The Replacements

Celestial magic, the sun, the Earth,
the moon and those who
watch the world in humble thought,
there is no strength in haste, no understanding in fear.
Buds will form, and in innocent hope, we welcome
their final emergence in hopeless abandon,
the transient travel of snow to lower depths,
shards of symbolism, the cyclical reminders of our birth
the inevitable recognition                    the coming of our deaths
the replacements, weighed on a scored scale, our next generation.

What do we know, if only what we don’t of this world,
those who determine the score, demand justice in the face
of this infinite progression of hate,
bring death to the only ones left who know life.
I understand more than I like.
There are no replacements, only more strife.
The cycle continues and again, we forget the seasons.

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The Voices of Black Friday

Outer Voice

Welcome to Black Friday, Ladies and Gents.
A dollar buys what the Bangladeshi made for fifty cents.
Bath accessories, towels galore.
Electronics, gadgets, infinite items to explore.
It’s the deal of the year folks, the steal of the week.
Just trample a few prospectors for the items you seek.
One died at Walmart, this morning, don’t fret.
All will die tomorrow, if the economy is offset.
Spend like there’s no tomorrow, gorge again today.
Not on turkey and mashed potatoes, but on the ornaments the body can display.
Fill your life with pleasure, forget about those without.
Take it to the next level of consumption and self-doubt.
You think you’re at your limit, you’ve only started on the tour.
The more you buy, the more jobs, the more open doors.

Inner Voice

Or is that really the truth you’ve been told, my dear friend?
Take a moment, take a minute, think about that girl with fifty cents.
No matter how much you buy, it yours and yours alone.
The profit for the master, the one who closes all the doors.
The girl takes her coins, her booty for the week.
Gives it to her parents, so they can have a meal to eat.
Tomorrow she returns again, to sew that shirt for you.
Sweating at the sweatshop, instead of studying in school.
At the register, give your dollar, fill your cart for another round.
But find comfort only in an illusion that there’s absolutely nothing you can’t live without.

written December 2013

Words Take Two

There are two
and you are words
and you ask me what separates us from the animals
and I say not much, if all that is left
is these words.
And what can we conclude about them anyway
if not to use words.
To relish in their stutter, their mumble
their spontaneous laughter.
In vessels of two, of who
they don’t know.
To call upon them, the uncertain.
To stand in order, the possible justice.
Here they are together again
for what matters, for
what is in this and that and thou and what is
in th anyway,
a single sound that may become a pair
a multiplication beyond our control
a reproduction in spaces meant
for only cold air to linger.
We are the expansion.
We, the generators, the pollinators of ideas.
And here I become you, you and your thoughts
for just a moment,
just enough to bring down falsehood
and join for a second in truth.

This is a different kind of animal.

Aging Together on the Porch

Some nights I pray only for silhouettes.
For visions outlined and still motion.
For placid envy resting only in the breeze.
The summer will never rest from itself, it seems,
And my body is still wet from the day.
Too much of what was said lies awake in the streets.
Watch it resurface with the mystics below the mist,
Spindled and snaked along the sweat of our backs.
There are people here, too, you know,
With questions of why the darkness falls so late
When they saw it coming sooner.
Leave them silent on the porch.
Let us languish inside the comfort of other souls
When the night rests still.
Words left them long ago,
And their minds hold questions only for their eyes.
Like the breeze, they speak to themselves.
The ages bring this, tells the night.
The summer day will never rest—
It hides next to the sun.
From the porch we wait for answers.
Questions snake around your silhouette.
The morning will bring more.

The Poet’s Journey

This is the place to be
when none other is right.
The poet rests her head on the page
bringing justice to her voice.

When no other soul will listen
and the lords of small talk speak,
I will rest my head in the shadow of my hand
and tell the story of this world within me.

When time flows by in currents
or rests weary by the shore,
we’ll grab the minutes by the hour
and spread letters from our mouths to your world.

From the beginning of time to the timeless end.
From birth to glory and inevitable death.
The duty is to find peace within the body’s echoed song.
Release the inspiration that lies aching in our bones.

Write for the Earth who sustains your breath.
Write for the hearts who cry lonely in their beds.
Write for the children who need justice in their lives.
Write simply for passion you can no longer hide.

When your words belong to others,
it is then they may understand
the true lesson of these lines.
Deep within them, also rests a poet inside.