angels call, singing for a while,
watching us,
aping things they’d heard, saw,
obsessing over things
we tossed away–
time, primarily–
angels lost feathers, attempting to understand
our tossing away time like used tissues, soiled food tins–
when we held little.
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Also available to order through your local independent bookstore.
Now available! So honored and so excited about the work in this anthology.
Indie Blu(e) Publishing are very proud to announce the publication of As The World Burns. Our third socially-aware anthology. As The World Burns is available via all good book stores in Kindle and softback NOW. It is an incredible collection of writers, many of whom are from WordPress and are in our writing groups, writing some of our favorite work. We hope you will support them and our efforts to spread awareness of socially vital subjects. If you have felt frustrated with politics, Covid-19, Black Lives Matter, Homophobia or any of the things happening ‘as the world burns’ this is the collection for you.
We dedicate this anthology to those who have bravely fought the encroaching darkness in 2020 with their writing and their art, and who insist that racism, sexism, homophobia, and war are not inevitable, or acceptable, facets of the human condition. As The World Burns is a story of…
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Ignoring the ripples doesn’t work,
Beautiful though they may be
In the early light of an autumn dawn.
The ripples return.
Their warmth long gone,
Drained of blood.
Injected with colors of autumn’s dawn,
They look full, alive with mysterious meaning.
But cold these ripples remain
In their return to me.
Time shifts,
Tilting beneath my feet.
I shutter and stare, a moment only—
I cannot weave these cold things
Into a useful thing, resembling you.
Lives ruined in place–
ego upon a pedestal
basks in sunshine
yet never feels
unless destroying green things
in the softness of evening
when moon and sun fill
the evening skies
of shorter days–
time no longer
a forgotten toy
thrown by the wayside
but an ornament of luxury
I wish I could hold close
within my hands without
it leaks between my fingers
marking any signs of reverence
as if with blood irony–
all the while the rest cough
green phlegm of ill regard.
On the walls fling the words of meaning,
clichés all—of love and family,
of time so very treasured,
the welcome of strangers
without the pillar of salt,
the love of neighbors in a city quest,
and asking, pleading how have we hid
the monsters we do hide within our homes,
within our churches,
within our souls and hearts–
the monsters, the demons we cannot exorcise
since we cannot stand to see our own
face within our reflections upon time,
creation, connections to the past—
when we cannot acknowledge
the face of God hidden away
from the reflection of our own faces,
in the faces of others, the face of God
hidden away, void of the divine,
as are we consumed with consuming
vitriol for anything, for everything
remotely resembling the other.
I am honored to be featured on braveandreckless.com as part of the Creativity Challenge: Mad World.
The number of our destruction smacked us in the face,
But too many didn’t want to see.
They liked the words they heard,
Shrinking their ever-enlarging world:
–Where you walk is holy
(as long as you got thousand-dollar shoes)
–We don’t care! Just wanna keep up with a Kardashian or two.
–I ain’t wearin’ no mask. Ain’t nobody gonna tell me what to do!
–Who the hell cares if a black man can’t breathe? Cuz he shouldn’t
give a cop a reason to put a knee on his neck!
The seven tentacles touched us to the core
Long, long before:
–It’s all you can eat!
–Trade in that old husband or wife for a new, sexier model!
–Who wants to work that hard! Buy college scores!
–We’re so much better than those Mexicans, Blacks, Queers, Muslims,
those shithole countries.
–Drop a bomb! Just drop the fuckin’ bomb on the bastards!
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A wonderful project
I am editing another Anthology in collaboration with CrossTree Press called The Kali Project.
If you are an Indian woman Poet/Artist (or you know of one who may be interested, either in India or internationally) please consider submitting work to The Kali Project. This anthology is a collection of poetry, prosetry, and artwork from women of Indian heritage, in response to the courageous determination of Indian women to gain full equality in India.
Subjects to consider writing about include but are not limited to: Feminism, equality, political upheaval, women’s-rights, sexual violence, LGBTQ rights, gender identity, violence, marriage, concepts of Indian female identity, inequality at the workplace. Change.
The Kali Project is open for submissions until October 22, 2020.
You can submit up to THREE poems and THREE pieces of artwork.
Please submit poems with your full name as the title in Word.
If you are interested in submitting for the…
View original post 113 more words
My lessons in listening:
To a mother’s final words—
Always remember I loved you and was proud
Tossed off, too rushed to leave work
To get to the hospital, to see her,
Always thinking of more days, time.
Not thinking all I’d see,
Her dead eyes.
To all my dogs– little tells
Of cocked heads, whines, barks,
The ways of wagging tails,
To know what meant what–
Hunger, pain, desire to play,
A need for love or to go outside.
Those I’ve always learned well.
To students, the teens I taught,
A puzzle to figure of pieces and placement
What each meant for each—
The lift of a shoulder, how the eyes met or did not meet mine,
The head upon the desk, the work done or not,
The things said, not said—
To figure needs-
Some basic, some not so,
Requiring other safety nets,
Bruised and broken,
Some I could help repair.
I knew what to listen for,
Almost by instinct,
Since I had not been listened to
When I was one of them.
To my child, a whirlwind of cries,
Hunger, diaper, cold, hot, sick—
Each cry different
A knowing, animal instinct,
Some primal thing beating
Inside knew the way
Of my infant’s need.
When a teen—
A different thing,
A new species of need,
My animal and her animal
Had no common language
Of smells, signals, or cries
In the darkened tunnels
We went through.
To my dying wife, my dying wife—
So hard to listen to, to understand
a language no longer including
My daughter or me.
Never knowing for whom
The last coma spoken words–
I’m sorry, so sorry—
Were spoken.
Now, I learn the final lesson of listening,
A lesson sixty years in the learning,
To myself, my own heart, my own soul.
So very willingly,
I placed my head into danger’s toothy mouth
When I climbed the Pilgrim’s stairs–
Until dizzy from the height,
And the steepness of the effort–
All done to look upon
A pure crystalline blue sky
Caressing a sapphire sea—
A fantasy of need.
https://godoggocafe.com/2020/08/04/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-august-4-2020/
Beneath the surface of the night
Flailing fitful, restless
A dream slept wrapped
In a syllabic, heavy blanket,
Waking drenched in a sweat
Of moon touched light.
Upon this awakening,
Her shining skin did give
Away no secret of her wings or flight
Beneath the surface of the night.
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