for you to see beauty here
does not mean
there is beauty in me
it means there is beauty rooted
so deep within you
you can’t help but
see it everywhere
― Rupi Kaur —
who can no longer pause…
Dear Gentle Sir,
“Dime a dozen” doesn’t apply to you. Not when you change my sphere of influence. Not when you alter the way I understand “then” and “now” all while I am standing “here.”
No, you are the game changer. The one whose moans whispered through the line straight to my heart. You are the world-maker. The one who shifted the sky into earth and back again all with a simple smile and sigh.
You woke me up and I haven’t slept since.
What a terrible injustice it is to be the luckiest of the unlucky.
(But more terrible to not know it.)
Nothing applies to you that makes any sense. We haven’t evolved enough to know what this is, what time we are in between, us. Each forgetting is a remembering. We are the smooth, wet edges of the promises you never made.
Take my hand, let’s walk. There is no secret shame, no grave to dance upon. When you look for me, you see because you have given me the better version of myself; that is who I meet in the courage of your trembling arms.
This isn’t a happily-ever-after. It isn’t a fairy tale, a morality tale for the ages. This happening is the story of Becoming but how does one celebrate waiting? Beloved, we are the familiar, the failure no one likes to speak of—the rousing branch that endures its yearly bloom.
Lola xo
i wrote a good omelet…
I wrote a good omelet…and ate
a hot poem… after loving you
Buttoned my car…and drove my
coat home…in the rain…
after loving you
I goed on red…and stopped on
green…floating somewhere in between…
being here and being there…
after loving you
I rolled my bed…turned down
my hair…slightly
confused but…I don’t care…
Laid out my teeth…and gargled my
gown…then I stood
…and laid me down…
To sleep…
after loving you
— Nikki Giovanni —
not the first…
Dear Gentle Sir,
I loved a man who was afraid of the Possible – the enormity of it. With me, he began to experience himself in his truest dimensions, that is, until he couldn’t bear it. So, he blamed me for his growing fear. He became afraid of me, not realizing it had nothing to do with me; I simply showed up and held up a mirror. He looked. He saw. He chose another – as is his wont. He prefers that which keeps him, contains him, controls him.
But even now, it is still in him – all that is Possible.
And it still has nothing to do with me.
These days, he tells himself things are great, that he is in a better place than ever before but he’s a step beside where he was before me: he is still small; he remains secretly, deeply afraid of the enormity of himself, of his own Light. He is happiest when he can hide.
Where once there was love, there now lives insight and a kind of wounded wisdom. Every time I kiss you, I wonder if you will (again), like him, take your turn and blame me for your fear? Or will you focus on my nipples, my glowing clit, and hot moans… hoping to drown out the terrifying call of what is Possible within you? Of the choices you are too afraid to make?
Truth is, it won’t be the first time.
I imagine you won’t try to be the last.
If I’m still here, that is.
Thoughtfully Yours,
Lola xo
joga…
a poem without a single bird in it…
What will I say to you, darling,
When you ask me for help?
I do not know the future.
Or even what poetry,
We are going to write.
Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people
Than either of us have tried it.
I loved you once but,
I do not know the future.
I only know that I love strength in my friends.
And greatness.
And hate the way the body cracks,
And is eaten by images.
The fun’s over. The picnic’s over.
Commit suicide. Go mad. There will be nothing left
After we die or go mad… but the calmness of poetry
And love.
— Jack Spicer —
lovers, secrets, lies…
since why is difficult to handle…
we are everything in between…
Your hands are wonderful, especially when their holding brings forth such
honeysuckle… sucking… goodness.
That I might be muse for such outpourings baffles me.
The certainty that I might be something more than less still eludes me
like insights newly born and swaddled in words still half-formed.
That you might allow me as witness to speak on our behalf, here
illuminates my shortcomings
as scribe to all that is profound and simple.
(There, I see it: your back swathed in silence.)
We are never more than what the other decides
and yet, we remain always as whispers,
as Pleasure that cannot keep a secret for long
and so, we are compelled.
In this mystery, I see you.
In this, we are met.
And so, are we lost.
this wind may blow the sun in…
Dear Gentle Sir,
There is the feeling when your cock falls into the back of my throat… when it pushes its way to the very most brink of my breath.
There is the feeling as the tears well up in my eyes… when you look back at me – no, into me – and we smile.
There is the feeling of pussy petals sighing, singing, spreading to make room for you… when my hard nipples make a different kind of mark than my scratches on your back and my heated bites on your shoulder.
There is the feeling of being held under sunsets that smell like summer fires… when you kiss my forehead and in braille, your lips write “I love you.”
Sweetly Yours,
Lola Moi xo