A Man and a Woman and a Name Are One

The Man is Adamah is the red rock
The Woman Ḥawwāh lives upon it

Adamah: The Mouth is a guitar which plays itself
Ḥawwāh: The Mouth makes water from blood

Adamah: The Eyes are rivers running outside the forest
Ḥawwāh: The Eyes unlike virgins turn whiter with experience

Adamah: The Ears are foreign countries whose existence we learn of by word of mouth
Ḥawwāh: The Ears never repeat what they have heard

Adamah: The Neck is a road between unfriendly cities
Ḥawwāh: The Neck tilts to me for comfort, away in pride

Adamah: The Arms are wheat stalks ripening in the sun
Ḥawwāh: The Arms break themselves around love

Adamah: The Chest is a house for a dancing witch
Ḥawwāh: The Chest marries the green food of the earth

Adamah: The Hands are newborn chicks, fumbling and featherless
Ḥawwāh: The Hands stitch the gloves they hide in

Adamah: The Feet are old women, afraid to go out alone
Ḥawwāh: The Feet invent the paths that age them 

Adamah: The Hair is the sound of a man who’s lost his hat in the wind
Ḥawwāh: The Hair dies before its birth

Adamah: The Cock is a rooster crowing its own name in darkness hoping for an echo
Ḥawwāh: The Cock keeps quieter after daybreak

Adamah: The Cunt is a detour from doom
Ḥawwāh: The Cunt sings for generations


A Nice Pair

Why should my passion be hidden?
I love breasts, something now nearly forbidden
when the disorderly flesh is reduced to a gender.
If I could speak out loud with candor,
I would rhapsodize them jiggly and juggly,
sing their praises, small or large, both lovely
whether in halter top floating or wrapped in spring color,
summer bare in bikini or something even smaller.
I would rebut the reproductive reduction
and taboo on the mutable mammaries’ seduction
of the male gaze – damned as objectification.
Or should it be called deification
since each of us is the wellspring and potential
of the divine, evoking the aesthetic essential
form in the lines and curves of our torsos?
I would chant odes like the bard of Lesbos
who begged the stone Venus for a lover with her lyric,
whether ample Willendorf or modest de Milo, sincere or satiric;
or about Eve’s low-hanging fruit in the garden
or Rosalind blooming in the forest of Arden.
I would reminisce of the scream queens of Hammer,
Ingrid Pitt and Caroline Munro whose bare-breasted glamour
enshrouded women’s hearts full of compassion beating
even for boys still years from their first meeting
with a woman whose breasts they could treasure
and a future where pain is softened by pleasure.


Now here’s a great poem by the late Thomas Lux which fits the prompt as a kind of deathbed confession:

Ode While Awaiting Execution by Thomas Lux

Into the mute and blue-

green marble mailbox my dust deserves to go

though not for that which I’m going.

I deserve to go, and not alone,

because I did not sing loud enough

about this life, this world.

Singing poorly is acceptable. Not loud enough is not.

There were too many things I saw

of which I did not sing, things raw

and eyeball-vibrating ravishing, or worse, things I forgot,

until a pin-stick shock, a creak

in a house of wood waking to heat,

or a bent nail, remembers for me.

How did Spinoza define happiness?

Patient acceptance of the inevitable?

I find my self im-


I’m often impatient. Not for the inevitable,

which can wait patiently for me.

So far, the Governor’s not called the Warden,

whose palm has an itch.

He prefers an electrical switch.

My lawyers, having, in law, no degrees,

are not allowed in to counsel me.

Appeals are exhausted, or at least very tired.

So, I scratch this out on my last yellow legal pad’s last

page: I deserve to go,

but not for that which

I’ll lie on a table

and get the needle.





My black lady quickens my heart
Woman of the tropics
She brings heat
To my cold northern soul
With her bubbly swaying hips
And her liquid cherry kiss
Upon my lips
We meet each morning
In the same café
And I hold her in my hand, making
All kinds of plans
While the juke box plays
Some say our affair is wrong
That she does me some harm,
Guilty for my restless nights
Or for passions run too high
It’s true there is some bitterness
Between us
But to sweeten it would be a lie
Better to love you all I can
Until I can barely stand
To wake the racial memory
And listen to the beat
Of the blood rushing
Past my eardrums
Calling me to the tower
And the water
And the tree of life




All the young people I have ever known
Have grown old
Not one of them dodged it
Their dogs and cats grew old
Even faster
And that made them cry
And grow older still
There must be some cease
To this constant leaning toward
The earth
Can’t we call an armistice
Neither side admitting defeat
But both retreating from
The line of conflict
We can climb from the trenches
And dry our feet
Our knot-jointed feet
In the sun
And wrap one season’s petals
Around us for free
To dance or paint or love
Or not
Without paying for the time
to dance or paint or love
Or not
We’ll promise to return to the trenches
next year
We always do
We’ll promise to place our backs
Against that thorny palm
That grows from the edge of the world
A place we walk toward and walk
Away from at the same time
All the time

for dversepoets Sunny-side up! prompt by Lillian