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What Pheonix is this? (Poem)


(Photo by Peter John Marida)

There are days I am capable of brilliance
the words that I write are dripping with wisdom
and there are days I feel mad as a hatter
and its nigh close to tea time

is it because I am born under Mars the God of War?
My Irishness? My Scottishness? My hoodrat background?
Is it because I was a white boy born in a black world
who found kindred folk in the beat of a drum?

Is that where my fire comes from?
When I dig in and fight the good fight – is it for truth or just a need to wage my war?
When I leap
astride my husbands hips
and make him pledge allegiance to my body
is that what makes my world go round?

There are days when it rains that my fever begins to climb
when the air is cool around me, I come back to my senses
and look back on declarative statements and wince
“Why did I say that?”
“What did I mean?”
Do I even know?

Why do I burn everything I touch?
Is it my nature?
My sun sign, my moon sign, ascendant, descendant
am I slave to my stars?
Is that why – when I rest – I need a man’s chest
someone strong enough to pick me up
and lay me down when my madness becomes too heavy?

With air, I live
I consume the earth I come across
fire and fire make fire
and when I get close to water – steam is created
before I disappear only to reappear
with the touch of a lightning strike
what Pheonix is this?

And what is yet to come?

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