An odd creature, powers through a day, decades, a life. A four chambered survivalist beast, outlasting all fracturing cracks of grief when the spirit, will, mind drift away. In imitation, a four chambered thing beats on and on.
The Heart
Author: akalandros
Ink, Time, Books
A few minutes every day, at times, stretching into hours, I write to you in this book, writing words whispering mysteries of the winds in the mountains. At times, my words still, shifting, settling then sighing as moonstone white clouds rest, caressing the tops of mountains. I have burned hundreds of ink filled books over these many years when disgusted with the imperfection of my scribbled pages. The heat of their fires never offered much warmth. Now, I save my scribble filled books though you may never see them. Forty-five years, I have written words to you, yet you never knew, and neither did I until this moment.
A Small Moment
Strong, the breeze this evening
bringing the scent of grilling burgers
from a distant neighbor’s yard.
The sounds of soft sighs issue
from the dogs at my side.
The hummingbirds perform
an elegant ballet concerning
territorial claims as the symphony
of their brilliant buzzing
makes us all look up.
Stillness—
Then—
A rumble in the distance.
The scent of rain at war
with the scent of grilling burgers
from the neighbor’s yard.
The drops of rain pelt,
driving away
the smell of grilled meat.
Now, only the scent of rain remains.
The battle won.
Protected under the patio cover,
The dogs and I sigh.
My Mother’s Washboard
The old washboard
stands in a five dollar flea market tub
with three faded, scratched up tall coke bottles,
a rusted plaid patterned lunch pail,
a red plastic mesh bag filled with used beach toys,
a broken hobby horse some kid rode once
while yelling, Hi, Ho, Silver! Away!
Among this disregarded dusty junk,
the old washboard looks fragile
as if the wood surrounding the corrugated steel
might fracture should a woman grasp it
intending to use it to scrub stains
from familial laundry
like my mother did with her’s.
I remember my mother’s washboard
standing in her soaking bucket,
filled with 20 Mule Team Borax, Biz, and hot water,
which stood in the concrete laundry tubs
in the basement of the house.
I remember how her knuckles turned red,
the skin raw looking, as she scrubbed blood
from a blouse, pouring salt from a Morton’s
salt container onto the stain then scrubbing
up and down, up and down on the washboard,
then dunking the blouse twice
to see if the stain was gone.
Pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
pour, scrub, scrub, dunk, dunk
The pattern, the rhythm, until the stain erased.
I have no soaking bucket,
no Twenty Mule Team Borax, no Biz,
no washboard
to get my stains out.
My spray bottle of Oxi Clean Stain Remover
pales in memory
of my mother’s washboard.
For the Boy Who Would Not Stay
I decided to repost this piece since in the process of doing a little clean-up work on the blog I discovered the link to this piece was no longer available.
I hold your reflection close, But it slides, evaporating from my grasp, While dripping condensation. My heart stutters with if only’s. My soul begs, pleads, bargains With you to stay. My mind whispers your name, Calling after you, Asking why you are leaving. Are you angry that I told no one Of your blessed presence here? Can you understand I was afraid I’d jinx it? Somehow, I knew— Knew you wouldn’t stay— I felt it from the start. A few weeks only— And you’d go away. My lips whisper. My soul begs. My heart stutters. My body cramps, Clamping down once again. My brain knows it is time. Time to wash the blood and gore away— Time to let your reflection fade.
Your Wings
Dreams fulfilled and abandoned, the wistful whimsical ones of fantasy-- Tears fallen, dried long ago, leaving salt crusts behind, and those never allowed to fall-- The skins of selves I used to be the wounded and scarred the shrunken down inside her skin the sacrificial to survival-- Take these things I freely give, adding all my wishes my dreams my hopes for you. Next, Add all you want, all you dream, all you desire, wish for and hope for in your life Then weave of them a chrysalis bout yourself to cushion and protect as you grow into your own skin. Leave your chains of fear, your yoke of worries with me. I will bury them deep inside my chest. When you emerge, your wings wet and beautiful, you may perch upon the branch of pride growing from my soul to flex and flutter your wings until dry enough to fly, beautiful as you have always been, never to shrink or curl away your wings again.
Morning Coffee
the coolness of morning enters
it drifts into the veins
chills feeling for a time—
when the hummingbird perches
to drink the fresh sugar water
I made for her that morning,
I smile.
Hair part II: Untamed and Ugly
I grasp this beast of kinky
curls that sits upon my head,
attempting to tame it into submission.
First, the wire brush stretching strands
straight as concentrated hot air
dry the water from the beast.
Slowly the taming comes.
Finally dry, frizz left there,
making me aware who the boss really is.
I break out my next weapon
against this frizzy beast:
The flat iron.
And while it heats,
I tune the speakers to a podcast
about the missing women of Juarez.
Sectioning my beast hair as I listen
about women missing,
women found dead,
women to whom no one paid attention
because
they were
women, girls
because
they were
brown
because
they were
poor
women, girls
brown
poor—
The things
that do not grab attention
that fade away in the media
easy to say of these—
They ran away.
They ran away with a boyfriend.
Oh, she’s a drug addict. Who knows where she went?
And on I go to straighten another section
Of hair with my hot flat iron.
My beast neatly tamed.
I think it would be easier to braid my hair into rows.
Decorating the braids with small beads,
a bead for each missing woman,
a bead for each murdered woman,
a bead for each missing, murdered, indigenous woman of color
in this land, across the globe.
Each tiny bead
with a name microscopically etched
and then braided into my hair
as beads of grief,
a bead for each woman, each girl—
If I could then even lift
my bead heavy head
like the mothers who carry
sandbags of grief searching
the world for daughters
gone missing—
what could I, one person, do?
The world spins on.
Despite the burden of beads,
these beads braided
into the fabric of motherhood
across the globe
for girls gone missing,
girls glanced at, ignored
by a society that sends up invisible prayers
then turns forgetting what it deems valueless,
girls marked by the violence of poverty,
Then I think of 22 year old, Mahsa Amini.
dead in the twisted irony
of morality police custody for a hijab violation.
I should shave my head in solidarity
with the women of Iran
who protest.
But what could I, one person, do?
Would beads or a shaved head here make a difference?
Would anyone know the meaning?
My neck cannot bear the weight of braids with beads enough for each woman.
My bald head would not be understood as sign of solidarity.
So I send out my chicken scratches of a poem
into the world, and I choose to leave it as it is,
Untamed and ugly.
Nothing Ephemeral Exists Here
on the first year after the Uvalde mass shooting
All shapes of brutish violence, written in sprawling spray of innocent blood. Did Eden ever exist? Every rain of bullets instills doubt. Pray heaven exists for the sake of parents grieving still, their children, bloody sacrifices on an altar to the 2nd amendment.
Hair (Part One)
Women, we are tortured by our hair.
It is never what we want.
It never obeys our desires.
A mischievous heathen,
it laughs at our attempts
to bend it to our will.
We grow it, cut it, dye it,
curl it, straighten it,
treat it with carcinogenic chemicals
to beat the mischief making
blasphemer into submission.
All the while, it laughs at us
as our enemies, humidity and wind,
destroy in seconds the cooperation
we thought we’d earned
with our torturous machinations.
Hair:
Too thin,
Too thick,
Too curly,
Too unruly,
Too straight,
Too limp,
Too frizzy,
And the color—
Too…too…too…too-too little
and too-too much of everything—
Never exactly as it should be.
It will not follow our will.
Pull it into a ponytail.
Shove it under a baseball cap or a sun hat.
Why don’t we just shave our heads
And let it be done?
This woman’s crowning glory,
a temptation enough to make angels fall
from the heights of heaven at the sight it,
necessitates head coverings and wigs for women,
according to some.
After all, who wants it to rain angels
into the streets of the world?
That’s a sight I wouldn’t mind seeing
since I’ve got questions for those angels.
For one, why do women have to help angels
control such lusty impulses?
But I digress as I begin my morning battle
with my own head of hair.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 