the full citizenship act…

as i was entering
the main library
i saw
the brown bag prophet
in the courtyard
with
a cup of coffee
and
a stack
of
law books
he seemed
to be
composing something
on
a notepad
when i
inquired
he said
he was writing a law
to
pass onto his
congressperson
for
consideration
when i asked
what rights
does it grant
the brown bag prophet
said
nothing’s granted
granted
implies a regal gift
no
this law
recognizes
that women
aren’t
chattel
and
have the right
to
make decisions
about
their own lives
and
bodies
without the imposition
of
religious or male
mandates
for
without that
they don’t have
full citizenship

 

 

lost…

the uncles
would say
that the spirits
walked upon
the earth at night
touching you
when your fears
became too great
they said
you could tell
when they were near
for the hounds
would cry
with voices not their own
voices of men
or women
who had been
prisoners upon this earth
chained to their days
in the fields of fear
beaten with whips
of promises of things to come
in the afterlife
streets of gold
virgin brides
eternal peace
but none
are real
they are but
passing glances
from an unrequited love
glances that led these souls
into the darkness of belief
where the only light
is from the embers of their souls
an embers
not bright enough
to show the way
home

if there is justice…

the blood
you have spilled
shall form the walls
around heaven
barring your entrance
and paving the way
to hell’s brides
behind each
of the seven veils
you shall find
the rotten corpses
of the women
you have slaughtered
like a hungry dog
you will  lick the heels
of hate
curl up beside
the most damned of life
your prize shall be
to trade places
with those you’ve killed
and the pain
of their death
shall be yours
over
and
over
again
may
the gods
make
it
so

end note…

Suicidal Hands by Vlad

these hands
count no more prayers
chants
or devotions
no longer do i
press my hopes
and dreams
into these polished stones
for now these hands
bare the burns of lust
lust branded into the palms
of my flesh on darkened haitian streets
penetrating into my sacred soul
leaving my mind in a monsoon of doubt
where was my god
when i cried out
my god
why hast thou
forsaken me
now these hands
these fingers
grasp
a single blade of polished steel
to bleed
life’s poison
from
these veins

 

 

 

This is the second part of a series of poetry challenges between Jade (http://jadepaloma.wordpress.com/) and me. The whole idea behind it is to send a picture to the other as inspiration (or visual muse, if you want to), and the other has to write a poem inspired by the image. Her first response to the challenge is posted on her site.

the offering…

on an old altar
he placed a roman coin
exposed by rain
found among the ruins
for sale
not worth much
the guide said
but authentic
how much i asked
two dinars
but it’s only worth
one dinar
but it was found here
where poor foot soldiers came
offering their wages
for favors in the night
wine and women
the holy sacraments for the lonely
and disciples of poverty
given on a temporary altar of love
a coin that purchased a soul
rather than food for his family
or education for his children
and he asked
why are you crying
because
nothing has changed