Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 2

Poem 29 – We the Mourners

Thanks for joining me all this way….!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch

We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now

We the mourners
knit with yarn of loneliness
needles click-clacking inside
the calm light of moon sigh
and sun whisper – the depth
of your lavender longings, your
yellow yearnings, your purple
hopes, your green envies
your spectrum of abilities to
love is a scarf pattern we
art with and for so to warm
the throats in existence
all the voices tangling
to talk in the perfect depths
where soul pieces await the
communion of connection

We the mourners
undulate we gyrate as we spectate
the immaculate sufferings of
today – we bud in spring we bloom
in summer we fall in fall we patient
in winter we season in your seasons
of loss and gain – again and again
we orchestrate the alternate
mouths of Fate we wait we wait
we satiate the grand debate of
‘Why?’

We the mourners
do not fit a mould
we are water fire air
we genuflect to the land
with its doctorate in
Wonder & Awe its Masters
in Chaotic Change its
Bachelor’s in Creative Writing:
education is classroom-ed in the
witnessing of human
reactions that like the elements
thrive in the chaos and after-
birth of suffering’s children

We the mourners
spiral on the puckered
kissing lips of radical
empathy – fearless
in the grand maw of
self-compassion’s
voracious persistence –
the body battles the
soul’s unconditional
devotion to self-love
we understand this
internal war: we warrior
we fence-jump
we edge-leap
we do our own stunts
for your pleasure

We the mourners
cook in the kitchens
of your trauma
sharpened, we prep
lean strips of safety
hand out meal tickets
for your final feasts
in the death rows of
your personal growings
this is no diet but a
style of healing that
serves all universally
the kitchens are always
Open – dessert is
served in the sink:
your anger bowled like
ice cream your fear fired
like brulee – the more
you chew and swallow
and release the more
you enjoy the meditation
that is hand-washing dishes

We the mourners
interpret what you
don’t understand what
you can’t understand
what you misunderstand
we detain the unjust
unmangle the unfair
correct the corrupt
outlast the argument
In the spikey mountain
Range that is how we
Love – understanding is
weather we are always
prepared to vane

We the mourners
have but one request:
when you weep may you
turn your feet to lungs
and, when you’re ready
breathing out your toes
drop your quaking
palms from your face
and see us seeing you
acknowledging the truth
of your suffering

We the mourners
mimic the grace of gravity
gracious in our devotion to
the celestial creaminess of
our earth’s perpetual giving
we heed her frenzied fumings:
heart-first into her tantrumed
thrashings in response to our
unsustainable thirst for convenience
She can warm, feed and shelter
our bodies even as she swallows
us whole – until we digest Her losses
as our losses and dispel the myth
of money as anything but a
fool’s flame to light a night

We the mourners
maintain that the playground
of growth homes a seesaw
of thoughts: the up of risk
the down of caution the even
keel of toes balancing on the
sandy ground of steadiness
the mind is child and adult
simultaneously – we will push
you gently on the pendulum swing
of imperative play or squeal you
over the metal bar full-circling
your ecstatic youth-fat laughter
into the wonder-wounds of wisdom

We the mourners
multi-verse: chair-side by
a death-bed, cord-cutting
at a birth day, weep-wailing
in a warzone, body-quivering
in an orgasm, ring-sliding
at a wedding, coffin-gripping
ash-spreading, we exult
your glory-driven body
sphere-ing fractal astral
moments – eternity spanning
or blink-fast: when it feels
like a breaking so wild and wide
it Is. We usher your parallels
like royals to thrones. You
are all royal – your bodies
radiant thrones

We the mourners
masturbate on the velvety
vulva of virility – at once
feminine and masculine
simultaneously synergized
in the polyamorous pleasure
of Love. Love loves a whole
hole filled rubbed tongue-ed
the body champions ecstasy
on the silky slide of procreation
that is – the consummation of
consenting co-authors of Love’s
eternal storytelling
what follows, be it swollen
belly or adopted heirs: we
are each the parent of our
Love’s seedings, no matter
the garden’s grounds –
mother father guardian
gold-gilded givers, we grow
the gift of life

We the mourners
translate prayers into
trees foresting the collective
pleas, needs, wants, hopes
wishes, dreams, panics
confessions, cruelties, crimes
envies, jealousies, vanities
desperations and desires
this is why the willows weep
why the banyans burst why the
aspens ascend why the sequoia
single-stems why the juniper twists and
the dead camel thorn trees
in Namibia preserve their plight
in the clay salt – pillared prompts
of prayers past and present

We the mourners
matter – we are All
inside outside side-by-side
we bacteria we cell we blood
we bone we organ we skin
we throat we mouth we speak
we whisper we scream we opera
we growl we screech we hum we
hommmmme we insect we
mammal we solid liquid gas
plasma we precipitate we fog
we wind we soil we soul we float
we burrow we worm we bury
we scratch the surfaces
of living’s grand coffins we hear
the bells when you die alive –
we rejoice and lift you up and
more deeply into your Self

We the mourners
are your outlets in the
walls of your silver body
sanctuaries we current – electric
eeling your soul to your body
the constant flow of you-ness
flick-shivering in your veins
the body’s highways of heaven
we conduct the heartstrings of
Love’s almighty manifestations
aligning your dark and light
in harmonious hilarious healing

We the mourners
crawl in the knotty-nooks
creep in the craggly-crannies
of your loneliest lonelies
we tender-kiss the back of
your neck gooseflesh the
top of your scalp–we are
Love detectives fathoming
your extraordinary sadnesses

View more on Vanessa Shields's website »

Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on April 29, 2025 00:18

Poem 28 – We the Mourners

Two more to go!