The wrinkles of cotton shirts,
crease the jeans,
the edges of t-shirts you steam.
Stiffness of heavy starch
helps you remember every lie
through the years.
You fear softness
would wrinkle the fabric
Of memory.
Endless mantra of your obsessive need–
Recited daily, hourly, till a rope twined,
Weaving a noose around me.
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2020/08/29/weekend-writing-prompt-172-endless/
The impact of broken glass shards–
A mistake with need to drip blood.
Make a presence known of parts
Marred and greetings sent
For what they would take,
Staking once again the claim
To snatch away, drain
Blood from a soul
Needed to adorn
Her ego’s bleached crown,
A haystack of needles
Pricking the fingertips,
A crown of thorns in reverse,
She claims its softness for you.
Grass clippings cling to feet
The sun climbs
Grab coffee
A new day
New way of things
To go and die
Within a day
Yet–
Tiny decisions
Stuffed into a minute
An hour
A day
Jostled–
Sometimes
Too much
Not enough–
Incomplete
A woman once held a kaleidoscope to my eyes.
I, like child entranced, fooled by a prism of colors,
Gave my soul away.
Although I am not white, I admit I enjoy white privilege because most people perceive me as white. My mother was Melungeon, a mix raced people of Appalachia, and my real father was of Hispanic heritage. Most people look at me and see white features and assume a Greek or Italian heritage. Yes, some ignorant people have said stupid, racist things to me because of their assumption of my whiteness. In light of recent events, the privilege given to me by my features and skin color demands that I stand up to help.
We sat silent, complacent too long
Our children safe.
Between threats to our black and brown
Sisters and brothers,
We must shield– intrepid, resolute,
taking spit, hits,
gas, lash, bricks
even death, should it come to that
So nothing touches them.
We must fulfill the promise of our nation—
All are equal
It does begin with whispers of wind,
Steady, slow rhythm of fattened rain drops.
The distant rumbles begin.
Then the slight, quick flashing starts.
Soon the wind howls.
The rain beats as if a beast
Against the windows.
The rumbles, the shouting of an angry God
At the petulant child of a world.
The flashing, the cracking whip
Of our forgotten master.
The downpour is here,
The sobbing of the forgotten,
The hated, the poor,
The ones we were to love.
No ark on this horizon is seen.
Isn’t home where the heart is?
Or where you hang your hat?
My heart, well, I don’t know.
I seem to have misplaced it
Somewhere along the way.
I think I just mistreated it
And it decided to run away.
Didn’t treat it tenderly–
Let it get bruised,
Broken, bashed about.
So, it up and decided
It was time to go.
It bought a one-way ticket
On a now defunct airline
And went to catch the sun
On some tropical beach.
But that’s what happens
When you carelessly
Fling your heart around.
It develops shadows,
Misses beats,
Valves leak.
Then it gets pissed off,
runs away,
and home isn’t
what it
used to be.
Use a tuning fork,
Fine tune this old tone-deaf heart.
An insight to a heart mind and soul.
An onion has many layers. So have I!
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