Orange

It was through the lens of my camera
That I suddenly opened my eyes to autumn,
That the secrets in the heart of a dying leaf
Unfolded inside the brief shutter release,
And injected these shades of orange.
Colors that danced in the hearts of bonfires
I had always passed over for Spring
But one day the dying of Summer was for me
Like a fire, which lay everywhere singing.
Like a fire which lay in gutters and parks
On sidewalks and brownstone steps,
Were the voices of colors that burst open and soared
colors that receded and slept.
Autumn leaves a trail of melancholy sunsets
As keep sakes at my feet.
They reach out with bold humility
Inspiring me to behold and retreat.
With undulating complexities beyond my grasp
They usher in a blinding white
Devoid of any complexity at all
And as thick as any night.

-Zenzile Greene
10/25/12

Octo-Mind

My mind has countless arms
Reaching,
Some I can't even see,
Some I don't even know about
And perhaps for my sake
May never get to see,
That is if my self remains as always
Never free.
My mind has countless arms
That reach.
They grasp and pull and tug
Like a baby
And like a thug
Like a weaver
And like a bum.
They wave fondly at others
And shake a fist at some.
My mind is making arms that will
Preserve my legacy.
My mind is making arms that will
liberate and strangle me,
and sometimes they both feel the same.
But my two hands that I can see
Are vulnerable and empty.
They sense the underlying game.

-Zenzile Greene
(Written in Bryant Park)

Journal Journey

My true journal,
which I can never share;
You know it well.
It is concealed through fear.
My true thoughts
which I dare not say;
You've heard them all before
and turned away.
The real journey,
which we all must take;
it's brutal and I'm tired,
but I'm still awake.

Thursday, January 20th
2:31pm

A poem from my past (close your eyes Amanda!)

Casablanca

Came to a screeching halt that year
At the edge of your rabbit hole.
No way I was going down there again.
I’ve grown accustomed to some sense of control.
I strayed for a moment that year,
stared down the abyss of your soul
At the familiar bones in your closet
which none but me had come to know.
I wanted to hold on to something that hurt
a sweet little souvenir of pain.
But no piece could be taken
without feeling the whole
And that monster in me
has been slain.