I wrote a poem
about the inferno
that burns
in the pit
of God’s belly,
and how it’s spit
with caustic intentions
unto a world
that still hasn’t
quite figured out
how to handle
the last dose
of suffering
delivered
as a plague
of pestilence
and other such
terrible perturbations.
Then I swam
in your eyes
as the earth cooled off,
calming at its core,
soothed at my center.
Not just an ocean,
but an oasis.
Not just a womb,
but the waters of life.
Not just a smile,
but electric songs
vibrating
from your lips
with every shift
of this sweet symphony.
I watched a poem
write itself
while the day went black
and the curtains fell,
shrouding evolution
as the last gasp
of civilization
snuffed out
beneath the violent rhythm
of decayed seizures
and hollow shaking
in the bones
of a broken theory
gone oh so wrong.
Then I danced
to the sound
that echoes off walls
in a room
blessed with your presence
as we spun
under the spotlight
of a circle
drawn by the hand
of fate
and freewill
aligned perfectly
in harmony
with the bliss
born from your touch.
Not just a dream,
but a vision manifested.
Not just a raft,
but a ship that saves souls.
Not just a laugh,
but the frequency of your purity.
Not just a moment,
but a sign
on the path
ahead
that points toward
you and me
together.
Bio:
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, and books can be found. His work has appeared in hundreds of literary venues, both in the United States and internationally, and has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Scott is a member of The Southern Collective Experience, and he serves as an editor for The Blue Mountain Review, Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Peregrine Muse, and Novelmasters.
Instead of recognizing we’re king you intend to abolish us. It’s always been obvious first we dangle from trees now it’s filmed murder in the streets. Using mass media television, radio, and music to create deceit in us. Yea we’re free from shackles but you’re still leading us. We keep sleeping not understanding we have reason to say they’re defeating us. Why are we afraid to be heard or seen maybe we’ll be the next martyr or leader killed for a reason. A strong people killed without a cause it’s disgusting; can’t you see injustice has me questioning what trust is?
It’s been a pleasure
To write with cause
Not just because
The words are there
On tip of tongue
And finger
To be pressed
In patterns
With rhythm and thought
Seen not as blots
Spat out on white surface
But merely a mind
Supplied with reason
Experience
And strong desire
To bleed ink on pages.
I DON’T SEE COLOUR
The famous phrase people say to distance themselves from
racism, but unless there is something wrong with your eyes
you can not escape my colour
You don’t see the different shape of my nose, my almond shaped
eyes, my wool textured earthly locs?
I want you to see my colour, my beautiful chocolate brown
shade of beauty
I want you to notice this colour I so proudly wear
I want you to appreciate this colour that was handed down
to me by my African ancestors who survived the middle
passage, slavery and more atrocities then you could
imagine.
“I’m not racist” you say “I see everyone the same” I am
colour blind, well what do you see? You see all shades of
white you erase me to sooth your eyes and make it
comfortable for you.
I don’t see colour, please… this is what society teaches, then
you must not appreciate art all the vibrant colours on a
canvas you don’t see that either?
Why would you not want to see the varieties of beauty that
surround you?
I want you to love my colour, my pigmentation, be in awe of
my glowing mahogany skin.
I want you to see and acknowledge my hue, by denying it is
to deny my being, deny my ethnicity and heritage.
My brownness strengthens me, uplifts me and brings me to
a higher plane
I have self-love and know my worth
SEE ME AS A BEAUTIFUL ENLIGHTENED SPIRITUAL
MAHOGANY SISTA WHO IS WOKE!!
Appreciate the beauty that comes in all shades I see it and
its magnificent
“Alice?” I questioned the
petite, brown haired woman. She walked towards me, stomach
bumped an early pregnancy. I led her to the back room while she blabbed blabbed blabbed
about the usual chit-chat the baby kicked the baby made her pee the baby made her tired.
Again I wondered why she was pregnant. The radio in the corner of the exam room
whispered, “the vote for Prop 4 goes up in a week.” “What’s that?” I asked eyes tearing
away from notes. “I said I wished the father had come today,” eyes narrowed, Alice gazed at
the sun. “Minors need consent,” the radio hissed. I nodded, “How old
are you Alice?” “I’ll be 18 in two weeks,” her teeth glowed at me.
She wasn’t even an adult. “BLASPHEMY!”
I jumped eyes jumped between Radio and Alice. “What can I help you with today?”
“I need my options for abortion.” “Women can’t choose to kill, what about the baby?” I
smiled kindly and explained it depended. She wrapped shiny pink hands around biceps
and rolled a shoulder, “I’m 14 weeks.” I sighed. “Women are irresponsible, they can’t be
trusted with-” I moved my hand to turn off the radio. “Fathers are arguing that
only they can be trusted with matters of this caliber.” I flicked the switch and turned
back to little Alice. “I can do a dilatation and evacuation procedure, where we put you to sleep and
vacuum out the child.” Alice’s mouth shrunk she nodded, “how soon?”
“Today if you like.” “I can vacuum it out and choose what to do with you.” Then I gave
her an injection to put her out.
A single medical light set up the stage.
I shrug on my white coat, run a hand
through my moussed, brown hair, and shift to wash my hands in the stainless steel sink.
“You women,” I say, rolling my neck giving a sidelong glance to the wiggling woman
fighting against the ties on the surgery table. Hannah. A chooser.
“Chooser,” I chuckle and stalk over to the table.
I glide my hands from Hannah’s small ankles up to her thighs, and relish in the feel
of her, soft, supple, meat. She shakes under my hands, bleating
softly to me.
I glance back to Alice and her child propped against the
white wall, one eye open and lifeless, baby curled on the second exam table- skin marbled.
Alice had tried to choose.
I exhale; the time for choice was over.
“Today I give birth,” I proclaim.
I look the woman under my hands in the face. Her head violently shakes left to right, spittle
dragging down her chin. My eyes slide down to her ripe belly
I smile, and let her go. I turn instead to the surgical
table and the industrial bottle of Surgi-lube. I slather the stuff on
like butter, my arms gleam under the fluorescent light.
I was told he was the best prenatal doctor
DON’T TOUCHI
slide a finger into her, sighing.
And then two And then my fist I pump in ‘n out to loosen
the muscles before pushing against the cervix, the child’s prison gates.
“This,” I grunt, punching through, “is mine”. Amniotic fluid dribbles
down my arm in a steady yellow flow. The woman’s muffled screams bounce
around the operating room like a cheap bouncy ball. I feel the baby’s neck —
HA! – a hand hold that I grab tight and pull. It’s a wet,
one way tug-of-war. “This will always be mine,” I exhale loudly, sweat
oozing down my face and neck I can see the things head now peeking out
between Hannah’s Refined Ruby lips.
Tt the things free, I hold it up like a successfully killed rabbit.
Hannah has passed out, probably from relief that I took this from her.
“I choose the life,” I drop the baby to the linoleum floor with a splat, cord
still attached, and pick up the marble baby from the table.
“And I choose when the life,” Alice’s child is ripe, it had been sitting out for nights,
rising, now it was time to bake. I place the child’s head against those
red, red lips and push. Little bits burst with dark liquid
adding to the red as I pressed. The berry syrup made things very messy.
It would have been better to chop this into smaller pieces before shoving it up
the woman. I push and shove until it’s finally in. I take my pitcher
the front was bright, spic ‘n span, freshly
built, tan and white, sliding glass doorsmy
choicemy
bodyof
water from the surgical table and pour it over the lips washing them clean.
Then pick up my needle and thread to sew them up. “And I choose how the life,”
Bake for 30 minutes. The woman’s stomach bubbles and ripples.
Her horse screams alert me that it was almost done.
A faint whistling came from under the woman. The ripples spreading out,
Bloating her body. And then she popped.
“A life all my own,” I whispered, wiping the carmine stew from my face
to see the result. All that remained was the stomach, the protrusion
pealing open like a corpse flower and out came muscle slick skin yellow buttercream
covered face crawling like a silent movie. A small thin figure, naked with slit eyes
wiggled around. Its eyes eyed me as it slid to the
sticky, red floor and dragged itself, leaving a trail of slime
and cloud of lactose gas behind,
out the door.
You could call the theme of this poem “heartache”.
What motivated you to write this poem?
‘Let Your Soul Fly Free to Heaven’ is a poem written after the breakup from a man I truly loved. I was extremely depressed at the time and writing to express my feelings turned out into a few very special poems. I love how the rhythm of this poem is very regular and I still think this is one of my best.
How long have you been writing poetry?
I started writing poetry in my teenager years, stopped in my late twenties and picked up writing poetry a few years ago.
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
I would wish I could have dinner with Barry White. He was not only an excellent singer with a unique voice but as well a fantastic composer and songwriter. I would have loved to ask him for a few secrets on songwriting.
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I know how it sounds when I read my poems… I felt seeing someone else reading it and find out if I still like the way it’s written.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
I write novels and novellas, mostly. I’m intensely working on my pre-novel novella right now and I hope very much it won’t take too long anymore to have it published.
What is your passion in life?
I do have several passions – but my most important passion is writing. This is what I want to do.
The theme of ‘Rogue Wave’ is living with and surviving the challenges life throws at us. Everyone faces challenges that turn life over and make us wonder what’s coming next. This poem will also have additional depth for anyone living with a chronic illness or a condition, especially depression or anxiety – they can go through this kind of experience every day, sometimes more than once a day.
What motivated you to write this poem?
‘Rogue Wave’ is a poem that comes from my own experience of life as a person who lives with both depression and chronic conditions. It frequently feels like the wave of life is dumping me hard, but even when it does spit me onto the sand, I have survived.
I wrote this poem to encourage those in similar situations through knowing that they are not alone and someone else feels the same way they do, but also to enlighten those who haven’t considered what that can be like.
How long have you been writing poetry?
I’ve been writing poetry for years, and got published for the first time last year.
If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?
William Shakespeare. I love his work, and have so many questions!
What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?
I believe in my work, and I want to see it reach people and move them. I think that’s what any poet wants.
Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?
In addition to my poetry, I have one book of short stories about encountering challenge and change called ‘New Horizons’, and a one-act play for teens called ‘The Shakespeare Omelette’.
What is your passion in life?
Obviously, poetry is one of my passions. I’m also passionate about helping my students be the best that they can be and pursue their own passions in life, too.
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 