The stream (all workshops)
With each heart beat
I see visions…
Faces…
Of kinsmen from next door
Burning in domestic flames
Screaming out in mortal pain!
With each drum beat
I see…
The Bloodshot eyes of young people like me
Balancing guns
In their premature hands
I watch in horror
As they spray bullets into the thoraxes of others
Familiar tunes play in my head
Of songs continually sang
By my mothers…
I hear them whisper to themselves;
“Was it better for our babies to be born alive?
…Or…”
We have heard the rattle and rhythmic clings
Of metals, and woods and plastics
Breath out music, melodic inspirations
We have even heard the dulcet humours
Tunes of our hearts beat rhythmically
And our troubles rest their tides
But the rhythmic clings of terror
Sound rattles of the riffles
And the millipede march of tanks
In and around our neighbourhoods
We only hear music of cries, stench
Of fear and awful aroma of death
Who sends me gifts of lilacs,
their mute scent clamoring
with my city, its carbon monoxide
mouthing words I can not hear?
The forest is unremembered here,
a sad dullness spikes the spring air.
Vacant fields of yellow emerge.
Come, pour the wine. Inhale the
elegant chandelier of air. Loosen
your lionheart before we forget
why we smile sometimes.
There is no reason for beauty.
SAY, “CHEESE”
“I’ll see you when I see you”
I said.
By that time
I will probably be dead.
How nonchalant and cool
of me.
I wish you well”
“Go to hell”
Is what I meant
But A thorough thoroughbred
am I.
And so I hung up the phone
faked a voiced indifference
And began to die
again
Say, “cheese and smile”
A candle glitters there in memory's distance
It keeps aflame to ever hold the story
of previous high-spirited existence
when every season's hour was filled with glory
At times I think I almost taste the essence
past emanating from that taper's fire
and from the burning wafts forgotten fragrance
(but still familiar to blithe heart's desire)
I'm looking for what?
A search that has taken a lifetime
Seemingly to be never satisfied
With what was found
The wanting of that special human contact
Which I thought I found, but did not
It was only the perception of my own mind
Projections of my wants
On another human life, without regards
Of what they needed.
Which leads to the human relationship crash
Created by the unawareness
Of what truly matters.
Me!
A careful grid of purest white
laid out upon a field of green
white rows trailing out of sight
all the lines are crisp and clean
Above, the clouds pass as they do
meadow larks sing out their song
before they flush toward skies of blue
a mild commotion that seems wrong
For on this consecrated ground
brave men who have earned their rest
lie undisturbed by any sound
men who died doing their best
INDIAN WAY
Ann 4th April 2012.
Trees diagonally lit, a ladder up
The Indian Way, leading to the stone,
an altar for the squirrel's meal
spread out with pine cone bracts,
the wind whispers vespers in the breeze
a leaf from autumns dress floats down,
delivers silent prayer, the roots play music
with their sinewy fingers clasping
velvet cushions, moss,
offering their ever changing shades
I wrap the page around me
And huddle in the wind
Will the ink seep into my dreams?
I take the words I folded
And press them to my skin
Everything is quiet but the fading image screams
I wrap the page around me
And stand out on the brink
The sentence loosens and flows red - a bleeding cape
I take the words I folded
Held up to the rain, I drink
He held his hand over the words and forced them - a thoughtless rape
Many summers past, we were standing,
for each other’s dates anxiously waiting.
it was then our eyes did glance,
and their arrival we forgot, perchance.
it was then your eyes transfixed mine,
yes it was within our domain, we felt fine,
we stared and glanced and blushed,
at each other’s arms, naturally we rushed.
t was at the spur of moment god granted,
it was our union for ever which was supplanted.
That moment we still remember even now,
it’s good our meeting was fortunate somehow.
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