Posts for June 19, 2018 (page 3)

Like the Parthenon on the Acropolis,
It rises above the cramped roads and
Pavement crowded with commuters.
The grand temple of New York City’s
Marble floors glisten, freshly waxed,
And the holy scriptures on the walls
Light up in LED and claim passages
Of Queens and The Bronx,
Brooklyn and Manhattan
Columbia 10:06
Flatbrush 9:23
42nd 8:18
Through the vaulting grid-patterned windows
Lone beams of sunlight shine–
The ones that aren’t blocked by
Towering monuments to corporations–
And let dust float aimlessly within.
Stone pillars hold up the heavens,
Which is painted a shade of most verdant green,
A strange choice for the night sky.
Yellow stars stand unblinking in the emerald fields,
As a menagerie of mythos is keeping watch.
The stars’ guardian spirits are drawn around them
So man doesn’t have to wonder what they were
And can focus on the objective.
Somewhere deep within, a creature slithers into its burrow.
The voice of the gods announce its arrival
In accordance to the scriptures
That were written on the wall.
I would’ve visited him, but I could bear him no gifts.
Nobody was there to give me mine, anyways.

                      Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.          
                                         Pooh’s Little Instruction Book, inspired by A. A. Milne  

This park bench: nothing
but a shaded haunting.
Birds fleck the trees,
tweet rumors of your absence.
I have become predictable,
reckless as a tea cup,
as the tiered fountain that burbles
its recycled delight, happily
encased in a river of grey
concrete, a sparkling constant
of measured going nowhere.
Stiff signs beware our distance:
No Trespassing       Keep Out.  

I close my eyes.
Think of rivers I once knew
that paid no mind to sign
or measure, welcomed invasions
of cattail and frog bit,
the quiet wade of fishers,
boys with rope swings,
the rapid swoop of jay and hawk,
the dangled toes of lovers.  

Oh, to be like that water,
just some wild thing
with no boundaries,
left to wander my own gush
and pull like a rogue tide.
To pilgrim the next luring
bend, sparkled, drenched,
in sun’s echoed ravish.
To sing the cool drowning stars.

I want to buy 300 dollars of fresh produce
From the Farmer’s Market, 
Enough that my kitchen feels like the garden of Eden 
Our little gecko seems sick and listless
My first instinct is to give him a drop of my blood
I give his crickets some carrots.
I give him a cricket.
He is docile and for this I love him 
I protect him from the careless limbs 
Of my toddlers , a boy and a girl : twin stars. 
His drawings of peach trees
Her poems about angels. 
I want to float like a witch, 
Like an egg that’s spoiled
In the La Grange Quarry. 
In the back of the fridge 
Is a dry piece of salmon
Curling up like a diseased gum
 There’s a fat chicken, too 
The color of a molting gecko
I pull out the gizzard
A small string of bells 
Covered in blood
That is what I imagine is there 
Inside me as well

“Ready or not here I come!”
Her insidious grief weeps throughout her entire being. Her heart wrapped in cold stone tears every tired day and endless evening, always, for eternity. Erasing all of what she is– burning every book, shredding every photo of herself, from birth to 50, vowing to never again write poetry. Goodbye “Love Her Madly” ruby stained lips that hold the pearly white fires of smiles for him. Oh how those luscious parenthesis held secrets and truths of her deepest desires, fears, love and depression. Goodbye violet eyes–their sonic bloom waiting for the watering and the twinkling of his magick brown sugar dust to take her from the sour dirt to the Milky Way. Goodbye to the velvet tracing of his fingers upon the tracks of her dazzling decolletage. Goodbye to the dance, the sway, the two-step and the twirl. Goodbye to his gentle hold of her breast when sweetly in slumber. Hello to the drowning sounds of our far away laughter. He is missed. 

LETTERS TO THE DEAD: 18, 19, 20

Trio (of Brothers-In-Law)

18)  6/18/2018
      for G.H. (1953 – 2006)
      From the road we see
      you beside the dogwood tree,
      your shadow our shade

19) 6/19/2018
      for L.C. (1936 – 2015)
       The fulcrum you are
              the pivots you make
              …….the quiet middle
        Of everything

20) 6/20/2018
      for R.B. (1961 – 2017)
       “shirt off your back
         sandals off your feet”
                  we look at each other, each
                  waiting to do what the other
                  wishes not to do

You looked so unhappy when I saw you,
the frown on your face
 the soft erosion of a mountainside,
jagged, elated peaks worn down 
by the unbearable weight of time.
I want to reach out,
say something,
but I am only eloquent on paper
and no one listens to me
and I have no one to listen to
while you must listen to the world.
My voice would be less
than the brush of echo across the canyon.
Still,
I hope you–
as I feel the bittersweet
heart-clench at dawn as I know I wake

I bite my fingernails in vexation 

You asked if my obsessive compulsive disorder gets worse because of the depression or if the depression gets worse because I am obsessing 

I haven’t considered that 

But the world is not black and white, I can see the greens and the blues and the reds 

Even colorblind eyes see more than black and white 

And why is it that my OCD makes me so impatient? 

My brain screams at me to scream at you and who else, I’m biting my tongue so hard that it is beginning to bleed 

And would I be alright if everything was even? If all the flowers were aligned in perfect rows and every couple kissed exactly four times? 

Would I be fine if the pavement had no cracks and each curve was followed by an equally opposite curve? 

My brain was made to destroy me 

I crave silence 

O the children
The poor suffering children!

I feel so good to be informed about something I might be outraged about
because I’ve forgotten about yesterday’s righteous indignation

Three years ago, I was supposed to be happy that our
wonderful and generous leader had 25,000 children housed in 80 some camps

So I was

I wonder what bandwagon I’ll be instructed to jump on tomorrow
I’m anxious for the news and
can’t wait to hate

I didnt write a poem for Father’s Day.
I imagined writing a satirical Facebook post.
I realized that’s too weird.
Mrs. Elnora from church
would toss her cane.
Helena’s wig would fly off.
My grandma would call 
confused by my joke 
to tell me her prayers
had paid off 
if we had spoken.
Friends would do spit takes,
double check that
they’d read it right.
My dad would rise
from a figurative grave.
Or maybe he could burry himself.

My boss said she is glad
I didnt try to pick up a shift Sunday,
because it was a holiday.
I told her I don’t celebrate and 
I wouldn’t have remembered
to ask for overtime pay. 

Fields are black, homes propped-up—
barely grey–and skies red
where you come from.
Sun is no joke there
laying its beams
like eggs
on backs
and skulls
to hatch
beads of sweat
that ripple down ribs.  

Where you come from
dictators order scarlet
with which to paint streets
as if they were ordering
the rich color for their living rooms.
Masked men shoot people down
just a few houses away
from where children dance
around rainbow-and-rock-
strewn streams
in alleys.  

And where you come from
women cannot get help
for black eyes
or broken ribs
and the grave begins
to seem like a safe
harbor.  

Border should be a beacon
summoning you—the poor,
the suffering, the brave.
Shelter should await you
and your children. 
Yet large grey buildings
house you in one place
and your children
in another—no one
holds them at night.
And you are charged
with being less than human
for being human
for doing what any of us
would do.  

Oil-colored fields surround the Wal-Mart
where children pine for mothers
and fathers and a kind touch.
Night is no joke there
laying its dreams
like eggs
in minds
and hearts
to hatch
into writhing terrors
delighted at having found their haven.