Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Dreams and Paper-cut Epiphanies
Dreams and Paper-cut Epiphanies
Ever since starting the University I keep having a reoccurring dream, where I think I am being understood by the world only to open my mouth and speak Latin. As disbelieving and contradicting as it may sound, it isn’t easy for people to see me but at the same time I catch the eyes of many. I like to be unseen and unnoticeable though. It makes getting work done easier; makes writing easier; makes living life easier and writing about life easier.
The questions that are given- What do I do in life? What kind of work do I like doing? Do I feel at home in this country? Do I feel alienated? What does literature really mean to me? What do I love to read? Why am I here? What do home me to me? Is there a single place that means the world to me? Am I satisfied?
Firstly, I am never satisfied because I was spoil as a child. When my mother was dying, the single most important place in the world to me was by her side. If I close my eyes and try really hard I can still smell the decomposing fragrance of her body under the hazy of incents and perfume of our home. Or her husband’s home I should say. I didn’t mind the stank, I never did even at the very end.
As I child I wanted to dance, to be a ballerina. Before my mother married a second time, before we had money, and before my brother and I wasn’t denied much of anything anymore, I took lessons briefly. I will never know how my mother managed to pay for it. I was 6 years old. My cousin, whom I used to think, moved as a graceless newborn kitten, was in the same class as me. I used to envy her before I even knew the meaning of the world, and a small part of me still does this day. Even though I know I am smarter, more well liked, and not a druggie. I envied her greatly, for her magical power of being able to fit in better because of her light skin. I didn’t want to be dance anymore after the other girls started calling me Blackie.
Do I feel at home in this country? I was eighteen, attending a university party of irrelevance and making polite conversation when I found the answer to that question. When my turn came to tell the room my major and passion in life, I was gift with this callous response from the host, “Oh, journalism? Just to let you know seriously that the only reason you will probably be hire in news broadcasting is because you’re black and a woman and they probably need to fill a quota.” Nobody found anything wrong with her statement. No, I do not feel very much at home in this country at all.
The loneliness of my alienation in this country is like a prison. I feel captured and want nothing but to escape pass the overbearing iron gates of my inner isolation but the exit is bolted. I miss my mother when I am awake. Melancholy consumes swiftly and sometimes thoughts of death become a weighted heaviness inside me; it feels like a gilded key resting in my palm. Even if I am too appreciative to actually do away with myself, one can still dream cant they? And if there is one thing that I have learned in twenty-one years of existing is I dream very well and that preferring the company of books over people keeps my dreams vibrant. With each novel painting an intricate mosaic across my mindscape, I find solace every time I look upon its vivid reflection.
Literature means I get to see my mother because I dream of her often. She takes the form of my villain and my heroine of the latest piece I manage to conquer. I see her and I hate her for being so beautiful and healthy and so painstakingly there. She does not smell of decay and if I dare to touch, her skin will not freeze hell over. I know this intimately because my dream tells me so, in that funny way dreams do. I often lie and like to pretend I am not the daughter of a dead mother and delude myself in thinking I am not bitter.
Sometimes, I feel like the tiny black period placed at the end of a Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVLL or a Sylvia Plath’s poem. The ones that make me cry when I have thought there was going to be nothing sad enough for me to cry over again. I love to read poetry.
At the age of twenty I stood in the poetry section of a bookshop on the corner of Lake Drive and Robinson Road with no intentions on buying anything but just to smell the old pages. I remember, as I told the clerk I was searching for a mother’s day gift and that I won’t need help finding it, trying not to feel too much satisfaction in lying, but its hard to not smile when they are so easily fooled. I didn’t even fill a twinge of emotion when she replied earnestly, “Oh, you are such a good daughter. My son barely remembers to call on my birthday.”
I randomly pulled tomes from the shelves and flipped through them, hoping to get a paper cut even though I knew most if not all the books had long since lost their crispness. I don’t recall the time of day, but I remember it was warm inside the shop and dim. I stood in front of the poetry section idly flipping through a random book when something to my left caught my attention. It was a man, a rather short and husky man standing on his toes with his arm stretched above his head trying to reach a book that was too far out of his grasp. I was about to help when a painful sting in my finger distracted me. I had gotten a paper cut. I walked out that bookshop with a newly purchased used ‘Where the Sidewalk Ends’, the poems and drawings of Shel Silverstein because I decided along with writing cookbooks food and music reviews I wanted to write children’s poetry and prose books.
There used to be a time when I thought home was in the arms of my mother. The one place where my dark skin was beautiful, my female body was a temple and my passions bright enough to light the world. Now I am not so sure, because ever since my mother died I keep having this reoccurring dream, where I think I am being understood by the world only to open my mouth and speak Latin.
Ever since starting the University I keep having a reoccurring dream, where I think I am being understood by the world only to open my mouth and speak Latin. As disbelieving and contradicting as it may sound, it isn’t easy for people to see me but at the same time I catch the eyes of many. I like to be unseen and unnoticeable though. It makes getting work done easier; makes writing easier; makes living life easier and writing about life easier.
The questions that are given- What do I do in life? What kind of work do I like doing? Do I feel at home in this country? Do I feel alienated? What does literature really mean to me? What do I love to read? Why am I here? What do home me to me? Is there a single place that means the world to me? Am I satisfied?
Firstly, I am never satisfied because I was spoil as a child. When my mother was dying, the single most important place in the world to me was by her side. If I close my eyes and try really hard I can still smell the decomposing fragrance of her body under the hazy of incents and perfume of our home. Or her husband’s home I should say. I didn’t mind the stank, I never did even at the very end.
As I child I wanted to dance, to be a ballerina. Before my mother married a second time, before we had money, and before my brother and I wasn’t denied much of anything anymore, I took lessons briefly. I will never know how my mother managed to pay for it. I was 6 years old. My cousin, whom I used to think, moved as a graceless newborn kitten, was in the same class as me. I used to envy her before I even knew the meaning of the world, and a small part of me still does this day. Even though I know I am smarter, more well liked, and not a druggie. I envied her greatly, for her magical power of being able to fit in better because of her light skin. I didn’t want to be dance anymore after the other girls started calling me Blackie.
Do I feel at home in this country? I was eighteen, attending a university party of irrelevance and making polite conversation when I found the answer to that question. When my turn came to tell the room my major and passion in life, I was gift with this callous response from the host, “Oh, journalism? Just to let you know seriously that the only reason you will probably be hire in news broadcasting is because you’re black and a woman and they probably need to fill a quota.” Nobody found anything wrong with her statement. No, I do not feel very much at home in this country at all.
The loneliness of my alienation in this country is like a prison. I feel captured and want nothing but to escape pass the overbearing iron gates of my inner isolation but the exit is bolted. I miss my mother when I am awake. Melancholy consumes swiftly and sometimes thoughts of death become a weighted heaviness inside me; it feels like a gilded key resting in my palm. Even if I am too appreciative to actually do away with myself, one can still dream cant they? And if there is one thing that I have learned in twenty-one years of existing is I dream very well and that preferring the company of books over people keeps my dreams vibrant. With each novel painting an intricate mosaic across my mindscape, I find solace every time I look upon its vivid reflection.
Literature means I get to see my mother because I dream of her often. She takes the form of my villain and my heroine of the latest piece I manage to conquer. I see her and I hate her for being so beautiful and healthy and so painstakingly there. She does not smell of decay and if I dare to touch, her skin will not freeze hell over. I know this intimately because my dream tells me so, in that funny way dreams do. I often lie and like to pretend I am not the daughter of a dead mother and delude myself in thinking I am not bitter.
Sometimes, I feel like the tiny black period placed at the end of a Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVLL or a Sylvia Plath’s poem. The ones that make me cry when I have thought there was going to be nothing sad enough for me to cry over again. I love to read poetry.
At the age of twenty I stood in the poetry section of a bookshop on the corner of Lake Drive and Robinson Road with no intentions on buying anything but just to smell the old pages. I remember, as I told the clerk I was searching for a mother’s day gift and that I won’t need help finding it, trying not to feel too much satisfaction in lying, but its hard to not smile when they are so easily fooled. I didn’t even fill a twinge of emotion when she replied earnestly, “Oh, you are such a good daughter. My son barely remembers to call on my birthday.”
I randomly pulled tomes from the shelves and flipped through them, hoping to get a paper cut even though I knew most if not all the books had long since lost their crispness. I don’t recall the time of day, but I remember it was warm inside the shop and dim. I stood in front of the poetry section idly flipping through a random book when something to my left caught my attention. It was a man, a rather short and husky man standing on his toes with his arm stretched above his head trying to reach a book that was too far out of his grasp. I was about to help when a painful sting in my finger distracted me. I had gotten a paper cut. I walked out that bookshop with a newly purchased used ‘Where the Sidewalk Ends’, the poems and drawings of Shel Silverstein because I decided along with writing cookbooks food and music reviews I wanted to write children’s poetry and prose books.
There used to be a time when I thought home was in the arms of my mother. The one place where my dark skin was beautiful, my female body was a temple and my passions bright enough to light the world. Now I am not so sure, because ever since my mother died I keep having this reoccurring dream, where I think I am being understood by the world only to open my mouth and speak Latin.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The And Series
Ball and Chain
I want to love you.
I said to my body.
A type of feather-light love that wouldnt
strain bone, crack spines or
bruise my lips when I lie.
Body. I said, this shit aint fair
what your doing to me.
Your too heavy and I am sinking
into this wine too hard and too fast.
With your heavy love feeling like the
ball and chain around my thighs
My thighs are, sore thighs.
With the amount of strangers that keep
falling in betwixt and between.
I want to love you,
but you make my arms too heavy.
Honey I said, this shit aint fair
what your doing to me.
As I sink into
the winetoo hard and too fast.
--
Dependency versus Cruelty
Dependency is not a weakness but a default in ones character that is priceless.
Cruelty is never being able to spend another night in another arms.
Afraid of waking up to them fucking me bloody, bruised, red, and raw.
---
Blood and sTeam
I fill the hollow inside your bones.
And pounding on your ear, till I become known.
Do you feel me run my
fingers calmlyalong the sides your chambers?
I have no choice but to float
as you force me, pump me, and push me.
Do you feel me behind your eyes
As I see you before mines?
I turn cold inside your shivers.
So please dont feed me too much
sugar and clog up our world with too much
fucking syrup and honey.
--
Dehydration and Sex
Lips softer than rain
I drank. Every. Last. Drop
--
The Bed Spoke and Smiled
The bed was crowded; not that it mind. Havin' a day off from bein'
weighed down by her loneliness was refreshin.
---
Untitled and Melancholy
Hope only breeds eternal misery
When you look into the abyss
The abyss
will be looking back into you.
So be careful in what you hope to find,
you may receive hell within
your own confines.
---
I dont love you anymore.
Her stare was hard.
Like a rock that was thrown from her hand
and was caught by
my face.
I can taste blood
from where I accidentally bit the insides of
my cheek.
And fuck did it hurt.
the stare. Not the rock metaphor used
to describe the stare.
That was all figurative
But the 5 words that
followed was the actual pull of the trigger
to the gun that released
the metal bullet which pierced
my heart and literally killed me.
I want to love you.
I said to my body.
A type of feather-light love that wouldnt
strain bone, crack spines or
bruise my lips when I lie.
Body. I said, this shit aint fair
what your doing to me.
Your too heavy and I am sinking
into this wine too hard and too fast.
With your heavy love feeling like the
ball and chain around my thighs
My thighs are, sore thighs.
With the amount of strangers that keep
falling in betwixt and between.
I want to love you,
but you make my arms too heavy.
Honey I said, this shit aint fair
what your doing to me.
As I sink into
the winetoo hard and too fast.
--
Dependency versus Cruelty
Dependency is not a weakness but a default in ones character that is priceless.
Cruelty is never being able to spend another night in another arms.
Afraid of waking up to them fucking me bloody, bruised, red, and raw.
---
Blood and sTeam
I fill the hollow inside your bones.
And pounding on your ear, till I become known.
Do you feel me run my
fingers calmlyalong the sides your chambers?
I have no choice but to float
as you force me, pump me, and push me.
Do you feel me behind your eyes
As I see you before mines?
I turn cold inside your shivers.
So please dont feed me too much
sugar and clog up our world with too much
fucking syrup and honey.
--
Dehydration and Sex
Lips softer than rain
I drank. Every. Last. Drop
--
The Bed Spoke and Smiled
The bed was crowded; not that it mind. Havin' a day off from bein'
weighed down by her loneliness was refreshin.
---
Untitled and Melancholy
Hope only breeds eternal misery
When you look into the abyss
The abyss
will be looking back into you.
So be careful in what you hope to find,
you may receive hell within
your own confines.
---
I dont love you anymore.
Her stare was hard.
Like a rock that was thrown from her hand
and was caught by
my face.
I can taste blood
from where I accidentally bit the insides of
my cheek.
And fuck did it hurt.
the stare. Not the rock metaphor used
to describe the stare.
That was all figurative
But the 5 words that
followed was the actual pull of the trigger
to the gun that released
the metal bullet which pierced
my heart and literally killed me.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
In some we see
I have an headache
From sleeping in the sun for
too long.
Trying my hardest to dream my life away
For I am the daughter who longs to
Return to the dark womb
To take the place of her stillborn sister
And have only undeveloped dreams
Of the chilled outside world.
Unaware of demons, gods, angels, saints, and spirits
Unaware of expectations you didn't want
Lover you desperately need
But I am 20 years too late with my request
Said mother because there is no way your getting your
ass back in.
But I was relentless and determined and tired
I ask, well can't you take me in your arms instead?
Let me rest my head against your bare chest
And sway me to sleep?
I still think till this day I broke her heart
She saw herself in my broken sadness.
And saw that she couldn't fix me because
She was fighting, battling, and tossing and turning
herself
The next night mother wore her favorite light blue
nightgown, and went to sleep hanging from the ceiling.
Now I am stuck alone
with 20 years of experiences
20 years of unrest and
20 years of living a still death.
So far only being able to find
3 ultimates trues of life
1. That the most intimate place to kiss a women
is on the Inside of her wrist
In between the creases because
No two lips coming together
Will ever be sacred again
2. Empathy is a weapon
Ignorance is the gun
And the target is man
And I have been walking around
With the biggest fucking target painted red
On my forehead.
3. There are three kinds of insomniacs in the world
Those who won't fall asleep
Those who can't fall asleep
And those who can't stay asleep.
The frustration lay in knowing you
Can and knowing you can't at the same time
From sleeping in the sun for
too long.
Trying my hardest to dream my life away
For I am the daughter who longs to
Return to the dark womb
To take the place of her stillborn sister
And have only undeveloped dreams
Of the chilled outside world.
Unaware of demons, gods, angels, saints, and spirits
Unaware of expectations you didn't want
Lover you desperately need
But I am 20 years too late with my request
Said mother because there is no way your getting your
ass back in.
But I was relentless and determined and tired
I ask, well can't you take me in your arms instead?
Let me rest my head against your bare chest
And sway me to sleep?
I still think till this day I broke her heart
She saw herself in my broken sadness.
And saw that she couldn't fix me because
She was fighting, battling, and tossing and turning
herself
The next night mother wore her favorite light blue
nightgown, and went to sleep hanging from the ceiling.
Now I am stuck alone
with 20 years of experiences
20 years of unrest and
20 years of living a still death.
So far only being able to find
3 ultimates trues of life
1. That the most intimate place to kiss a women
is on the Inside of her wrist
In between the creases because
No two lips coming together
Will ever be sacred again
2. Empathy is a weapon
Ignorance is the gun
And the target is man
And I have been walking around
With the biggest fucking target painted red
On my forehead.
3. There are three kinds of insomniacs in the world
Those who won't fall asleep
Those who can't fall asleep
And those who can't stay asleep.
The frustration lay in knowing you
Can and knowing you can't at the same time
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The day of the funeral I will get caught in the Rain
The last breath of autumn slid across my skin.
Winter soon after died inside my chest soon after
I transformed into a living grave.
In me was sadness so deep every time I exhale
I was haunted by the memories of happiness.
Joy fled from my solemn body
leaving behind planes of pure mourning.
It is in moments where grief at its highest point
that any small act of kindness makes me cry.
Even a simple ‘Have a nice day’ from the flower-girl,
who has the same name as Mothers,
when she tells me goodbye.
Winter soon after died inside my chest soon after
I transformed into a living grave.
In me was sadness so deep every time I exhale
I was haunted by the memories of happiness.
Joy fled from my solemn body
leaving behind planes of pure mourning.
It is in moments where grief at its highest point
that any small act of kindness makes me cry.
Even a simple ‘Have a nice day’ from the flower-girl,
who has the same name as Mothers,
when she tells me goodbye.
Monday, December 13, 2010
tristful (meaning sorrowful or gloomy)
I only wanted to pull your halo down
not watch it slip around your neck.
You burned not just you but us
and your smoke rose to make a cloudy grave
in our heaven.
Even as I choked on your embers,
I still wanted to bring you back to me.
Except you hovered too high
above the ground instead.
Just out of my reach.
Your mouth tasted too hollow to speak
Anything besides half-truths and empty lies.
So I turned my face into your palms to kiss
your cold wrists and cry
under your dangling dirty feet.
not watch it slip around your neck.
You burned not just you but us
and your smoke rose to make a cloudy grave
in our heaven.
Even as I choked on your embers,
I still wanted to bring you back to me.
Except you hovered too high
above the ground instead.
Just out of my reach.
Your mouth tasted too hollow to speak
Anything besides half-truths and empty lies.
So I turned my face into your palms to kiss
your cold wrists and cry
under your dangling dirty feet.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
I dont love you anymore
Her stare was hard.
Like a rock that was
thrown from her hand
and was caught by
my face.
I can taste blood from
where I accidentally
bit the insides of
my cheek. And fuck
did it hurt the stare.
Not the rock metaphor
used to describe the stare.
That was all figurative
But the 5 words that
followed was
the actual pull
of the trigger
to the gun that
released the metal
bullet which
pierced my heart
and literally
killed me.
Like a rock that was
thrown from her hand
and was caught by
my face.
I can taste blood from
where I accidentally
bit the insides of
my cheek. And fuck
did it hurt the stare.
Not the rock metaphor
used to describe the stare.
That was all figurative
But the 5 words that
followed was
the actual pull
of the trigger
to the gun that
released the metal
bullet which
pierced my heart
and literally
killed me.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
portfolio draft stillborn
Stillborns
Hello sister.
Even though we never held hands, brushed each other’s cheek with butterfly kisses or braided the others hair I love you. I have even before I could understand that I didn’t have two birth certificates, but that we shared the same name. You were already long gone by then, even though I was only just discovering why I missed you.
I loved you as I sat with mama still deep in her grief on the day of your death. Loved you as I watch her struggle to put your baby blanket away again, back in the yellow box, back into closet, back on the top shelf. I loved you as mother turned her head into my chest and listened to the heartbeat of her stillalive baby.
When I am feeling nightly unrest, Father say its because you cant fall to sleep in your bed in heaven. That I must hold your spirit in my arms and sway you back to sleep. When you do I will finally be able to rest. So please sleep soundly tonight dear sister and I will continue to love you.
Your younger sister
Hello sister.
Even though we never held hands, brushed each other’s cheek with butterfly kisses or braided the others hair I love you. I have even before I could understand that I didn’t have two birth certificates, but that we shared the same name. You were already long gone by then, even though I was only just discovering why I missed you.
I loved you as I sat with mama still deep in her grief on the day of your death. Loved you as I watch her struggle to put your baby blanket away again, back in the yellow box, back into closet, back on the top shelf. I loved you as mother turned her head into my chest and listened to the heartbeat of her stillalive baby.
When I am feeling nightly unrest, Father say its because you cant fall to sleep in your bed in heaven. That I must hold your spirit in my arms and sway you back to sleep. When you do I will finally be able to rest. So please sleep soundly tonight dear sister and I will continue to love you.
Your younger sister
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Noose
I wanted to pull your halo down,
But not watch it slip around your neck
Only wanted to bring you back to me
Except you hovered
just inches above the ground
instead, Such a mess.
I cant stand to see you drifting,
swaying every so slightly from side to side
I couldnt reach the knife high enough
to cut your halo to lower you down.
I couldnt reach you anymore.
I could only turn my face into your palms
and kissed your cold wrist
And cried myself to sleep under your
dangling feet
But not watch it slip around your neck
Only wanted to bring you back to me
Except you hovered
just inches above the ground
instead, Such a mess.
I cant stand to see you drifting,
swaying every so slightly from side to side
I couldnt reach the knife high enough
to cut your halo to lower you down.
I couldnt reach you anymore.
I could only turn my face into your palms
and kissed your cold wrist
And cried myself to sleep under your
dangling feet
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Dante' Hot ass Oven
Accidents, alcohol, and suicide
The glass was broken in my hands
But I couldn’t stop drinking. Too far gone. Can’t taste the alcohol anymore. So I didn’t notice that my wrists are bleeding.
Dying was not part of the plan
But life is change, quietly. I will go out fucking screaming. 2nd floor, second bedroom. With regrets and only night sweats keeping me company in between the sheets.
As I march my way to dante land
I grab the bottle and like the way it feels on my lips. Reminds me of a loud tragedy. This bane ending. This fading heart beat. This slow blood drip on hardwood floors.
And over the sound I can hear the angels’ scream
My name
The glass was broken in my hands
But I couldn’t stop drinking. Too far gone. Can’t taste the alcohol anymore. So I didn’t notice that my wrists are bleeding.
Dying was not part of the plan
But life is change, quietly. I will go out fucking screaming. 2nd floor, second bedroom. With regrets and only night sweats keeping me company in between the sheets.
As I march my way to dante land
I grab the bottle and like the way it feels on my lips. Reminds me of a loud tragedy. This bane ending. This fading heart beat. This slow blood drip on hardwood floors.
And over the sound I can hear the angels’ scream
My name
Monday, May 31, 2010
Stillborns and Memorial day
Hello sister.
Even though we never held hands, or brushed each other cheeks with butterfly kisses. Blew raspberries out car windows together. Never sang to one another or braided the others hair. I love you even though we never met because you were already gone before I came. I love you because as I sat with mama in her grief and I know you were loved. I smiled with my heart every time someone calls me by your name.
Keeping waiting for me and I will keep remembering.
Love,
Your sister
Even though we never held hands, or brushed each other cheeks with butterfly kisses. Blew raspberries out car windows together. Never sang to one another or braided the others hair. I love you even though we never met because you were already gone before I came. I love you because as I sat with mama in her grief and I know you were loved. I smiled with my heart every time someone calls me by your name.
Keeping waiting for me and I will keep remembering.
Love,
Your sister
Friday, May 21, 2010
Red Robin
Red robin,
Red robin
with your
violent red
blushing red
breast. Sharp
eyes and pointed
looked, like metal
gleeming in the sun reflecting
off dew from the morning rain.
Standing proudly with your vivacious
red chest radiating. Perched with pride
on a branch as if saying look at me world!
Look at me! And extol trills
of goodmornings.
Oh sweet Robin
how you look
so alive the most
through the
scope of a
Beretta 92FS
BB gun, at
4:00 a.m.
Red robin
with your
violent red
blushing red
breast. Sharp
eyes and pointed
looked, like metal
gleeming in the sun reflecting
off dew from the morning rain.
Standing proudly with your vivacious
red chest radiating. Perched with pride
on a branch as if saying look at me world!
Look at me! And extol trills
of goodmornings.
Oh sweet Robin
how you look
so alive the most
through the
scope of a
Beretta 92FS
BB gun, at
4:00 a.m.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Spring Fever unfinished
(cough, cough)
She is poisonous
to insects and birds.
Pesticide dipped berries
they tried to tell me
(cough, cough)
But her face was a garden that had me blossoming.
And I couldn’t shade away
as she melted out of her fur for me with slow
seasoned eases
And sprinkled my lawn with the seeds of black roses.
Now, I am in too deep to be uprooted.
(cough, cough)
She is poisonous
to insects and birds.
Pesticide dipped berries
they tried to tell me
(cough, cough)
But her face was a garden that had me blossoming.
And I couldn’t shade away
as she melted out of her fur for me with slow
seasoned eases
And sprinkled my lawn with the seeds of black roses.
Now, I am in too deep to be uprooted.
(cough, cough)
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Blossom at the End of the Body
Leaving this world must be the flower,
its three violet faces turned to the air — a man can't look
at a flower without knowing he's dying.
That's the beauty. Parting must be this little
chance, with its stem and flutter. It's no god
and it's no force and our grief is a rock, a clod,
a punk of earth. Truth is,
what we will miss most
isn't her or him or mother or child but
the particular blue at the side of the field,
the heart's pure botany, for
the body is a science. And there is no
substitute for thing. Not love, not happiness,
not faith. But flower. But flower. But flower.
Beckian Fritz Goldberg
its three violet faces turned to the air — a man can't look
at a flower without knowing he's dying.
That's the beauty. Parting must be this little
chance, with its stem and flutter. It's no god
and it's no force and our grief is a rock, a clod,
a punk of earth. Truth is,
what we will miss most
isn't her or him or mother or child but
the particular blue at the side of the field,
the heart's pure botany, for
the body is a science. And there is no
substitute for thing. Not love, not happiness,
not faith. But flower. But flower. But flower.
Beckian Fritz Goldberg
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mother's baby
I held my stillborn sister in my arms and rocked as she slept on and on...on and on. She had 3 of my names and the same father as brother and I. Same nose and but mothers pretty brown eyes. I wonder if she inherited mama's sickness just like I had.
They say you dont know what you got until what you got is gone. When will you too disappear sweet child? And leave me alone once more? Slowly but surely going completly mad in sorrow and lonieness.
They say you dont know what you got until what you got is gone. When will you too disappear sweet child? And leave me alone once more? Slowly but surely going completly mad in sorrow and lonieness.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Bee
Sweet new honey bee, trying to stinging a broken heart. There is poison in the river, with no curing sugar. Pretty flowers kept fallin' in and now they have no more love to give. So the bee's started stinging the heart.
The nectar is all gone and the sea is too watered down. Love is the river, its bitter and burns like arsenic. So she sipped it slow because its all she knows. So sweet little honey bee fly away, before you too drink the poisonous love and start to decay.
The nectar is all gone and the sea is too watered down. Love is the river, its bitter and burns like arsenic. So she sipped it slow because its all she knows. So sweet little honey bee fly away, before you too drink the poisonous love and start to decay.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Rain
Her rain dripping down slowly
Drip.By.Drip.By.Drip.
Seeping inside was only the beginning
As she floated away hidden past
Adsorbing betrayals, a sea so wide and vast
Consuming beyond maximum limit
Drinking in the lust of lush that never quit
Filling ones being fully
Drip...By...Drip
Poisoning slowly
Drip.By.Drip.By.Drip.
Seeping inside was only the beginning
As she floated away hidden past
Adsorbing betrayals, a sea so wide and vast
Consuming beyond maximum limit
Drinking in the lust of lush that never quit
Filling ones being fully
Drip...By...Drip
Poisoning slowly
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Whisperes of the Night
Love shines brightest in the dark
While the touch of a stranger is as burning as the sun
But intense sorrow consumes lovers of the moon when apart
Trapping lonely souls so tortured and young
Dreaming and living in constant heartache
Lets death becomes beautiful whispers of sweet promises during
Twilight nothing but the of passion only two lovers can make
Will keep burning love in the dark shining bright
While the touch of a stranger is as burning as the sun
But intense sorrow consumes lovers of the moon when apart
Trapping lonely souls so tortured and young
Dreaming and living in constant heartache
Lets death becomes beautiful whispers of sweet promises during
Twilight nothing but the of passion only two lovers can make
Will keep burning love in the dark shining bright
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Noose
I whispered goodbye
To the one who caressed my affection
Misty eyes heard the sad note
Hanging today is a thief at the gallows
She the pretty Robin who stole the Queens heart
As the rope tightens around her neck
All I can think about is my lipstick kiss
Place right under the naval
And when the trap door releases our stare
I cry as she falls but not before saying...
Long live my Queen
To the one who caressed my affection
Misty eyes heard the sad note
Hanging today is a thief at the gallows
She the pretty Robin who stole the Queens heart
As the rope tightens around her neck
All I can think about is my lipstick kiss
Place right under the naval
And when the trap door releases our stare
I cry as she falls but not before saying...
Long live my Queen