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Updated: Fri, 10 Apr 2020 04:04 pm

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...This Is Man... They frame me in the milestones. Something like an unkempt garden. I am half naked in blizzards of truth. Temperamental hands unclothe me... Uprooted. Because you love me whispers from adversaries blow at our threads. The nature of their beasts forget the importance of their Mothers...Of women. Umbilical iridescence floats away. Kites like thoughts lose strings... I promise to uplift you, without your soul leaving body. Understand through me this array of vivid color. Forgotten spectrums leave me dissipated. Respect for roots evaporates... Remember, I will nourish your “inner children”. I awake with the wisdom birthed by elders of intangibility. Certain things I know without knowing. Yet, the earth of men spits me out. I am tired of searching for my birth, because I understood death. The sacred split in the soil disputes my flesh. Yet, the skies above never disregard the sacred door revolving between my thighs...Open my lights...Hearth that makes milk and honey, residing nowhere in sound. Ache of waves summoning me… I’ll wait for you. I hope you know that. Do you feel me? My keeper of things toiled. Hawthorne of root and weed. This is my heart. Tend to untangle the misconception of my disgrace...Make my home... Make my home. Soul of metal alliances from blood... This is man. I found one who is my key. My protective sword from our hearth...Fire fuera... I believe in his oaths. He too, knows of subliminal ruin… Meld the unwind and collapse. Wield the dark until something shines… Interrogate my shadows until my soul utters your name. Let me into my humanity. Disregard the disillusioned bicephalic deity. The one who never speaks of torment. The one torn beneath her dresses… Like you, I suffer. Deep down under anchors you understand. They frame your woman in the milestones. Tend to these hurdles; something like a garden. My keeper of things toiled... My key. We should find our home. © Mimi Caneda Mata ?? ...The ways in which my outer existence experiences life is inexplicably purged through ink. I find this healing process for myself a reciprocal way to collectively relate with others. Through poetry and writing the indecipherable is understood in a language that is universal within us all. A language that does not need to be decipherable with the rational mind, but understood in soul. I started speaking this language at 8 years old...I am now 37...I hope that people can relate to my writing in their “own individual” way. Thank you. My utmost respect, collective love and peace goes out to all of you.


...Ghost Of Summer... When the winter opens its arms like a cut onion bringing cold tears to my eyes. Let the inevitable weep for something grand like an empty chair lost in the avalanche. Where the memories splinter and tear through my skin the ghosts still living; still walking tomorrow beneath a sunny day, with words as green and silky as avocados upon the tongue in summer. Somewhere, in far distances away from where lost thorns are in places wayward from the hot arms of their mother... I am the ripe gaped open fruit of lemons withered in the soil. The pulp reminds the mourning flower between the legs of branches to rhyme with the wind within its deserted head; to not birth yet into spring, because moods may be hazardous. Regardless of how cold the sour stench of my hearts dismissal to grow in certain palms; I too, can be sweet. I am in love with faraway whims, that bring to me a ghost of summer, that maybe I knew centuries ago… He is ,here, within palpitations in my bosom... I will resume fruition there where the flowers have color. © Mimi Caneda Mata

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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