to thou
who cut the hole
in my paper cup
just as things
were looking up
sending me
tumbling down
with a thud
to
the ground
with a most
unpleasant sound
words from my lips
that
should not be heard
by man or beast
but nonetheless
they were uttered
and then
i saw
an old priest shudder
and
even a butterfly flutter
with wings changing
from
white
to
pink
oh that i could
recall
those words
but reverse blessings
do have their place
especially when they’re
in your face
aunt bea said the other day i met with my attorney to discuss my living trust the dear child kept saying now when you pass on but after about four or five reiterations i said my dear you needn’t attempt to soften your language for me what you mean to say is when i’m dead or if you prefer when i can’t raise my head from that earthly bed cuz’ honestly when i hear the phrase passing on it makes me think of that tv program let’s make a deal there may be something behind door number one or it may just be empty
now for a while I was certain that god spoke latin i mean why else would they teach it in almost every school but overtime i began to think since all our money said in god we trust that it must be english but which dialect because given all the harsh words between religious folks surely there’s a difference between southern and northern ways of speaking but the problem became even more confusing when I realized that people all over the world were praying in their own language surely most of them must be wrong given all the world conflicts so i’m certain there must be just one language we must use to get through to god but what language
another soul
another language
the same human misery
a darkened doorway
gilded with childish dreams
not of gold
but of a silver lining
now tarnished
by the acidic reality
that death is more
than the grave
it is sitting on a street corner
begging to breathe hope’s vapor
smoking discarded butts of existence
becoming a belligerent drunk
screaming at what fate has given
cursing death
for its
late arrival
This poem was inspired by a post by my friend Cindy (http://theonlycin.wordpress.com/2010/8/15/repost-her-name-is-monica/) I was a bit tearful when I finished reading her post and knew that I could not write anything right away…but wanted to release some of the emotions…so here it is …a mental release so that I can sleep tonight. Please visit Cindy’s site and see the inspiration for this poem.
as she passed by in her traditional gypsy skirt
embroidered with sequins and coins
one man created an illusion of intimacy in his mind
while another said
beautiful yes…but she’s a
gypsy
exiled
punishment
harboring
jesus
myth
nazis
systematic
genocide
concentration camp
forced labor
imprisonment
extermination
killed on sight
einsatzgruppen
history’s largest
mass murder
after war
assimilation schemes
restrictions
cultural freedom
language
and
music
banned
labeled
socially degraded stratum
women sterilized
state policy
had they but know her history
or that her love for country was as unconditional
as her beauty
they might have rethought their words
if not
then they are no more than fools
for seeing just a gypsy
Read Between the Minds 