Sing now of
The pure air and the
Blue winter
Author: Sibelius Russell
Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.
Awake, and Know
Awake, and know
That I still care;
Although things change
As they must do
Awake, and know
That I’m still there,
Though hard snow falls,
And sharp winds blow
For you and I
Must each our paths
Of life and family
Navigate
But sometimes, know
And maybe, smile,
That friends are friends,
And fate
Is fate
To share is human:
Don’t Give
She said
She did not know
What she should do
I said
I thought I kind of
Understood
She didn’t seek advice,
Which worked out well,
Since I had none to give
For I’m not her
For choices lie
At the intersection of things
And values;
And values are the sole property
Of their owner
I watched her face
Go calm;
Her eyes were closed,
We listened to
The sounds out in
The park
Finally, she said
“Would you like to get some coffee?”
“Yes,” I replied,
Although I meant tea in my case
For it seems
That what she needed most
At that exact moment
Was for me not to try
To give her what
Could only come from her
In what I wasn’t offering
She found solace
And she was grateful
To share is human:
Slam 14
Why do we send our boys out to be men
When we haven’t taught them to be boys first?
Sit still, keep it quiet,
Don’t you cry, don’t you ever cry —
We turn freeze rays on their souls,
Hearts meant to be on fire put through
The enforced sterilization of
That damned blight, testosterone.
Don’t be too threatening, too sudden, too black,
Sorry, “too urban” —
As boys’ suppressed and latent bonding tendencies
Erupt into sports teams for the lucky,
Gangs for the unlucky,
And homicidal sociopathy for the rest –
Boys should be boys, so
That men won’t be –
To share is human:
The Ballad of Who and What
There was no one around for leagues,
And wearied with the day’s fatigues,
We stopped a while to stretch our limbs
With Who and What our pseudonyms
Who asked me why I’d come this far –
What told her it was just a car –
And Who and What could bide their time
Out here where jokes were not a crime
I know that all we’d done was kid
Like Abbot and Costello did;
But Who and What we thought we were
Is hard to know or to infer
For though our names are always nouns
(Some we misspell or mispronounce)
It is by pronouns we are known
Just him or her to call their own
And in the desert, Who gave out
To What the trip was all about;
For know one knew quite what to do
With God-knows-What and Lord-knows-Who
And so deserted, there we stayed
And withal What the words we played;
As Who knew what we really meant
When day was done and light was spent
There is no more that I can say.
It was a trip, a time, a day —
And What was left there still to rot?
Well, Who can say –
But she
Will not
