wombs of my mountains

wind you know where i am alive and unforgotten time and i walk through the valleys and canyons made by trinity God Spirit and the son of woman wind you know how my throat wails in melody somber prayer joyous praise to you the wind that batters me uprooting my seedlings pulling sacrifices from the wombs of my mountains wind after birth soother cleansing sin away your breeze sister gentle cool draped in the blue of sky anoints the lips of the child with psalms and holy noise if only she could remember to return home

mbrazfield (c) 2022

our picket signs for St. Peter

infinite is the same color gray
stones upturned not a smile they bring
the bulbs of spring red will be
blessed are her feet
they carry a soul to heaven’s gates
wings await to offer flight
descend your faith into our light
on the corners where the orphans fade
a glance will do from eyes of gold
our picket signs with prophecies
adorned
will see the blooming of a brave new world

mbrazfieldm (c) 2022

letting go

mbrazfield (c) 2021

air enmeshed on my face
gases greases spices biohazard turbulence
steps i do take deftly
for fear of stepping on someone’s pride or fingers
heart where do you find me
not close by tonight i’m sorry
lungs pained by the dull recycled wind
legs tired from walking on my knees
hands exhausted from typing and knocking on borrowed doors
that were sealed shut years ago
Langers you’ve outdone yourself
pastrami parfum greets me in the mouth
but pauper pockets must decline
not enough to eat on any night
moon follows explaining what went wrong
i’ve stopped listening 20 years back
the coat that was my father’s
has fell apart in the warm places
it served me well as now i’m frozen
in all the right places
only the ghosts living in the bricks
get through to where my thoughts
reveal
the truth about letting go

historian

mbrazfield (c) 2022

i have seen the morning crash the back of the night running away from the future
i have witnessed shopping carts on fire devouring the food of my seeds
i have seen men lie to men as they’re life has lost it’s worth
i have witnessed a spirit come but in the opposite of peace pulling the sun and pushing the moon from me

underground in solitude

mbrazfield (c) 2022

i have no desire to stop and smell flowers or tell my friend about the aroma of bread in the morning breeze i have earned the right to just wander off in these unbelievable streets barefoot to squander the last of my life i have no interest in looking for the art in my face or the strength of my wrists i have a need to talk to myself about the world that scorns me and finally be at peace to embrace the underground in solitude

in the red

mbrazfield (c) 2022

we great grand children
acorns plucked from branches
strewn across the roads
on a whim of damnation herself
still in the red we toil
rot away on bended knee
collecting rejection in reusable bags
we cry not for pain anymore
sedated we sit and lay down
to partake in the ruthlessness of abandonment