Your hips—
resting upon my waist
like waves that never forget
how to embrace.
...
There is a kernel in my bosom—
twisting, turning and yearning,
wanting to be born;
...
Pain is a chain, I say-
threading down generations like an inheritance
Guilt wrapped in silence and sealed with shame.
...
O Woman,
Book of hidden wisdom,
Volume wrapped in velvet dusk,
Keeper of unwritten songs.
...
Two proud hills stand side by side,
Pointing skyward with slender pride.
Climb gently to the rocky crest,
Slide down smooth with whispered breath,
...
John is a composer of idioms,
a mixer of phrases,
a painter of poems.
John is not insane—
...
Is it raining on that side of the city—
raindrops keeping their small, secret rhythm
against your roof?
...
I come from yesterday,
when echoes burned
and microchips had little to say.
...
I am Patrick Phemelo Monamodi, a metaphysical wordsmith. My poetry is characterised by an intense curiosity about existence, consciousness, desire, spirituality, mortality, love, technology and the mysterious relationship between the physical and invisible worlds. I am not satisfied with simply describing an experience. I want to interrogate it. A kiss becomes a universe. A body becomes landscape. A seed becomes consciousness. Night becomes a philosophical space. Technology becomes mythology. Desire becomes both flesh and metaphysics. I am Wordsmith Patrick #Wordsmith_P_M)
Storm At The Shoreline
Your hips—
resting upon my waist
like waves that never forget
how to embrace.
Each rise—
a tide reborn,
each breath—
a pull into depths unknown.
We are a shoreline and surge,
collision and curve,
your rhythm sculpting sand
beneath.
I grip the shore
as your waters gather—
beckoning eruption,
a storm at sea
with no warning.
Release the ocean, love—
let it drown the silence.
Let me bathe in your waters,
and offer you
milk drawn
from the heart of thunder.