Child’s Play

She seems to me the epitome of what destiny was meant to be.

Recently, she has been challenging the frequency her brain's been traveling,

enticing the sweater of thought to come unraveling.

Third eye's released, striving to ignore hazy doors that open into cold reality.

Burning knowledge like it grows on trees.

She's 

skipping rocks on media brooks,

knocking rooks off blatantly bent balance beams,

landing on nimble feline feet,

Freedom Rides down crooked slides, a heady high created by dopamine.

Dancing through her dreams bow visions of veracity;

as tempting specialties become dishonestly concrete.

Fabricated forgeries spread thickly,

like honey on warm bread straight from love's own bakery.

Slow to face charming truth, we imprint our opinions discretely,

directly influenced by the economically replete.

We accept only the agreeable beliefs,

facts fussily side-stepped, rendering them obsolete.

Meanwhile,

Dice St. Deities treat themselves to dance with immortality

through Babylon's natural tantric heart beat

while tracks separate colorblind concrete 

from monotone bricks created to calm Uncle Tom's irrational fears of the sweetly disillusioned elite.

His vessel shows the wear of time as repeat beatings still have the stub of his wings bleeding.

Attempting a resurrection of lost meaning,

lessons form themselves like wine from twisted grape vines.

Only with the fermentation of time can we freely revive honesty.

Tempting visions drunkenly painted on torn tapestry tease the mind with hazy imagery.

When dreams at last are given release, we find the fallen king recuperating sweetly,

residing among Hawai'ian tides, his heart is tied from distance over sea, 

his cravings for familial connection appear obsolete

due to the importance of breaking free from the prison of self induced disease.

Meantime she's stumbling through closed doors, breaking through screens, and running away from responsibility.

Carrying children within worried womb, daylight's gleam

forces glazed eyes open though her instinct is for eternal retreat,

hiding beneath sheets has become as second nature as crying to christian savior when in need.

More than once now God has aborted the ones created to give her someone she thinks will never leave.

She misunderstands that consuming for two requires her to actually eat, 

and through this we find haunting familiarity between

current proceedings and mother's erratic routines while raising the one called she.

Culturally cut off from her elders, even minimum wage seems to be out of reach.

If only this floundering girl could make it out to sea,

perhaps joining her fallen angel father could calm the storms; set her weary mind at ease,

albeit he is living on the beach. 

As romantic as that image might seem to you and me,

it is stability that is needed for this filter fish, while high tides flow and recede.

She is tuned into the Earth Mother's sensitivity,

and wonders why she is drowning when Gaia's heart beat is becoming more fleeting. 

And I am reaching, reaching.

I am trying so desperately, asking for wisdom that continues to elude me.

How can this scattered ohana once again become a "we"?

What will it take to help this lost Goddess to succeed?

Where is the answer we all so desperately seek?

It seems so hard to accept our own potency, 

because that frees us from self induced captivity.

I pray for you, child, may you learn the lessons you so obviously need.

May your cravings for something to nurture turn into nurturing received.

May your hunger be satiated, and your worries all relieved.

May you continue taking breaths, and may you learn eventually to breathe.

I pray the browbeat expressions prepare you for what you will eventually be,

As I am of the mind that every experience is the planting of a seed.

And baby girl I truly do believe,

When the garden you are growing blossoms, 

the bounty will be beautiful indeed.

© SABRe, 2013

Feuerbach's Gaia
from Wikimedia Commons

Victory for Obama and America: Obama is Still the One

Obama has been scandalized and

assaulted

by fiendish ideologues;

His character and

American citizenship have

been questioned.

They done tried to make him stop

fightin', stop lovin', stop leadin',

-- But we all can see, "He's still the one."

Now that he has been re-elected
to serve another
four years as the President
of the United
States he's gonna shine brighter for us
than the North Star.
They done tried to make him be
angry, be vengeful, be feeble
-- But we all can see, "He's still the one."

Obama, we trust you and believe
in justice for all
just as you do, and we pledge
anew our support
to help move America toward
justice for all.
They done tried to make him stop
fightin', stop lovin', stop leadin',
-- But we all can see, "He’s still the one." 

     © Uriah J. Fields, 2012

Photo: The Obamas Dancing,
by Daniel J. Calderon, USN, at Wikimedia Commons

A House Retires

A house is melting into its leisure.

The green tin roof bends itself into fanciful angles,

achieving arches and curves

with corners dripping

like cool summer pleasure

laid thoughtlessly in the sun. 

Creeping plants previously prohibited 

rise slowly through the shrubbery,

slide up the siding

to find windows waiting open and smiling. 

So the vines pour themselves in, filling the rooms with a leafy slosh. 

And the ceiling beams are dizzy to touch green life again.

The walls welcome

the brush of tendrils,

the pressure of clinging roots,

the ticklish cracking of the rigid plane they have courteously held 

since they were put just so.

Now their orderly particles shake loose,

dusting plaster like sugar

for beetles and flies 

who will join the celebration 

or trip away, sparkling in the breeze on their way to some new ground. 

At last

wooden posts succumb. 

They soften their knees and shoulders to test relief,

then let their work go,

curving into smiles of anticipation as the floor below them also relaxes,

and all the edified parts sink closer,

dip their toes into the cool earth cellar,

waiting for the plunge.

© Laura Seale, 2012

Abandoned House; photo by Daniel Leininger
from Wikimedia Commons

Lucretia ...after Rembrandt van Rijn’s painting

I.

I will tell you because

only you will understand:

Sextus had me first.

with me, he was silent;

he offered no threat,

did not fool me--

I just gave in.

gave in.

what do you call it, Lucretia?

surrender?

submission?

choice?

now we both know: there is no choice.

II.

there is a sense of self-betrayal,

a gasp in your chest

when you look at my bed;

the scent on your dress, always,

a handful of spit and sweat,

the tragic film of memory.

there is the fight to not remember

when you were younger,

when you fell asleep in the arms of God,

and he loved you more

than you will e v e r know again.

III.

here is how you work, Lucretia:

you lie

and you take it.

(but I took it, then I lied.)

like a good wife, you told your husband,

and your husband consoled you:

you did not sin because your body did not sin.

your body did not sin because your mind did not sin.

and your mind did not sin because

you did not feel pleasure.

(then pleasure must be sin)

IV.

let me tell you a secret:

some nights I dream about Sextus,

and I think I would like to love him.

I think I would like for him to love me.

here is another secret:

I wish he had kissed me.

did he kiss you, Lucretia?

I would rot with jealousy.

V.

what does sin feel like to you, Lucretia?

does it feel like pleasure?

or does it feel like guilt?

both and also something in between:

a void with anxiety

panging from within.

we’re supposed to be scared 

of these things, Lucretia:

the strong arms with the gentle hands

the breath in our ears on the verge of sleep

but to find solace,

we must find comfort.

VI.

comfort is the ghost I hold at night,

wanting, wishing it would hold me back.

fear is waking in damp sheets,

forgetting where I came from,

remembering where I am.

VII.

guilt was two weapons on the table before you:

silence and the knife

I admire you for choosing the latter, Lucretia,

because I chose the sharper,

though we both chose tools of strife.

now everything I have felt each night

you feel in this single moment

while I still have many nights left to go--

so dig that knife in hard, Lucretia

take it all in one blow

© Katherine Freeman, 2012

Rembrandt's Lucretia, 1666
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
Painting in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts

Rank

Something there is that is rotten in the state of state

that imposes the doorman’s snappy salute to the uptown patron;

      leaves the frazzled waitress to grovel for a tip;

      requires genuflection as the lawn-mower man

scraps for yard-work from the landed

      mandates a nod of submission in the workplace.

Something there is that is rank.

Congress can pass laws yet gravity never yields.

The somebodies define the nobodies as sure as 

the earth whirls through the cosmos.

Something there is that is rotten in this state of flux

that pinches the wallet and soul as a new Lexus rolls off the lot;

        tears at the heart as the face sags and the butt balloons;

        shreds all our dignity as we don the faddish blouse made in

  sweat or slurp the coffee grown for pesos, sold for dollars;

        diminishes as we venerate the half witted celebs we see on TV.

Something there is that is rank.

Somebody will see all this status anxiety as silly. 

Somebody will realize nobody is a nobody. 

Some will some day, I am quite sure.

Something there is that is rotten in the state of affairs

that sets the wild-eyed beggar-man to spinning for the ‘bus fare’;

      demands of the happy bride a vow to love and to obey;

      forces the fragile, uniformed maid to make the careful show of

deference to her subtle employer as she dusts the tabletop;

      gnaws at the plumber as he bends over in ill fitting jeans.

Something there is that is rank.

© Byron Harris, 2012 

Waitress serving in a restaurant while wearing a chicken costume
Photo by Ross Berteig, Wikimedia Commons

Small Town

My childhood self

still walks the streets of the village

where I loved to visit

a grandmother, dead long ago.

Her aged friends

are still vivid in my mind.

One had a parrot that nipped my nose

and a goldfish pond

where the brilliant fish

eluded my childish grasp.

Another came to tea

and was given elderberry wine

because “the doctor ordered it.”

A glowering distant cousin 

with a crippled foot who came to visit

preferred to sleep on a feather bed,

so in the heat of summer

I dragged the dusty thing from the attic,

grumbling and resentful of that gloomy relative.

A box of demi-tasse cups

was given me by one of those women.

“Don’t wait too long to marry,”

was her advice.  -- ”I did.”

I sensed the sorrow of her life.

Unmarried women of uncertain age

seemed prevalent.

Why did they never wed?

Did the young men leave

for livelier towns?

Or did their beaux

go off to war and die?

Their locked trunks in the attic

were seldom opened,

holding treasures (I supposed)

for which they had no room

in the straitened circumstances

to which they had come.

Now aging as well,

I return to find

old houses remain,

still beautiful and cared for,

and the county courthouse

with the Civil War cannonball

still lodged in its pillar

looks solid and unchanged.

But busy stores

that then sold thread

and shoes and ice cream

now stand empty and forlorn,

and the ghosts of my childhood friends

walk the silent streets.

© Peggy Latham, 2012

County Courthouse; photo by Tony Russell

Give Me Something to Write

Give me something to write.

Inside me I hold a book,

Filled with page, after page, after never-ending page of hungry space.

My pages long for tales of the countless hours we’ve spent running through the night,

Of the oceans of color we’ve consumed painting the world with our souls.

There are words

That dripped from your lip like dew drops on a desert flower.

My pages thirst for them,

Were made for them,

Want  them to come home.

Send them home.

Your very walk inspires metaphors,

Metaphors with the power to make rational thought question its own existence.

Send your words and your metaphors home.

My pages will cradle them – like the moonlight,

Show them the freedom they were born to possess.

Run with me.

Let’s find our way out of this strange skin we wear,

So that we can unhide our holy.

Release the ember inside us that wants to burn like a bonfire unbridled.

This holy bonfire that burns truer than anything else that has ever burned,

This, too, would I write on my pages,

If you would let me.

My pages want only to remember:

Stories of us;

And of how we got here;

Stories of how we bent ruthlessly the rigid lines of this world’s senseless sheet music.

On those nights we ran, the paint still wet under our fingernails,

We pursued an irony we had only heard existed,

Tried to outrun a past we were destined to miss like a lost limb,

Our steps, accidental brush strokes on an ever-shifting canvas.

My pages want to remember the days,

The days when we knew what we wanted

Yet didn’t know what we knew.

We recognized beauty in all its forms.

And simplicity came naturally.

They were yours, and mine, and ours.

Send them home.

Inside me I hold a book.

So give me something to write.

© Axel Cooper, 2012

Artist Painting at Central Park
Photo by SpyON from Wikimedia Commons

Relationship

I'm sorry to stay covered up,
but that was so you
could possibly get to know me
for my other attributes,
not just my double D's.
You see it’s not that
I’m not proud
of my physical being;
just was hoping
you might find
a little cerebral stimulation
arousing,
take it to another
level--
something a bit
more conscious.
I mean let’s get serious
for a minute.
What do you want out of life,
and where do you see me in it?
Don’t wanna feel like
this is time wasted,
cause if it is
there's no reason
to even hold this conversation,
cause I need a man
who is able to express his self
yet not try and overshadow.
For though I want you to shine,
I need not be blinded by your ego.
I wish that I knew what was happening
when you looked at me
like my eyes could mirror yours,
and therefore
I could reflect
those innermost thoughts,
know you deep inside.
Cause after all,
they are the windows
to your soul.
But you curtain them
with heavy lids
or turn away,
as if to say,
“I don’t want you to know
what’s not already surfaced.”
Discover that
I too, like you,
am vulnerable sometimes,
but for every weakness
there is strength,
and maybe yours
is locked behind
that visual contact
you find so hard to make,
and that’s why,
when asked about
real emotions
you hesitate,
while my tears
make it blurry,
impossible to concentrate.
So I move on
and wipe away truths
with the back of my hand,
cause if you shed tears
and open yourself,
you think you are less
than a man.

      © Suzanne Saxon, 2012

Male-female intersex relationship
Wikimedia Commons
Serge Lachinov, 1914

Picnic Table

The neighbors who were moving brought it over,

a picnic table, almost new,

and asked if we wanted it for the back yard.

“You’re the ones with children- 

and everything,” they added 

with a look of longing, 

some relief. 

It has sat in the same place all these years,

rough from the wear of seasons, 

its cedar planks once braced flat and perfect,

now like buck teeth.

My children are grown now 

but the table remains, top of the slope 

in the back yard.  

It is a place for me to sit in silence, 

away from the loneliness 

of an unwritten poem.

From here I have watched ground hogs

climb the creek bank, cross the yard,

one trailing the other.  

They never saw me as they nudged

June apples 

littering the ground green.   

I have watched leaves wander in fall wind,

brown and scampering through the garden 

like new puppies.

And this winter I noticed how cold rain had dropped 

into stalactites suspended from bare branches 

in the cherry tree nearby.

It’s funny.  Such a random gift and its impact.  

We never heard from those neighbors again. 

They probably don’t remember us

or the table they gave away.

But it is here that I come to consider 

all manners of things.

Yesterday it was how the Peace Lily had bloomed 

on the day he died

and how I had found such comfort

in this small thing.

Today I find myself out here again.

A trio of robins has lined up and shaken 

late snow off the red bud

onto my solitary post.  

I know now it won’t last long enough,

either the last breath of winter

or this first gasp of spring.

© Susan Muse, 2012

Groundhog: photo from Wikimedia Commons

Reasons for Not Writing

A dream once told me,

“Clear out the clutter,” but

I continue to accumulate.

First, I must clean up this room.

Papers, papers everywhere...

pencils need sharpening,

files need straightening;

there are lists of things I should do each day,

lists of things I should do this year,

lists of things I should do before I die--

and do I do them?

No.

I continue to accumulate, mountains of clutter.

Even my bed gets crowded,

not with bodies

but with piles of papers.

Then there are clippings

thought to be of interest to some friend.

Quotations (oh how I love those).

I have even made a collection of quotations I like 

on 3 X 5 cards

which I keep in a box in my closet--

also full of clutter.

Clothes are the least of it.

I am thinking of ridding myself

of clothes I have not worn for five years,

but so far, they still reside

in my closet, taking up room I could use

for my files:

more quotations, more papers.

It is as though I am afraid my brain

cannot hold all those comments

by authors unknown to me.

I sometimes wonder--

did they suffer from clutter too?

I am sure, like me, they do not allow their spouses

to go into a frenzy of cleaning

in their sacred place.

That would be cause for divorce.

I think about putting up more shelves.

The ones I have are crowded to overflowing,

and I need more space.

But would that solve my problem?

Probably not....  I would just use more shelves

as an excuse to collect.

Is there help for one like me?

Others have tried.

Someone once gave me two thick pads of lined paper.

At the top of each page was the phrase

“Things to do today.”

Their instinct was kindly,

but of no earthly use to me.

I dream of an empty room,

painted white, even the floor.

It contains one chair, a small table,

an empty notebook,

and a lavender pen with a fine point.

© Peggy Latham, 2012

Two officials of the New York City Tenement House Department
inspect a cluttered basement living room, ca. 1900 ~
NARA photo, Wikimedia Commons