PORTRAIT IN BLACK & WHITE/ destination of the woman on a train /1942 Aprilruth rides the freight train past a few suns and crescent moons, mighty mountains are voiceless in the distance as she travels towards some unknown destination her lips long for just a sip of water. she attempts to focus only on memories from yesterdays that were colored benevolent and joyful a pocketful of mementoes lines her thin pockets: crumpled photos, a few coins, and a handkerchief embroidered by her aunt her lifetime starts to float into the air above, it becomes uncertain, vague and impenetrable. ruth rides, as a foreigner in her own country she senses those around her but doesn't dare examine the hundreds of companions who breathe the same soiled air. she has some clothing in a bag which stands at her side like a frightened advocate across from her sandwiched between a man and a woman stands a young child with hair of shiny black. the hair flows out from an endearing scarf down over her jacket of blue the train slows, begins to crawl then halts to attention simultaneously bodies rise to their feet and hobble together like marionettes, inarticulate limbs pour out of the railway wagon’s giant grin relived to feel rays of sun that scatters down skin once again now, she notices faces of the strangers from her train. but no eyes share a glance, no voice a sentence, a phrase or even a word. she tries to act normal there isn’t a need for words, no one wants to say something wrong she tightens her fist until it hurts shuts her eyes for several seconds, transports herself to some other place she repeats over and over a prayer from her childhood ruth opens her eyes once again the dirty road stares back at her the road understands, that she has no place in this portrait like the first chapter in some scantily written novel the road knows she isn’t a necessary character in this plot she stares across the yard. at the end of 600 yards a path left or right is sketched by traveler’s many under musty and large synthetic clouds she waits and listens for her number to be called PORTRAIT / the woman on Sansom Street, Philadelphiaas she walks deliberately down this cobblestone road notice two boney feet that give a kick cruel and brassy to every soundless soda can and sleeping paper trash that stands in her scheduled path she hates them nevertheless they always appear again the following day she knows they will be there once again like the faceless strangers who shove her shoulder’s coat, like august moon (thin and polished) that adjusts itself to guide this travel home and as moon fades on Samson Street a disenchanted sun gives birth to more & more apathetic debris cans with muddy profiles propaganda on print stained paper napkins of greasy hands coffee cups & lids of chewed plastic all surround her walk how they inaudibly multiple and she categorically has no control she hates them PORTRAIT / Ada Klein recalls her grandmotherlabeled boxes hold my days and nights within their soundless limbs with my right hand i feel this face wrapped in so sad. it proves my presence but there is no evidence of life before or within where once there was a mirror, opaque walls reflect no sentences no phrases no vowels all these flashbacks many and loud hum in minor key as they have forgotten how to sew words into strands wooden door slams fast a decade closed PORTRAIT / the road without birdsthe concrete door was far above
and what rests behind it is untouched by travelers or clouds it didn’t strike the travelers that oranges round or any fruit is not in view, that patches of grass didn't grow. They remain foreign from aromas of herbs and familiar flowers. then there was music, someone at practice on the same chord over & over. but it leaves no impression on their steady walk the travelers are unscathed by rhythms of clouds blue, the soar of friendly pigeons they are not comprehending that they live within a painting in the mind of some tender artist who has all control. and the windows remain closed and they don't seem to wonder what lies beyond the dusty road
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The woman on the train….She caught my eye as she boarded
She was absolutely stunning in every way A subtle fragrance of perfume as she passed She was graceful and elegant as she carried herself She sat in her seat and gazed out the window Her crystal green eyes drifting off deep in thought I watched her from my seat across the train Taking in every last luscious drop I compared her presence to being a kin to The first cool sip of white wine at the end of a stressful day I imagined her being quenching my parched lips That first sip calming me with an erotic flavor Stimulating my taste buds and rolling down the back of my throat And radiating throughout my body down to my toes I imagined the smell of her silky smooth body Like the sweet aroma of fine food to a starving man A smell that drifts up each nostrils And permeates to every brain cell its sweet essence I imagined the feel of her creamy velvety skin As if felt for the very first time by a shipwrecked person After spending years alone and in seclusion Like a man touching his wife after being let out of prison I imagined her hair, fine wisps of silk strands Bathed in a fruitful flowery showered fragrance Laying casually about her beautiful face and curved shoulders Dancing casually as she moved delicately about I imagined her curves as if gazing at fine art Beautiful pieces sculpted by a master sculptor Sweeping smoothly and gracefully along her form Flawless, delicate, sleek, and soft I imagined the fragrance of her skin The human scent of her warm flesh The warm smell of her breath as she lay close The sweet aroma of her arousal I imagined caressing her body Tracing her form with the tip of my fingers Sweeping her treasures exploring her secrets Caressing her mysteries and stimulating her soul I imagined tasting her flavor The sweetness of her mouth as we kiss Sweet saltiness as our heat began to ensue The sweet bouquet of tangy musky fruit I imagined the contact of our bodies The unimaginable warmth The incredible passion as we melted together The inseparable embrace as we lay as one Then the train started slowing And the doors opened And as casually as she appeared, she was gone Gone to conquer the world I imagine But I'm sure wherever she went Her beauty would radiate To whomever encountered her As it had to me Karen Arnold, literary gypsy, writes, pursues independent scholarship, and also creates and moderates literary book discussion series in Maryland. She has taught at colleges in the United States and Sweden, served as Poet-in-residence at Montpelier Cultural Arts Center in Laurel, MD, and taught creative writing workshops to children and adults. Currently she creates and facilitates Literature and Medicine and Veterans reading/discussion groups sponsored by the Maryland Humanities, libraries, and hospitals in Maryland. She did her masters and PhD work at the University of Maryland, College Park. Her chapbook, Border Crossings, celebrates the challenges change presents on many levels. Her love of the wide sky and ocean beaches both spring from Midwestern roots. My problem is I never was a sluttook no rides from strangers regarded hitchhiking as uncertain so my poems fill with air-- high, wide, blue over a field of clacking corn stalks on Cook’s farm They recall a tornado unstacking our neighbor’s chimney hold the smell of cracking stems breaking underfoot while we stamp through fields of prairie weeds hanging forgotten along four-lane Halsted Street glint with a sun setting caught in six panes of our back porch door windows to dinner cooking quietly vibrate with the drag of roller skates making trip after trip along a sidewalk rough but long enough the whisper of an old willow tree higher than all the neighborhood roofs whose minnow-shaped leaves delight us snapping clacks of sheets found by wind in the backyard In my poems uncertainty rides closer to home, sensual and seemingly known Sunset |
Sally has taught for the Johns Hopkins University CTY Program and for Maimonides School in Brookline, Massachusetts as well as Westfield State College and DeVry University. Sally was the director of Writing for Lawyers, a course in persuasive discourse for first-year law students, as well as Assistant Editor for a public policy journal, at the Massachusetts School of Law in the 90's. Sally received her BA in English from Mount Holyoke College, her Masters in Teaching from Boston College, and a certificate in Professional Writing from UMass at Amherst. Ms. David has published poetry in Forth, Anthology, 3Elements Review, Athena, The Jamaica Plain Arts News, The Worcester Review, Voices (international anthology; Israel), Silver Needle Press, and The Anglican Theological Review; other poems are currently at major publications. Sally earned Honorable Mention in a Writers’ Digest (national) contest as well as First Prize in a Worcester County Poetry Association contest judged by Pulitzer Prize winner Mary Oliver. Her forthcoming book The House with the Golden Windows was supported by two-time Pulitzer Prize winner Richard Wilbur. |
Whatever God You Are
If you are a Jew,
with your limitless powers,
give us rain in the proper season.
To honor you
we chant Michah Mocha, no one is like you.
You do not suffer, bleed or rise.
If you are Shiva, lift me
to your pearl-black sky:
show me the world
without money or politicians.
Burn my body,
scatter the ashes like confetti. A parade.
Who will be arrested? You will.
That’s how we do things here.
But we can’t wait till the Messiah comes.
Or haven’t you heard?
If you are the Christ,
whole now, safe from our madness,
make us human.
You won’t say
I told you so. Instead,
you forgive us again;
give us the will
to find you
again, and again and again.
Going Up?
for Dean, age 5, in answer to his question as we were getting into the elevator from the very lowest floor of our building.
when there is nowhere else to go
sometimes we wonder
Is this it?
Can there be any more?
Will things ever change?
And then
when you are down
on the lowest possible floor
and you doubt you will ever rise,
your self from the future
tells your present self
Sure it will be ok,
you’re gonna be fine!
This is just one stop
along the way.
You are loved.
All is well.
Just wait and see!
Believe!
Because that self
has made it to the top
and knows what’s going on later
so you don’t really need to ask.
But just in case,
as surely as Dean
rhymes with Maureen, 1
Yes, I am going up.
Field Day: A Vision
Sabis International School, Phoenix AZ
brown hands holding the rope
they pulled in the tug of war.
When it slipped through their bruised fingers
like water and the other side won,
Wind is blowing, 1
you walked among them
plaiting their ancient hair
in cornrows like fields newly planted
this season I am here to notice.
You touched their fecund heads,
faces, lives
like light raising a stony garden
they said would never bear fruit.
- Shri Ram Chandra, a famous Indian teacher of spirituality, told a disciple that an action or outcome might still be influenced by fate, despite any spiritual practice or advantage: “Wind is blowing” regardless.
Long Ago, Perhaps Again
A chair, small, christening a corner, wall, police came later, well behind the boy, you’d popped his bubble, premature, red package on the doorstep, some drops lead to it, you didn’t even know, you never knew, you couldn’t know that he was someone, rather something like a fallen rock, a twig wrapped in a crimson leaf, a shaman took your presence, left him there upon the ground, red snow lay everywhere, limbs stunted, frozen with his face a twist of nose and fractured mouth grown soft from suckling air, the sky had made him wrinkled like a shrunken sweater, knitting needle like another limb, and there he died and we who came before him wheeled you away, then nurses came, wrapped up your goddamned blessing, spirited away and you were clean again.
Back to the Drawing Board
belief made me a bad Cynic,
now I’m gullible about my Cynicism.
Beware of isms,
God is not an ism,
religion is.
My Cynicism is a fallacy
just like religion,
just like killing for religion.
God did not write
a book on killing
and cares little for what we do.
We are here
and God is there,
our maker, perhaps.
Perhaps God made us,
perhaps God made us
nothing like himself.
Of this I am not cynical,
if God made us, he made us too ugly
and now he’s a wee bit verklempt
about rectifying his mistake.
In Response to a New Orleans Palmetto Bug
because you’ve traveled,
haven’t you?
I’ve seen you when the lights go on,
midnight, three a.m.
waiting with those damn antennae twitching,
the bully in the hall approaching.
I’d rather have you,
you of the resounding crunch,
reminding me to always wear hard slippers
so I know I have a soul, can send you popping
in the wee hours, giant that you are.
The tiny one is the one to fear,
he never comes alone,
apocalypse of Germany,
piles of zombie soldiers
swarm after the bombs fall.
Prodigy
This is what she tells me, and it is, too
So velvet. Softest as the first of winter’s aubade The color of fantaisies and tonalities of remembrance,
a minor,
When you told me
Guiding hands on the keys Look, this can be transposed. Translated.
And you are not any less than her.
Only different. A translation.
But I am so close, I whisper, the insistence of a
clipped D Major
I was taught, gifted, a thing of fascination
How could I lose before her?
My mother always bowed in sujood
For a daughter like her--
Or at least, I assumed she did, because what mother didn’t
didn’t ask
They call this song Consolation.
And this one, this Nocturne, written at night
With harmonies that never quite satisfy As the stars sank because he missed her, this woman, his country:
Ardent longing produces the loveliest of melodies.
The notes stutter and fall and so do I
Staggered because I need this, deoxygenated Why do I long for ownership of beauty? Is it not enough for me That beauty exists?
Have you ever been jealous of a story or a song?
I was so close.
of sisters and storms
Celestial domes shatter above us, turning
Your effervescent smiles to dust.
Look, darling, it’s only the universe’s cleansing
These dulled stars cloaked by rabid lightning
Beholding our jeweled cities, eclipsed by torrential downpour.
Nightingales light the skies in streaked sapphire
Cries outstripped, unheard as they welcome
The first writhing tempest of the summer solstice.
You shiver, trapped in this transcendental fugue
Whisper,
I’m scared, the stars are falling—
Rain churns your words, listless turns of phrase.
Pandora unleashes a thousand vices above the spectral clouds Storming the atmosphere and your heart--
Darling, the skies find solidarity in your tears.
My love, it is only through tempests That we unveil peace.
Inheritance
a thousand shattered moons (and suns)
Because, like veils, this child, you eclipse the day
Yet not as shadows misrender the walls, but rather
Guarding me from frigid air.
Detached, indifferent in your cheer. As nightingale song.
Nightingales always sing.
I house restraint. (But not always.)
Temperate verve, choked impassion, yet—
Converging on tears.
Brokenness is specific to me.
I do not think these things are inherited.
I am patterns. They appear, as you trace them,
As shifting chiaroscuro—then burning tempestuous
I hope you will mollify the rabid flames.
And your tentative touch, pale hands
lowered lashes (reflection)
Because will you?
I want to know what it is like when
even the stars conspire
Breathing dancing, sartorial light
For you, because we are not alike, child
For some the stars are hung in contempt.
(Do they not say there are stairways to heaven?)
And I shall tell you that
Stars are not just flame.
They are also dust and ash and hydrogen
Imploding, subversive—
They breathe ascending gilded stairways
For you, and so:
I will not steal your light.
BOBBY Z is a avid writer and Blogger, also has video’s, audio’s a podcast and has Authored the Book Tales Of The Junkyard Dog. A rather abrupt and unusual Collection of Poems providing insightful and comical commentary on life, the Convergence of the past and the present, and the trails and tribulations of Relationships---BLOG https://talesofthejunkyarddog.wordpress.com BOBBY Z THE JYD, 78 YEAR OLD VET, CANCER SURVIVOR, RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC (41 YEARS) AND ORIGINAL JERSEY CITY 50’S BAD BOY WHO TELLS IT LIKE IT IS FROM THE BELLY OF THE BEAST. |
DEEP IN YOUR MIND
A HIDDEN SANCTUARY..TO REVIEW YOUR THOUGHTS.
AWAY FROM THE ANGER..AWAY FROM THE PAIN.
AWAY FROM THE TEMPTATIONS..SOMEWHERE TO BE ALONE.
TO MANY TIMES..AS WE DRIFT INTO SPACE.
NO ONE CAN FIND US..LOST WITHOUT A TRACE.
DAILY PRESSURES..THAT BOIL OVER AND FESTER.
LEAVE US EXHAUSTED..VOID OF SEEKING PLEASURES.
ATTEMPTING TO FIND..THAT PLACE IN THE SUN.
WHERE ALL IS FORGIVES..A NEW DAY BEGUN.
DON’T BE TEMPTED..THAT PLACE DOES NOT EXIST.
FACE REALITY..PAY FOR YOUR DEEDS.
SEARCHING AND SEARCHING..YOU’LL NEVER FIND.
THE REFUGE AVAILABLE..IS DEEP IN YOUR MIND.
MENTAL CONSTIPATION
Of a forbidden intoxication.
Lost in a void, Experiencing a total spiritual contamination. Standing at the altar.
Awaiting a complete revelation.
Obsessed by your desire, To fulfill your intention of a secret temptation. Unable to perform.
Can’t complete a simple fornication.
Condemned by your past, In need of a emotional resuscitation.
Looking for relief.
Searching for constant medication.
Morally bankrupt, Uncontrollable procrastination.
Attempting to prevent.
A Premature Emotional Ejaculation.
Total remorse, Consumed by an illicit infatuation.
Searching for relief.
Considering complete isolation.
Confined to your mind, In need of spiritual inspiration.
Attempting to prevent.
Your total annihilation.
To seek a sanctuary, That is void of exploitation.
Attempting to resolve.
Your MENTAL CONSTIPATION.
MASTER OF SORROW
OH MASTER OF SORROW.
SEARCHING FOR VICTIMS.
RUINING TOMORROWS.
PATIENTLY STALKING.
UNSUSPECTING PREY.
MOST SURRENDER MEEKLY.
A FEW GET AWAY.
MASTER OH MASTER.
I KNOW WHAT YOU SEEK.
COMPLETE DOMINATION.
OF MINDS THAT ARE WEAK.
ANNIHILATING THEIR THOUGHTS.
DEPRIVING THEM FROM GIVING.
YOU’RE THE SCOURGE OF THE EARTH.
RESPONSIBLE FOR THOSE THAT WANT TO STOP LIVING.
TO ALL THE FALSE PROPHETS.
BE DEFINETLY AFRAID.
HE’LL HAUNT YOU FOREVER.
UNTIL YOUR DUES ARE PAID.
THE ONLY IMMUNITY.
FROM OH MASTER OF SORROW.
IS TO EXCEL TODAY.
AND ACHEIEVE MORE TOMMOROW.
MUSIC THAT SOOTHES THE SAVAGE BEAST
FROM THE “MET” TO THE “STREET”.
MUSIC THAT EXCITES AND DELIGHTS US.
LIKE A CONSTANT DRUM BEAT.
GOING TO THE BROOKLYN PARAMOINT.
TO FULFILL OuR MUSIC NEEDS.
ROCK’IN ROLL SHOWS HOSTED BY.
THE ONE AND ONLY ALAN FREED.
Gloria by the Cadillac’s
Dry humping at the Friday nite dances.
Listening to earth Angel.
While at the drive-in, doing a little romancing.
IT’S NO MORE DADDY’S LITTLE GIRL.
WHEN YOU GET UP WITH YOUR DAUGHTER TO SWIRL.
ITS NOW the ALL TIME FAVORITE.
BY THE TEMPTATIONS, “MY Girl”.
There was a time many years ago.
When the music temporarily died.
Buddy holly, Richie valen’s & the big bopper.
Are now appearing on that big stage in the sky.
Then there was the chambers brothers.
With a 60”S favorite “time”.
Or how about johnny cash’s
50’s favorite “walk the line”
Or bobby z’s version which he sang at the nco club at fort bliss
In 1963 and 64
I keep my pants up with a piece if twine
I keep my eyes open all the time.
Because of you, I’d walk the line.
Because your mine, please pull the twine.
Music that excites you.
Makes you want to dance.
Music very special.
To help you when romancing.
Maybe it was “jerry lee lewis”.
Who left you rock’in and reel’in.
Or was it the righteous brothers.
With the greatest song ever ”you lost that loving feeling”.
Johnny ray, singing “that little white cloud that cried”.
The young rascals and the four tops had no flaws.
Janis Joplin & big brother and the holding company.
Bobby fuller singing “I fought the law”.
May have been jackie Wilson.
Causing the crowds to roar.
Or was it bobby Dylan.
Doing “knock’in on heaven’s door.
Danc’in to the slow ones.
Will always in our minds remain.
To another old time favorite.
The knockouts doing “darling Lorraine”.
From George thorogood with “bad to the bone”.
To elvis doing “blue suede shoes”.
Or how about screaming jay Hawkins with “I put a spell on you”.
And of course bb king signing the blues.
Whenever on the dance floor.
We always held her tight.
Especially when dancing to.
“in the still of the night:.
Words that leave you.
And sounds so gentle and sweet.
Music that arouses you.
Makes you jump to your feet.
How about the Beatles.
Doing sgt. Peppers lonely Hearts Band.
Or maybe joe cocker.
Doing a little help from my friends.
Or could it have been robert palmer singing.
“”doctor—doctor give me the cure”
I got a bad case of lov’in you.
Jersey city’s own, the Dupree’s.
With the classic “you belong to me”/
Or maybe the young rascals.
doing “people got to be free”.
From “rock around the clock” to “Johnny be good.”
May it never cease.
Music thru the ages.
Has “soothed the savage beast”.
Now that we have taken.
A stroll down memory lane.
Music tells a story.
Sounds that shall forever remain.
THE JUNK YARD DOG
He was left one night in a burlap bag---by someone who drove away.
He’s surrounded by a awful smell—known better as urban decay.
He makes his rounds & looks for food---that someone has thrown away.
He’s not afraid of anyone----as he stands guard over his vast urban domain.
He never looks for trouble but mess with him---and you’ll definitely feel his pain.
He has no one to make his bed----he’s just a castaway.
He’s kind of scruffy with matted hair----and a bath he hasn’t seen for many a day.
He’s always on constant patrol---of vacant bldg’s and junkyard’s along the way.
He never reports to anyone----and he never gets paid.
He has no one to comfort him----or teach him to obey.
He’s always on his own & never questions why---just goes on his way.
He’s feared by many yet loved by few----and respected by his peers.
He’s been known at night to bring to their knees----many a man & fill them with fear.
He’s a pupil of the streets----and like so many others.
He never cared to know his father---not enough time to know his mother.
He’s probably from somewhere over---on the wrong side of the tracks.
He doesn’t let it bother him----cause he’s never going back.
He’s product of days gone by----him and his urban frontier.
He’s a American hero whose vast domain---is slowly beginning to disappear.
FREE ME
I’m a prisoner of my own torment.
It’s a costly toll.
Chained to the memories, Of times gone bad.
A self-imposed solitary.
To reflect and be sad.
To be free of these chains, I must forget the past.
Release me from this bondage.
Is all I ask.
I’ve served my sentence, Only ask to be free.
To resume my life.
And return to being me.
WILL IT EVER END
TO SEEK REVENGE..AND SLOWLY EXTINGUISH THE FIRE.
WILL IT EVER END..WILL I EVER BE AT PEACE.
LOST IN THE PAST..WILL THE PAIN EVER CEASE.
WILL IT EVER END..THE ANGER AND RAGE.
I LOST MY CHILDHOOD..AT A VERY EARLY AGE.
WILL IT EVER END..THE MEMORIES OF HATE.
ABUSED AS A CHILD..WILL I EVER KNOW MY FATE.
WILL IT EVER END..I PAID A TERRIBLE PRICE.
THE EXTRA BURDEN..PLACED ON ME FOR LIFE.
WILL IT EVER END..THE CONSTANT YEARNING INSIDE.
TO ACHIEVE WHAT HE DIDN’T..YET PUT ALL MY ANGER ASIDE.
WILL IT EVER END..WILL I EVER FINALLY BE ALLOWED TO BE FREE.
TO POSSIBLY RETURN..TO WHOEVER IS ME.
THE SKY IS CRYING
THE WORLD IS ON FIRE---NO WHERE TO RUN
TOTAL DISRESPECT---OF WHAT WE HAVE BEEN DEALT.
MOTHER NATURE IS UPSET---TIME FOR THE PAIN TO BE FELT.
EARTH QUAKES AND TUSAMI’S---ARE NOW ALL THE RAGE.
THE SUN REFUSES TO SHINE---NO TIME TO TURN TO A NEW PAGE.
OVER POPULATION---3RD WORLD COUNTRIES HUNGER RULES.
ISLAMIC TERROIST’S PREVAIL---GOVERNMENTS CONTROLLED BY FOOLS.
THE SKY IS NOW CRYING---ITS MUCH TOO LATE TO RUN.
THE ANTI-CHRISTSILENTLY AWAITS.
WHILE THE MASSES AWAIT THE APPEARANCE OF THE CHOOSEN ONE.
A DOG’S LIFE AND OURS
tied to one leash or another
sit! speak! fetch!
beg for a treat
get a pat on the head once in awhile
quit barking!
stop whining!
when you're alone
pace the same spot
until the ground turns to stone
scratch futile holes
in the packed earth
half burying old bones
howl at the moon
chew sticks to splinters
and rubber balls to shreds
peer through cracks in the fence
wonder what's out there
go crazy
wondering
then die
get the needle
before springtime
without its sweetness
in your lungs
except we don't get the needle
only murderers do
we die in sterile white rooms
inhaling bleach at midnight
not surrounded by our families
like in the movies
shivering even under
a mountain of blankets
a dog outside
in the cold
THROUGH WINDOWS
through windows,
from inside a warm house,
as are frozen faces
in photographs
and people on TV,
or homeless refugees
from another country
read about
on a smartphone screen
by a man who rises from his seat
and takes his six dollar latte
to the other side
of the coffee shop
to avoid the rattling cup
and the stink
of a bum
who just wandered in
from the cold.
A LITTLE LONGER
I will happen upon a lonely beach somewhere
in a little cove
with a stream trickling down
beneath piles of bleached driftwood logs
like scattered dinosaur bones
resting on a bed of pebbles
broken shells
and other shattered
and unrecognizable things
coughed up by the ocean
and left there for us to ponder
I like to sit amid all that brokenness
that tangled mass of life and death
to walk around and feel at home in it
to pick through piles of seashells
with edges sharp as broken beer bottles
sifting the chaos
searching just to search
a little longer
GENTLY CRACKING
a web of fractures
in her almond eyes
hair dyed pupil black
her flesh
a thousand punctures
a camouflage of ink
i could hide in
swim with her dolphins
lie among her flowers
tangle myself in her vines
she blew puffs
of her life before me
into my face
like smoke from a joint
of the greenest
i nodded
inhaling wisps of her story
in a daze
listening to the ice cubes
gently cracking
as i poured her
another drink
MISTAKEN FOR DEAD
crucified with him
nailed to crosses of belief
engraved
with sun bleached words
flaking to the ground
yet worn like armor
on our lips
against foes
we’ve never met
fields of us writhe
like windblown grass
shaking fists in the air
and i wonder...
will the wood rot
and the fervent nails
squeak free
before the vultures come
for our eyes?
Categories
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ANDREW BROADOUS
ANDY BOTTERILL
AQSA MUSTAFA
AVE JEANNE VENTRESCA
BOBBY Z
BOB FERN
BONNIE STANARD
BRIAN RIHLMANN
DAVID HANIGAN JACOBS
DIKE OKORO
FOTOULA REYNOLDS
GARY BECK
ILYA GUTNER
IVY MONTE
JAMES CROAL JACKSON
JOAN E. CASHIN
JOHN SKEEN & RICHARD GARRIGUS
KAREN ARNOLD
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KIRK BUECKERT
LINDA BARRETT
MANISHA MANHAS
MARK FTZPATRICK
MISHAL IMAAN SYED
NANCY JASKO
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
NORMAN KLEIN
PATRICIA BRAY
RACHEL MEDINA
ROSE AIELLO MORALES
ROUNAK CHAKRABORTY
SAHAJ SABHARWAL
SALLY WILDER DAVID
SANTOSH KUMAR POKHREL
SHRADDHANVITA
SOPHIE MCMILLAN
STEVE FRAGALE
SUSAN SANDERS
THOMAS M. MCDADE
TOM SQUITIERI
WOODY FRAN