Creation of Her

When I'm in her company I find myself doubting evolution as her creation could have only been divinely orchestrated. I experience a big bang moment of clarity each time she looks at me and smiles and I can't help believing all of Heaven stands in awe of her existence. I swear I have undergone a genetic modification as I've taken on amphibious traits due to our connection. When I'm swimming in the depths of our intellectual conversations, I find myself devoid of need for lung inhalations. Yet when I walk on land with her, hand in hand with her, I am struck by appreciation of being human so as to live on this Earth with her, which my eyes now see as our own personal Eden. She be the top of the food chain and I want to be the angled pyramid which cradles her position, leaves me craving the taste of her knowledge, ingesting the moments we spend so as to feel nourished even when we're apart. Wish I consume the space between us even now just to be able to embrace again, heart to heart. I don't simply desire her, rather I'm in awe of her, inspired by her, want to educate myself fully on all aspects of her needs, so I can pay heed to what is required to fully evolve with her...the beautiful creature that she is.

What If

What if I wasn't just a stepping stone upwards but the final destination, not just a light off in the distance but the sun rising after a tumultuous night? What if I am not the coolest of waters when you thirst, but the sustenance when you hunger for more? What if I'll never be the perfect package, but the rattled gift waiting to be discovered even as you find the pulling off of layers a chore? What if you were not the horizon I looked to at day's end, but the sky and stars that have always filled my empty spaces within? What if you are placing hope on a thrown penny, not realizing it was the well, measured by our two hearts falling, deep beyond the scope of your present vision that held the magic of granting your wishes all along? What if you are the lone simple sound I've heard echoed in the recesses of my complicated thoughts since the hollow you created in me first provided shelter from the cyclonic spin I before you could never seem to escape from? And what if I was never the easy answer but the fingers always raised to be called upon the moment you decide to begin...questioning?

TO MY EX'S NEW GIRLFRIEND

To my ex's new girlfriend: Though unconventional, I hope you pay heed to a few suggestions I wish someone would have previously gifted to me. 

#1: Her ego is like pay day loan interest rates...grossly inflated, yet when she expects high returns on her investment, reciprocate what she supplies readily. The sound of her laughter is worthy of installment plans, and I will loan you memories guaranteed to make her happy once again if she ever loses the light in her eyes. 

#2: Wear an oxygen tank at all times, as she will jump head first into the depths of your heart and suffocation will ensue if you don't think first to depressurize her expectations. But with each struggled inhalation, she will remind you how good it feels to be alive. 

#3: She is not the Messiah, but has a tendency to raise women from the dead in Lazarus fashion, breathing life into tormented vessels as her steps are passing through the valley of dry bones. Live again after she has replenished what is needed in you, but don't let her gift fool you into believing she has an endless supply of regenerative sessions. She is empty at times and needs refueled too. 

#4: She is soft in voice, giving and desires only to be loved. Don't make the mistake of neglecting her needs as I once did, never take advantage of her or I will be to see you. You do not want that day to come. You have been warned...with love. :) 

Finally, #5: Enjoy every moment she dotes on you, spoiling and loving in ways others should take lessons from, but be mindful that her warmth is fleeting. The shade she casts should you ever wound her will leave you forever afraid of the dark, that shrouded space always serving as a reminder of the loss of her.

And though you might forget much of what I've here said, please retain this one thing... don't make the mistake of neglecting her needs, never take advantage of her or I will be to see you. You don't want that day to come. You have been warned...with love.

For Gaza

Pro-life for American citizens, 
yet pro-murdered Muslim children,
pro-life if still in the womb, 
but once born it's all on you, 
so pro-pre-birth in the States and
pro-death if carried out by Israelis.

Pro-New Testament, yet pro-Jew who is
anti-black, anti-U.S. anti-all you claim to 
stand for, yet will gladly accept funds 
for the supplying of guns
for ethnic cleansing,
while we fund genocide
with millions freely given daily,
then claim feeding American children
who are guilty only of being hungry
just breeds a country of freeloading,
while you send prayers up that
those those reloading weapons
to bomb women and children
are kept safely in the hands of God,
and see that as a worthy cause
worth financially backing.

Anti-abortion while passing out flyers
promoting the importance of life,
yet so despise a religion you know
little of, proceed to form opinions
based off fear mongering programming
by the media that you are willing
to see a few hundred dead
causalities buried beneath the rubble
in the Gaza Strip as necessary.

You see Islam as breeding terrorists,
but don't see that our dollars are
funding the same exact actions.
And though we all might
be the victims of being swayed by
images we see abroad, you can not
claim to be pro-love, pro-life,
if you choose a side
because your religion proclaims
it's the the 'right' choice and hide
behind the excuse that this blood spill
is according to God's will.  

Claiming to be pro-life should not
exclude those others have proscribed
as having good reason to die
without benefit of judge nor jury.
Nor should you reserve prayers
and monetary programs only
for those you see as living
according to your Biblical standards
or you are simply providing others
with reasons to see Christians
as radical, hypocritical supporters of
American-endorsed terrorism.

Permanence

While writing an article detailing 
tombstone thefts in my hometown, 
a poem memorializing a delusional heart 
refusing to accept its fate of 
of solitude found its way onto my screen. 


Death recognizes its own.


I struggle these days not to cave inwards 
while performing menial tasks like listening to 
female voices singing, watching couples staring 
at each other while eating in poorly chosen cafes 
where waitstaff keeps asking if I'll be dining alone 
and shutting my phone off before I attempt to sleep
so I can convince myself the reason it doesn't ring 
isn't because you aren't reaching out to me, 
but because I'm trying to conserve energy.  


Lies told to self save the spirit from dying.


Leaning against the wall in a dimly lit club, 
glass of ice water held by numb fingertips, 
a woman leaned in close enough that the scent 
of her hair spoke promises before she said to me
 "I've seen you before, but been waiting 
for the right moment to speak." 
I opened my mouth to respond, but my breathing
stopped until the choke of your smile released its grip, 
again parted my lips then and replied 
"I'm sorry you wasted your time" 
and took a sip of water. 


The cold was no match for what was within.


I heard that drinking alcohol makes you forget the 
ache of loss, the pain of imagining the one you love
making love to someone new, so I stopped drinking 
wine so I wouldn't be tempted to pretend this is only
temporary like all the times before.


Permanence comforts me these days as nothing else can.

Trayvon Martin

America...land of the free

from prosecution for those

who wear the self-appointed title

of watchmen/given passes

to carry out execution at will,

with no retribution for those whose blood spills

in the streets where police target our sons,

our neighbors, our friends, our brothers

shot down with guns the state

supplies readily to white vigilantes.

Told my teenage nephew today,

"don't go outside holding candy

as it might be seen

as an open display of hostility

by those who might see your black skin

and youth as a sign of the enemy."

Warned him out of fear

not to raise his hoodie above his ears,

as the only hoods they want raised

are those above their own heads

and fleece above the neckline

is certainly a sure sign

of acting suspiciously

by those who patrol streets,

imagining scenes of confrontation,

as pulses begin to race quickly,

praying another night will be ending

with one more lifeless body to add to their list

of black lives ended too quickly.

Assured they will face no charges

as those who take the lives

of black men are quietly regarded

as heroes, as devastated

mothers who wait at

windows for their slain sons to come home

are encouraged not to weep

for joy comes in the

morn', while each day you wake

is a reminder that white men

can take the lives of children

who committed no crime,

aside from failing to realize

predators are on the prowl

and they are the prey.

So as families plead that

policing agencies will take

action, grieving as they

pray for justice,

killers are sentenced only to protection,

in a nation where freedom

is an abstract theory to those

who see fury over Kony

but no 8 million views will be seen

detailing the gunning down of a

of a Floridian teen.

Where is the uprising

for Trayvon Martin,

which celebrities will be marching

while the FBI says they are

only "monitoring the situation,"

which means little to those

who know that typically leads

to no prosecution, no media

sensation, as there is rarely

a hesitation to close the case

when it involves

"just one less black face on the streets."

So today, as my nephew walked

to a friend's home, I again felt

the fear of sending him out alone

into a world where young men

are regarded as inconsequential

rather than as favored children.

And I found myself standing in the

window for long moments after

he had gone and said a prayer

for his safe journey home and

another prayer for the mother

of Trayvon who no longer can

hope for her own son's return.

(I would pray that no matter what your ethnicity, that you would stand in solidarity against a policed state, wherein young men can be murdered while the police sit idly by hoping the incident will soon be forgotten. Please sign the change.org petition at http://www.change.org/petitions/prosecute-the-killer-of-17-year-old-trayvon-martin and remember to wear all black on Wednesday, March 21st in commemoration of Trayvon and the countless others who came before him. https://www.facebook.com/#!/events/266335826782994/ )

WWJD - Misguided Sheeple

False indoctrination spewed from pulpits on Sundays, forcing those who wrongfully believe to follow misguided instruction is the only way to attain salvation, taught that to be a good Christian you must have blind faith in the sermons that are based off of not what's in the Scripture, but what's been lectured for generations. So comprehension of the text written is of no importance and if you question that which is obviously mistaken, drones have been told that's just Satan trying to lead you from the truth.

Yet should you make mention of how the church picks and chooses certain scriptures to support their agendas, and how one abomination is thought to be infallible, while the others are only laughable, you're met with anger and disdain. And though hate is in direct opposition of the teachings of Christ, it's still far easier to buy into what the masses are selling, than to start telling others that you believe not what is told, but what is written.

But sheep fear that if they go against the flock that they risk being lost, so instead they'd rather be right in the eyes of the church than to do what Jesus taught so as to continue his work in the world. Dedicating their lives toward eradicating that which Christ never spoke against, but feed no hungry, house no homeless, clothe no poor, yet still think they're about their Father's business.

And I'm no Biblical scholar, rather a believer who tries in vain to get those who claim to be sanctified while quoting nonsensical rhetoric like "I don't hate the sinner, I hate the sin," to donate to any cause which doesn't make them look more holy to fellow parishioners. Yet if you ask that they put in work in the community, they're quick to say "I give my tithes on Sunday," and slam the door in your face. Not realizing the lesson to be learned from Sodom being destroyed wasn't because the city was gay but due to the sin of pride, careless ease and not caring for those in need.

Not to mention that the blood of those in need who see suicide as their only option, rather than being taught that Christ is accepting of all who call out to him drips from the palms of those who send out the wrong message about the glory of salvation, all because they find vindication for their hate, quoting verses about one specific abomination, while they forget the other sixty-six condemnations in the form of abominations were mentioned.

But I happened upon that lesson while I was studying what is written instead of ingesting religious ignorance from those who use the Word as a tool to spread hatred while they've neglected to pay heed to their own bracelets which read "What Would Jesus Do." Perhaps those same persons should refer to Luke 16:15 the next time they're searching out abominations: "And he said unto them, Ye are they which justify yourselves before men; but God knoweth your hearts: for that which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God."

Then again, that would require reading, instead of just feeding off of what a man in a sharp suit and gators is doling out to flock of bleating sheeple.

POETIC THERAPY

Suffering does not always give off

airs of being painful.

The body has

tools for masking that which it

houses within.

Can carry

sorrow deep in belly

like womb swollen big

without benefit of children,

strong in back, though aching,

sore in feet, yet standing;

a cloak to belie the dust of

aches settled upon

ribs and hip bones.

Horrific truths exposed only

when ripped from deep interiors

like aborted fetus discarded

premature,

tossed aside remembrances

hurled into heaps like laundry,

well worn and dirty;

hidden between lines in palms,

between stanzas of poetry.

Heard uttered from trembling

lips into mics, whispered

to audience as though

they might have the ability

to cure those who spit rhymes

for the purpose of therapy,

searching out eyes in

darkness, coyly seeking

out a returned gaze which

offers back understanding

and the possibility of

one night of connection/

temporary release of the

frustration of silence,

so hands grip mic tight

imagining soon it will be fingers

upon eager thighs

absorbing the shock

of depth, of hurt explored,

between shots and groans

which stifle the moaning of

a temple in turmoil,

betraying the foul taste

of loss upon bitten tongue

held captive by the one

who only lets self come

undone on paper,

on screen, but never

gives self a reprieve

from the constant

grieving

it never is able

to escape from.

Sink down like sand,

fall in like ground,

cave further away

from the sound of

your voice, from the wrong

of your choices.

No followed through

promises of calls

once you've gone, just

moving on from city to state,

from the hate you'll leave

behind between the sheets

of a bed which held in it

a fugitive of truth, a survivor

of lies.

And the hallow eyes

of a woman who for one night

tried to soothe

that which

ailed you, but knew not that

deep within you was a pain

she could not reach

and though she was touched

by the words in your poetry,

you never once felt it.

SHIVERING

Threw my dreams onto the lawn tonight,

thought perhaps the rain that floods the

grass would wash away the presence of you,

but the watered down desires only grew

out of the ground you've yet to step foot upon.

With you, the rain has lost its power,

this electric sense of company

remains even while longitude and latitude

lies like stone between us,

leaving me to reside in residual darkness,

though yet I never feel alone,

as your shadow lingers in my home

to remind me of what could have been.

Like when you're desperate to eat so

you reach your hand in a hot oven

with no thought to protect yourself/

the burn still doesn't rid you of desire

to eat and I want so badly now to sleep,

but this heat doesn't distract me from

the hunger I have for your touch.

I would stage a hunger strike,

if the emaciation that would follow

would be enough for you to stop

running bases like you've gone afoul

of the desire you once had to kiss

only my lips.

Rain wets my head, these arms,

my hands

/my body are angered from the

lack of common sense my mind lacks

in not preventing you

from entering into my dreams/both

of which leave me shivering, cold

and lonesome for your arms to warm

me like hot stove, like stolen goods,

that that which I so want to consume

tonight.

RESURRECTION

She told me her extremities

had never been more than

extensions of the depths of her torso

which served only the purpose of

pleasing men.

I wanted to trap her arms

in the constraints of security,

to encase her frame so tightly

within my grasp that she felt

no need to reach her limbs

out like twisted tree, like

broken branches supporting

he who lacked the assiduity

to be successful without her

lifting him up.

Like corpse on display in state,

she laid before me, eyes closed,

breath stopped, said "If I could

choose the moment God ended

my days on Earth without taking

my life myself, I would die here,

lying peacefully beside you

just so that I could be

resurrected into a body

which knew not touch

before."

I could smell the scent of coconut

when she reached her fingertips

up to brush aside the hair in my

eyes, whispered

through her battered lips,

and shaking teeth,

"I only feel conscious these days

when you read poetry to me,

so please write a poetic eulogy

for the life I'll leave behind

and one day I'll sit

smiling from chair in front of mic,

listen to you recite and know

that these extremities had

no need to move tonight.

I just want to feel alive."

TEMPORALITY

Like the reflection of lights upon waves,
I feel refracted by movements of you/
bent, yet beautified within the rays
held within your vision.

Beneath the coolness of your shadow,
I am diffused within the depths
of your restraint in not touching
fingertip to water, as you bend
down upon knee to peer as though
parishioner upon alter.

How I pray for that touch
moving me ever towards
free falling destinations.

Yet I am lost as wind carries
vibrations, swells consuming
the loft as I am taken
out further, incapable of
preventing the rolled plunging,
orbital motions exposing
the circular tide that I wish
to depart from.

I am eroding under
damage of clapotis,
the constant of rise
and fall, the dip of angle
contorts me until I am
deconstructed,
left frustrated by the
temporality of your
pull upon my waves.

BORDEAUX

What strength we attach
to Bordeaux of wine,
personification via
comradely relief with
each sip, flavored
with the essence of resolve
we lack, sweetened upon lips
who whisper to both port
and God for mercy.

Sips of attack,
vengeance desired
for having submitted to
that which wine has no cure,
for tasting that which is
not of fruit nor notable
characteristic, but rather
just cool to taste
and quenched, if only
for the briefest time,
a guarded pallet.

What tainted manner
of consumption is this that
floods lips and tongue, yet
leaves both heart and throat
dry from lack of indulgence?

Does this vice for that which
is not spirit,
though ghost,
lust for the consumption
I can not refuse,
concerned not that I
lack no will to stop,
though sure that head
will hurt come dawn,
as heart did with dusk?

This is not taste
for what
I had then,
nor drink
of what
I thirst now for,
just stem
in hand
awaiting
a sip
just
one
time
more.

SPEAK (NOT A POEM)

I do not express well outside
the boundaries of these
poetic walls I have constructed
so that my heart might
be protected from that
which I am far too sensitive to.

Eloquent words might be
in my vocabulary, but rarely
are they verbally shared
with someone whom
I care deeply for.

I stutter, my pulse races,
and I am prone to bite
my bottom lip to the point
of wincing. It's not a
romanticized image of a
girl, but an honest
reflection of a woman
who was willing to
try to change just so
that I might hear
your laughter
in my ear
once
again.

And while I'm typing
this confession,
I should mention
that when I knew you
hurting,
I was wishing
I could bind my tongue
so as to prevent my mouth
from speaking unknowingly
hurtful things to you.

That though you failed
to realize that I was hurt
too by your statements,
that it seemed only
you and what you needed
was important.

If it required me to be mute
in order that you might
feel free to share that
which you desired to say,
I would consider it,
if only to make you happy.

But I don't have it within me
to make you happy,
we both know that.

I am stubborn and well worth
leaving, as I don't like to be
prodded into the responses
you're expecting, or urged to
be silent when I am
also hurting, as it seemed
that my pain is less
important than your own.

You prefer silence
when you're speaking,
so that you might safely
share your thoughts with me,
but who was listening
when I tried to tell you
why I held off?

So, you ignored the words I was
whispering to you behind these walls/
and failed to note the sound
of tears falling upon the
phone/preferred to focus on your
own feelings & what you wouldn't take,
rather than what I was giving to you.

Ignored that I'd spent hours
in laborious effort penciling
my heart to you in rhyme,
that though it wasn't
given to you in the time
in which you wanted it,
that perhaps I just needed
to wait for the perfect
moment to tell you
what you should
have already known.

But you preferred my silence
over poetry, scrutinized me
for a moment rather than
waiting for the hour
of unveiling, so now...
what have we both
but yesterday and
the possibilities
of tomorrow with others
who will never touch us
as we did each other.

You have what you wanted;
I have listened as you've
expressed how you were
feeling & without any
inkling as to your
doing exactly to me
what you wished not
to be done to you.

I have gone unheard,
as you wanted
immediacy & misread
my hesitancy to give
you what you wanted,
when all I wanted
was for you to give me
a moment in which
to speak.

FIVE

Years since last I'd done so,
I took leisure at leaning back against
the only remaining oak tree
left standing in front of my
grandmother's house.

I've often returned to this place
in hopes that her spirit might
somehow impart wisdom
unto me, whilst I stood
beneath the branches
which shielded me from
the sun of so many
youthful summers.

I took note that
the winter winds blowing my hair
across my face reminded me
of a passage I read
just hours before,
so I closed my eyes so that
I might have a few seconds
to take in the sensation
of being connected to
the author.

My pleasant musings were
interrupted by the sound of
dozens of geese flying overhead
in typical triangular formation.

Quilting was Grandmother's passion,
with the "goose triangle" being
the pattern she most liked
to utilize in her designs.

"Quilting is an artistic representation
of the relationship between
love and life, not just fabric and
thread; warming you from the
love put into each stitch, not the
heat generated by the covering
of the body," she wrote beneath
a colorfully decorated sketch of
a quilt she didn't live long
enough to complete.

As the geese passed without
taking note of my pleading
gaze, I whispered into the
chilled air "let the Dakinis
guide you," and hoped
Grandmother would
also pay heed to my request.

The sky cleared of the passing
birds and I waited still
for an answer. I noticed then
a lone goose circling widely
above me, left behind by
the others. I forgot for a
moment my want
for answers and instead
took pity upon the creature,
relating how I, too, often
felt lost in my solitary
travels.

Connectivity in experience
of both animal and man
is ever present, though
our eyes have been
blinded by our own conjectures
of dominion. Yet had
Grandmother often
directed my sight towards
proof that our
steps are in unison
with the movement
of the Earth and all of
its inhabitants.

I silently prayed then
that the abandoned
traveler would let
the winter sun
act as compass and direct
her towards those who
had long sense flew into
distances unseen.

Hearing then a single call
from the direction of the
deserting flock
came one single bird.

Her wings rising and
falling in what I
imagined was fueled
by both instinct
and divine purpose.

Both geese began circling
the area just above me
and i left the protection
of the familiar tree.

Stepping out into
the clearing, and with
voyeuristic view,
watched the dance of flight
between the two.

Only seconds fell away
as the birds came closer
together in flight.
Then, without sound
of call heard, the two
took leave into the
opposite direction of
the gaggle of geese
which now they were
separated, albeit
together, from.

I watched as they closely
raised wings and height
in unison,
in search of waters
and refuge and smiled
at having witnessed
their elopement.

After coupled minutes
elapsed, I walked back
towards the Oak, put
gloves in pocket, then
placed my fingertips
upon the bark and felt
a sense of peace in
knowing my answer
had been given.

If we are ever to find
the partner which
leads us safely to
water, who forgoes
the safety of that
which is the norm
just to ensure we
are not lonesome
nor without nourishment,
we must first allow
ourselves the freedom
to fly alone in deserted skies.

Faith that our wings
will not tire before
we are joined in flight
will grant us the pleasure
of feeling the warmth of
sunlight upon our backs
as the wind carries
us onward, if only
until the moment
when our companion,
at last,
arrives.

MISUNDERSTOOD PRAYERS

My accent has never been indicative
of the location in which I was raised.

My tone inflections have lead others
to mistake my identity, at times
even my ethnicity, until such
time as they laid eyes upon me.

So perhaps when I prayed,
God didn't recognize my voice,
confused me with someone else
or the droning noise
of a demanding world
discomposed his comprehending,
as it seemed he confused my plea
for a "happy ending," to mean
each time I loved, I would
invariably thank God
it was "happILY
ending."

Certainly God could not have thought
that I prayed for this solitary
existence, that what I desired as
that happiness spanned such a short
amount of time. Or perhaps God
thought he knew my mind better
than me. Though I focus on
introspection, I've never really
got comfortable with myself
internally. So maybe God put
his plan into action rightfully,
without my consent nor my
approval.

Or perchance God didn’t want to
be responsible for my downfall
from grace or wrongfully thought
my heart was invincible, but his
faith in my strength was misplaced,
as I truly am not that strong.

They say you shouldn’t
question God’s plan,
but I confess, sometimes
I wonder if tales of his omnipotence,
failed to take into account that God,
like so many others,
simply didn’t understand
my accent.

Bali Coast

When weathered skin marked like scars from age
is stretched across arthritic bones,
I still will want to warm your fingers
with the heat I've known
from clasp of hands in silence.

When pillow rest beneath grayed hair
while you dream of youth and spring,
the sunset upon your face
will be as breathtaking to me
as those nights we spent off
the Bali Coast when first we fell in love.

And though my heart might fill with grief
as our life together comes to a close,
I will voice no regrets, nor goodbyes,
rather I'll whisper to you the poems
I rehearsed while you slept
in my arms throughout these years.

I will shelter you from every hell,
I will wet your lips with ice,
No outer hate will affect us,
As we'll be hidden from the world,
Lost within the gaze of each others' eyes.

ONE PIECE OR TWO

Looked up from the pan of fish
I'd been up frying until nearly 3am
to ask if she wanted one piece or two.
But before I could smile, she said
"I can't stand bitches like you,
thinking we need for you to save us."

I looked down at her two sons,
about the age of my own daughters
and back up to eyes filled with disgust,
trying to diffuse the situation
and asked if she'd prefer to get it herself.
Turned the tongs backwards & reached out,
and she slapped them out of my hand.

"See, that's exactly the shit I mean. You can't
explain yourself so you just pass it back off
to me." So often we are steeped in our
own histories and too consumed by animosity
to eat what's given to us by those
who can't see beyond what they're offering.

I thought to tell her I'd been on the receiving side
of a similar shelter food line, but there are times
when trying to identify serves only to further
divide the lines between yourself and those
who are in need

So rather than turn it back to
a story about me and what I'd been through,
I simply picked back up the tongs and said
"I'm just here to serve you, so ma'am
what will it be, one piece or two?"

She bitingly asked "why can't I have three or four?
Your fat ass planning on taking some of this home
with you?" And I thought to tell her how I'd saved up
money for weeks, went without life's pleasantries,
took food from my own freezer and
cabinets to ensure a shelter with no funds
had enough to feed everyone in the line.

But the point of servitude is not
in attempting to garner the gratitude
of the people in your line,
rather it's to give selfishly and many times
there will come no time for hugs and thanks
no photo opportunities, no warm feeling
from the community that you feel led to help.

So, again, I said "one piece or two,"
as I placed four pieces upon her plate,
whispered to her "now this is just
between me and you" and winked.


She smirked at me and took her time
to move down the line,
before she took her tray
and sat down in the corner
with her two young kings
following closely behind her.

I looked from pan up to
the next woman in line
and asked "one piece or two"
and the line moved on and on.

FOR HANNAH

Oh, Hannah,

Dearest Hannah,

blessed was your fire,

stoked though

feet of eight/

darkened block/

snuffed flame

sealed your

unconscionable fate.

I inhale the soot

which marked the spot

where once your

hands held paper.

Your splintered pencil

wrote of faith and country,

love and purpose.

I choke from the

breadth of their

enmity for you.

The sediment grows thick

with apparitions

for whom vindication

has not come, as

I struggle with breaths

acidic from decades of decay.

I am reduced to travailing,

as my lungs, my heart

digest the stench

of horrors you endured.

I want to mourn for you

with peace and reverence,

but am filled with anger

that young poet so gentle

was made martyr.

They caged you, though could not constrict your spirit,

They beat you, though each hit only served to remind you were still breathing,

They raped you, yet after grown men had torn into your youthful flesh

punishing your temple for simply being Jewish,

You mustered enough strength to stand to your feet…

let your dress gape open to shame them

as you walked the camp bruised and bleeding.

But you faltered only for fleeting moments

Before again taking in hand pencil

To write of blessings and hope,

And when they knew finally

they could not break you…

They stood you without benefit of mercy,

No counsel, no marches,

No chance for reprieve

No final countdown

No media,

As you kneeled

before uniformed soldiers/

shot you like thief,

like vagrant/

young girl at war,

unable to grasp

the impact of your existence.

In those last days of

dolor and muck,

wash and ascendance,

what name did you call

but Mother, Dearest Mother,

what God acknowledged you

Daughter, Faithful Daughter/

no calvary sky darkened/

connect undone/

words not heard,

while execution

fulfilled their plan?

Who came for you,

who came for you

while your Hebrew pen

grew lonesome

for your hand,

did no one think to aide

those decedents

who now grieve

for never having read

what more you had to say?

Who failed to rescue you,

who WAS it, Hannah?

What man lacked humanity

and let your worn shoes

be stripped from

weary ankles,

after you paced in circles,

gazing upwards towards

Adonai and Mother?

Did no one come

while ashen tears

fell upon the

blemished face of man?

Who comes for us all,

when we give life for

mission, exchange

sanctuary for mortuary?

Who will rescue OUR words,

who will hear OUR pleas

for love, for peace,

what name will

WE call, but Mother,

Dearest Mother/

when the soot

fills our lungs and our

pens write no more?

Will no one come, Hannah?

Will no one come

for us as

no one

did for you?

Hannah Senesh [Szenes], (July 17, 1921 – November 7, 1944)

May your soul rest in peace.

PLUM BLOSSOM VISION

Plum blossom vision/
fragile red amongst cold gray,
beautiful, wandering girl
pitched smile of humbled radiance/
desire to hold her gingerly in gloved hand,
but fear she will drift as flurried snow.

Scattered sunglow beam,
searching in damp scented night
for rest of ground/
bed of shade,
vanquished diety,
seeking earthen refuge.

I can not reach her.

Vulnerable in cool of breeze/
survived ache of spirit,
want to mend,
repair that which I did not cause/
wicked artifice I did not enact/
as revenant controls choice
from deep recess.

Residual questions rumble deep in eve,
hesitancy prevents her from
blooming in my presence,
prefers instead to wait for who
does not return and fails to note
the eloquence of her fragility.

Still I kneel beside bank edge,
waiting to sip sustenance from her brilliance
as amber splendor bathes us
like dancing sparkflies
in twilight fields of wet grasses.

Her yesterday pains transparent
like bands of cloud streaked blue skies,
shadows of yesterday coiling up like bands of smoke,
and I desire to ease those pulses of agony
which trouble her.

Infrequently she fails to caution my intent,
as I murmur in hushed tone,
fomenting sapphic vagary,
allowing cool breeze to release
into wind
petals of her beauty,
descending to open hand/
she allows me to cradle gently,
the plum blossom vision
that she is.

VIRGO

At 4am this morning
I was reading an
article pertaining to
astrological signs.

It stated Virgos love hard;
are loyal but prone to
desert relationships
emotionally long before
they depart from them
physically.

It seems Virgos
can't seem to form
lasting bonds.

I'd like to say that I am
not so fickle where
matters of the heart
are concerned,
but
I'm rarely concerned
with matters of the heart,
so I can not say that.

I think women who read
newspapers are sexy.

When men read
newspapers,
it doesn't seem as sexy
to me.

I love women for their
intellect. I love men who
are good fathers to their
intellectual daughters.

I really don't like cats.
And people who eat food
out of houses where cats
reside freak me out.
I don't like snakes
either.

Or Lady GaGa songs.
Or weave,
though I'm not sure how those
things are related.
I'm not sorry for my disdain,
though I apologize if
that offends you.

It's always that way with me.
I express something I don't like
and alienate those I love,
though I'm fickle and
probably wouldn't have loved
them long.

I am prone to upset
those who love me
to the point that they
hate me
long before
I've stopped loving
them.

I am more comfortable
with thinking
someone hates me
than I am with
thinking that I
might be incapable
of being in love.

I ramble when I'm
uncomfortable
with my own faults.

When I'm not rambling,
I like to drink hot tea
with milk. It makes
me feel closer to my sister.
She's a Virgo too.

The first time I fell in love
it was with Sylvia Plath.
That was before I knew
I was a Virgo.

I like to cuss.
I don't give a fuck if you
approve or not.

I dislike the heat of summer
until the first cool day of fall

arrives, then a sense of
dread fills me
at the thought of winter
arriving soon.

I will never be content for long,
or so the astrology article stated,
though today I feel
happy.

I can sense the temperature
dropping outdoors,
perhaps this happy feeling
won't last that long.

Note to self:
refrain from reading
astrological articles
at 4am.

Newspapers are
far more
attractive.