bluebirds were in yearning
for a meadow
so, they called to she who always pays attention
she delivered them the meadow,
and for her wonder,
they bring their bright song to her sill
yet, she did not know the meadow
only yearns to become the shrubland
and that the shrubland
only yearns to become the woods
and that the woods
only yearns to become the forest
and that the forest
only yearns for the fire
so then, as to the bluebirds
did they know called a woman
who only yearns to become the fire
the gunshot
crisp, startling
a radiating crackle
floating on the unusually warm autumn air
my dog bolts for the house, and once inside, takes cover under the desk – this is a natural response to explosives
fear, confusion, rage, sorrow course through my marrow — we are made of the same stuff
then i remember that deer-stalking-luring-and-killing with a gun season started today
i’d seen the dignified six-point buck head south earlier,
the same direction of the blast / i realize that he may be dead, now
then i remember that i haven’t seen the
doe and her playful and curious fawns
in over a month’s time
on my way to the highway entrance ramp,
i avoid the main roads
where the bodies of two deer lay dead
a half mile apart
/ i pretend they can’t be, that they aren’t my familiars /
the deer always seem to be lying just barely off the road
do they collapse and die there identically — or does someone drag them there by their legs or antlers; are there protocols for this?
what does the weight of a dead deer body or dead human body feel like in the hands? are the dead heavier? would i be able to drag a deer or human body? maybe — in my heyday
i have only ever held dead rabbits, squirrels, birds, fish in my own two hands
then i remember that our first dog was euthanized at home, in the back yard, in the June Sun, but it was not me who lifted and carried his body away / why didn’t i carry him? back then, i was in my strength heyday.
Continue reading “deer hunting season | regular firearm, November 15 – 30, 2023, Michigan, U.S.”There are no terrorists,
foreign or domestic;
respectively,
there are only
the victim-survivors of
colonization and Empire
and
those whom States and Empires
indoctrinated, or trained and armed —
and jettisoned.
The former are always
liberation revolutionaries,
the latter
are discontent citizens;
both, willing to die for
truth,
repatriation,
retribution
and land.
the Sun just keeps on shining
setting and rising,
setting and rising
while
the People
of Palestine,
of Congo,
are genocided
did you know that Yaldaboath only feigned dismay
when Cain blew his own brother away;
then He later told Abraham to kill his own son,
just to prove that he was obsessed enough
you know, that dear Jesus
in heaven comfortably stayed
all throughout the Trans-Atlantic slave trade,
and that Allah had no problems with the Caliphates
and The One True God was all about The Crusades
and that Creator ignored the prayers and the pleas
of First Peoples slaughtered by steel,
starvation, and European disease
and that Yahweh was pre-occupied during the Holocaust
busy planning and inciting the Palestinians’ cruel loss
from Auschwitz to Al-Shifa,
He so craves burnt offerings
His global portfolio — built solely on dead things
He created the Sun to grow His tainted Seeds
Horror by daylight,
His Grand Design? — what a fucking death scheme
Auden once begged to “dismantle the Sun”
for the loss of his own be-loved one
but Hark!
for the loss of our collective soul,
dismantlement’s just not good enough,
leave Him no parts, no plans
to re-build and restart!
Extinguish His goddamn Sun!
and forever, and evermore,
Let there only be Dark!
Continue reading “the deception of the Sun”i won’t warn you with
my voice, anymore
tell me,
how do you calmly
tell someone to
“look, brake, stop, now, please”
in a nano-second?
calm but with desperate urgency?
without amplification?
without proselytizing?
without the infusion or projection of panic?
without the prescience of the future unfolding in the very moment?
tell me,
i’ll wait,
while you kill the coyote
crossing the road
that crosses razed forest
clear-cut for runs and Aprés-ski,
for lumber to build the 3-day-stay mansions – which they unironically call, “cabins,”
a settlement of a pop-up-Bavaria™️ for them in the valley of the mountains of
the Sangre de Cristo?
the lifeblood of the Red Willows.
the very same road
to access the trailhead
to the pristine glacial lake
with views of Taos Peak
a profanity of epithets
“williams” lake
“wheeler” peak
where you go, unironically,
to briefly escape
this World,
the violence of this World,
your World
the one constructed in your image,
and in your favor
Continue reading “kill the coyote v.2”“SHALOM not [A] napalm BOMB”
“No state exists by right, they come to exist by force, and then justify their existence after the fact.”
- Geo Maher
absolutely familiar
though this composite
is arresting and near unrecognizable
appearing as face and form of a human woman
who never endured, nor knew of, disease
wearing pleromic countenance
without tongue for human words, without neurons for human thoughts
yet fluently exuding
all the truth
that is
now hers
Continue reading “the visitation”History will absolve you.
Stand with Palestine.
the roadside memorials in New Mexico are truly, exceptionally beautiful
many are illuminated with solar- or battery-powered Christmas lights at night
this, though, is the first “ghost bike” motorcycle i’ve spotted anywhere
Continue reading “a ghost bike somewhere in New Mexico”
FOREVER “you”…
My childhood friend, and through the years, we've grown together, shared joy and tears, were bonded like the day and night, our hearts forever will unite, you've given me, a chance to be, a friend forever, most definitely, I am forever, there is no end, you'll always be, my most best friend, each day and night, I keep you near, always know, that I am here. Thank you for, the love you've shared, nothing else can compare, So much we've grown, and been all through, forever is forever you.
Poem by Lajuana Lampkins
©️copyright Lajuana Lampkins
September 2023
near invisible,
imagine silk organza, chameleoned
peach-pink colored, when i Am naked,
the color of water as i bathe.
sky blue, golden, sherbet, grayed or midnight black,
when i Am outside
ever-shifting with the time of day and weather,
once, even green,
as i knelt down in the cold grass
while diaphanous to all the unobservant
i Am dressed in this cloak of mourning
and the hem is lined with lead
Continue reading “the mourning cloak”autumn
was the last season of her life
the northwest wind carried her away
easier than gossamer
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 