy.” Then I began to ponder, perhaps the sun thinks itself to be cold. Perhaps it is the vastness, the distance between bodies, that alters perception. Confuses one long enough to not see how they shine in the hearts and minds of others. Perhaps the sun thinks itself to be cold –

and you know, just sits there, giving life to dreams hiding behind secret shadows full grown, by stepping across the horizon of a despair filled mourning, singing to the moon. 

And just maybe the moon thinks itself to be a bright shining star. Unaware that its body is borrowed, it fashions itself to be the brightest light in the night sky. 

Shhh. Please don’t break her illusion, don’t wake the moon up anymore than you would yourself. Her lips sing symphony keys that demystify the water labyrinth, and turns doubt into a mist over a lake by morning. 

And what is transformation, but a gentle release of a swiftly forgotten ember from the camp fire. Where the souls of nature spirits dance as cold stars, finally remembering who they are. 

Kevon Simpson 2017

Midwife of Secrets

Words are written
all the way inside
on the back corner
of my heart.

It’s not even,
off-balance it is,
not written,
to confuse you.

You will wonder
just why it was carved
that particular way
on such ageless stone.

Far enough in
each comes to see
where I run out of paper
becomes the beating

of another’s barren cave.
The birth of a new poem.
Write it.

Kevon Simpson 2017 ©

Creamsicle

Orange has new meaning these days
tears that melt off of detained faces
they are not crying, they are changing states
a piece of the dream is moving across borders
from solid to liquid like science class
its just chemistry and math
you know
Nothing racist or personal,
and “we are all one anyway”
they say this loudly
in a way that makes them
forget the eyes of that child
The one who said
“I swear to God we have nothing to eat.”

Kevon Simpson 2017 ©

I Remember You (Ode to Ayahuasca and the Indigenous)

How does this medicine
help me forgive?
Pain turned to light
where the sorrow used to live.
And even though my habbits
aren’t completely changed
I’ve found a love I can’t forget it
it extends across the cosmic range
Where stars give birth to butterflies
and other beautiful things
Quantum particle of my heart
it’s light that makes me sing

Oh Mother Ayahuasca
Do you know what you saved me from?
I was trapped in a maze of mirrors
into your arms I run
Oh Mother Ayahuasca
Do you know what you made me feel?
there’s a soul somewhere inside of me
the skin of my ego peeled.

and my heart is naked
in the middle of the night
it beats so perfect
I am freed from my plight
my heart is naked
in the middle of the night
it beats so perfect
I am freed from my plight

De ja vu, De ja Vu
Is just a soul memory
Do you remember me?
Do you

remember

me?

I

remember

you.

I remember you.

Kevon Simpson 2016 ©

Cuando Los Arboles Canta

Kaleidoscopic outpouring of truth sparkling jewel,
jingling a fine fixing fiery flow of forgotten fun,
reverse twist purged open to speak in parables not uttered,
in a quiet room beckoning deeper silence still,
though billing the moment the cost of the thrill.

Where dose a song go when it leaves?
Slipping, each blinked eye lid’s memory cleaves,
the midwife of melody vines her head from the trees,
but where does an icaro go when it leaves?
Mind like drum as quiet trapping snare,
how is it that we hear music beyond silent air?

We sense where she rests, and come to meet her again,
but where does melody go to be born and call herself friend?

Tu voz era una galaxia,
quando los arboles canta,
mi corazon canta,
no es una idea profundo,
es una idea mas facil.
Amor canta en todos las lenguas.
Tus sentimientos es musica de las estrellas.

Escucha.

-Kevon Simpson 2016©

Mindful Shaman

Eyes wide open,
not knowing they’re asleep,
so many prefer the token,
compassionate tears I weep.
 
Saying “he’s too sensitive”
but see, it is not so.
I just love you so deeply,
show up for your show.
 
See how they wait,
clapping before you arrive,
set your sight straight,
alive but not alive?
 
My goodness, much has happened,
and I know that happened too,
but excuses are excuses,
time to see you.

Kevon Simpson ©2016

Recipe: Becoming a Wild Flower in a Paved World

You will need a few things
and you have none of them right now.
Read that lie again, and erase it from your mind.
That is step one, overcoming the lie
that you are not enough.

Skipping that step,
will burn everything before you begin.
You are not clever enough
to thwart the laws of manifestation,
and why would you want to?
To prove what? That you are alone?

See your self-masochism for what it is.
The universe is you,

Stop denying your own support.

Because you hurry through so much
I find pleasure in repeating my lines
a sentence is easier than an incarnation
so I write to remind you
and to free my soul.

See your self-masochism for what it is.
The universe is you,

Stop denying your own support.

The time between steps varies
from wild flower to wild flower.
The past serves only as compost.
A summer bloomed orchid
and a plastic house plant
will never be alike.
Celebrate the real in you,
let rotting things rot,
and allow the melting of the facade.
Open the window of your eyes
and let the stinging soot out,
allow it not to cloud your future anymore.

You must find the other hippies.
Listen to what they have to say.
Some have grown up,
and stopped wearing their flowers,
they conformed out of safety,
but they give themselves away,
via the hope they still have for the world.
They are the first to help in a disaster.
They can’t help it. Thank God.

Broaden your concept of God,
to fit more than the people,
who look just like your tribe.
All humans look alike,
stop killing our rain forests
and its animals.

And now for Step 2
This thing here we call life,
is all about you,
and indeed the butterfly too.
Finish the rest of this poem,
with the delicate actions of your life.

Let Bake for an entire age.

Serving Size: Planetary.

Kevon Simpson 2015©

Grandma’s Combs

Those cheap little combs
their teeth stung you know
little vampires of the scalp
nap eradicators they were
all for just 99 cents
back when gum was a penny
the sugar never lasted
eat another one fast
this comb has missing teeth
grandma says my mouth
will suffer the same fate
but this gum is so good
and so cheap like this grease
naps so tight they need water
I don’t unravel easy
sting of scalp plucked
bald chicken bravery
deep fried soul
tender and juicy heart
that metaphor was stupid
but you get it
tired of being too careful
thick brows trimmed
photo-shopped thoughts written
too careful without the mistakes
the comb loses more teeth
grandma dies
I remember her laugh and sneeze
so damn loud
Hurricane Gilbert loud
a Jamaican reference
yes I am that too, spiced
curry and ginger
warrior blood simmered
finger still on trigger
birds are too beautiful
to be wild they say
the vapor of clouds
taste like jet plane exhaust
this is supposed to be
going somewhere
but it isn’t really
like the parts of myself
I keep chewing off
to be perfect
sloppy life, sloppy words
no meter, chaos
all beautiful
I’ve stopped combing
through myself
with a fine tooth
comb
such sweet room
to  b  r  e  a  t  h  e
I miss you Granny.

Kevon Simpson 2015 ©