whispered, “give me all the Colors…”
scrambled, found, but soon set Free
whispered, “we can now be Lovers…”
strange, but how Things came to be
raised within a house of Wonder,
sent into a world of Fear,
whispered, “give me all the Colors,
but don’t bring Them, bring Them
here”
Upon this day, in Nineteen-Eight,
She came forth to some small acclaim,
Within a people tinged with shame
But whose regard for tribe was very great —
No, she would not be second-class,
Nor bathe in some subservience
To customs made of little sense
Nor what to her was meaningless, or crass,
So burst she, in Depression years,
Upon a world unready; she, undimmed
By what was darkly thought, the headlines skimmed
And full of courage made from hope and fears
She traversed through the morass of an age
So thick with unseen barriers and grime,
That strength itself became a sort of crime
With punishment its sure and common wage —
But how? We only see by light of truth,
And maybe all that’s left is blood, and flour,
And vestiges of passion, killed by power
In stories small, invisible to youth.
A smattering of May across
A canvas of September —
The angry huddle in their rage,
But the wise remember.
A package from a countertop
That’s torn and reeking —
The foolish stop to register,
But the wise keep seeking.
We seek the crowd affirming, but
We find soon how well that goes —
For there’s no place that’s lonelier
Than one that’s chock with echoes —
We ask the wind for guidance, and
It’s howls come cold and violent —
The many go where it may blow,
But the wise keep silent.
When the playground bully is the teacher, where does the tormented student go?
Slightly, the tree sways.
Carefully arranged books and new blankets
Stand beside the watcher, the explainer,
Who, in turn, dreams of a valley
(Where hopes sleep kissed and roots drink deep)
Unlike the bright bay,
Where flounder and cobia
Flash through glints between skis
Such wasted potential —
To be so much and to barely be —
Out here, in the valley,
There is an infinity to what I have not been,
Unlike the bright bay
And perhaps it’s best to let the matter rest
she gave me first
a rich girl kiss
to let me know
what all i’d miss
then led me down
the garden path
of calculated
aftermath
but i knew her,
i’d seen her kind
the first to go,
the last to mind
and so i left
her paradise,
but hey, the garden —
that was nice
inheritance of desolation sung
by invisible choirs of felons shown
clemency only by those victimized
by higher cost of living increases than
most could absorb with paper towels
Flawed —
That’s a word we use when we’ve carelessly destroyed things.
We empty our emotional shelves, and
Clean out the closet of our memories,
But carefully retain our excuses, because
Those are the ultimate image filter.
And one more time, it’s about what was:
And the next what-is that’s about to become what-was —
But that’s what happens when you’re “flawed”:
You strip the beds down,
You strip the house down,
But you sure as hell
Aren’t stripping yourself down
The forest gold
alive upon the hills is calling out:
The vision lost:
a parasite or leukocyte is doubt —
And where should I deliver hope?
And how should I uncover spoil?
Is there a wage that’s high enough
For this much toil?
The eagle red:
a span of fire burning, bright and grand —
Still must be fed
with creatures scurrying across the land
