sleeping

i do not feel beautiful while you sleep
and I know this is wrong
i should not need your words or your gaze
but they make me feel good

i feel good, good
like all the badness i've ever done
were things that somebody else sung about
someone else wrote in the chords of their imaginings
i have no part of them

whille you sleep i wait up for your return
from the dogs, swimming pools, dungeons and rope ladders of your dreams
that you tell me about in the morning

I could watch you sleep for days
that way I'd know where you are
that way i can be next to you while you expose the underbelly of your vulnerability
knowing you trust me, trust that i think you are beautiful too

Bebé del Carnaval

Image - Zena Edwards©

I was at Burgess Park last weekend a the Latin festival - Carnaval del Pueblo. I had my camera. My new camera bought because I had lost my voice for 5 solid weeks. I discovered how hungry the eyes are for food and how fickle they are - always searching for the next new scoop, the story that will curb the cravings. When I got home, they unfurled themselves to me like cheeky strippers, like lucky dips and silent constellations.
My first photo blog. Click pic for full effect.

Her hair is the earth, brown, deep
rich with mineral, a forest
of brand new thought
wind whipped into an ice cream quiff
she nips the familiar arm that cradles her
with gummy jaws, so sensitive, tasting
salt and tracings of some body spray
pursing lips that would speak purity
into jaded eyes that would break
tears imprisoning
any heart: shatter, tinkle - music

her own eyes focus on the resonance of voices
hears the emotion behind the guise of words -
she is that attuned

And one day her hair will fall the height of a great mountain
along her back, ripped from flexing, from wrestling
with the devil
cushioned by the fatty comfort of prayer
a woman's contours emanate
a softness, a gentleness
that cannot be hidden no matter how arduous
the game

because the woman that holds her
will not let her fall, holds herself
in a grip of a mirror gaze   

remembering her own innocence
laced with vanilla and her mothers magnolia plants
this newness that tugs on her hair
to know its texture, wizened
with disappointments and loss , washed 

with accepting, forgiving,

another new beginning

hair meets hair
and the hum of the festival bumps on

Poem written by Zena Edwards copyright Aug 2010