imagine the men
forgotten and dead in
fresh pits
imagine their
wives and daughters
at gunpoint
in the rape camps
no one will ever admit
or no
don’t imagine it
it’s already happening
in a country that has
nothing to do with
your own life
it’s over and done with
in the time it takes
a boot to crush a
newborn’s skull
this one small sound
alone
should be enough to
bring us all to
our knees
not quite silence in the
gentle hum of early afternoon
but maybe something softer than
the screams of crows
something more human than the
room of hanged men
and how many years now since
my last escape?
how many hours wasted staring into
dirty mirrors or
through warped panes of glass?
what i see is that at
some point in the future i will be
asking my son for forgiveness
at some point
i will speak of my own father
for the last time
will spit out his ashes while
faceless men in the towns i’ve escaped from
beat their wives and girlfriends with
the brutal fists of love
and one half of the truth
is that i never saved anyone
and the other half
is that i never knew anyone who wanted to be saved
i had nothing better to offer than
the holes that had already
been dug
this is history on a personal level
the possibility of failure
through indifference
of love turning to hate
and then hatred to suicide
and if my mother sheds any tears
over the sudden holes that
appear in her life
i make a point of looking away
if desperate acts of violents leave
any visible scars on the
ones left behind
i don’t want to know
i have already
made up my mind to run
[b]Two sides of the same coin…[/b]
I have been the hunter
I have been the hunted
I’ve tracked down men with
the reckless abandon of a
she wolf in heat,
lusting after their hairy, fur
covered bodies
and their howls of ecstasy
as I sucked them dry.
I have been pursued,
coaxed out of hiding by
sugar-coated words:
“I’m not going to hurt you.
It’s okay to come out.”
only to feel a gun poking
in my side.
I have run in circles,
howling at the moon,
getting nowhere,
my frustration
dripping like spittle from
my mouth and
sticking to my sweat coated fur.
I have fought battles with my heart.
I have run away into
hiding and licked my wounds
until I felt it was safe
to come out once again.
I have poked my snout
into places I was not
ready to handle yet.
A paw into a snake’s hole,
I have learned from experience.
I have faced death and come out on top.
I have raised my paw as a symbol
of truce one minute
and maliciously torn into flesh the next.
I have given myself over to these primal urges.
I have been meek as a puppy
and fierce as a protective mother.
I have sought out a quiet life,
yet I have been sucked into a wild pack.
I have lived for myself.
I have lived for my brothers and sisters.
I have served a dual existence.
I have turned a smiling eye in your direction,
masked a heart full of pain.
I have loved the feeling of
wet grass under my body.
I have rolled down a hill
only to end up covered in briars.
I have searched for one who notices both sides of me.
I have curled up in a corner
and covered my eyes with my paws.
I know the beauty of dark, damp places.
I have hidden from people knowing
they only cause more of this pain,
but now.
now I hold out a paw
and wait for you to take it
knowing things can never be as they once were
[b]Barbies[/b]
First, you must understand
this all happens for a reason.
The baby bird
pushed out of its nest
by the hand of GOD,
the squirrel
that lost its home,
evicted by an angry tornado,
the raccoon
that fried on the power lines
but took the power with it for a couple of hours,
the mother
who stares into space
is asked what is wrong and says nothing.
You must understand
that everyone in the world is happy.
The man who just lost his baby,
left her on top of the car
and can’t find her now,
still smiles at Seinfeld.
The woman who begs for money,
is content on the street
but needs it to pay her Internet bill,
hums a song to herself.
The kid who failed a test,
lost his dog,
and yells at his mom
goes outside to play ball.
Finally you must understand
that none of this matters.
It’s words, on a page,
fucking each other and fucking the world,
thrust together
by a girl who played
with words instead of Barbies.
[b]What I should have said[/b]
please forgive me
if i can not always speak
and as you watch and wonder
if it was something you said
know that it was
please do not ask me what
or strive to make things better again
the damage is already done.
by Renate Moody (c) 2002
([email]renate [at] poetryuprising [dot] com[/email])
[b]Author’s Note:[/b]
Renate Moody lives in Roswell, GA with her husband. She graduated with a B.A. in English in 2001 and now seeks the perfect life and career. Until she figures it out, she contents herself with writing about the search. More of Renate’s work can be found on her web site at [url=http://www.poetryuprising.com]www.poetryuprising.com[/url]
[b]Charles Town[/b]
Spanish moss curtains
fluttering in the wind
A gauzy layer over
the banks of the Ashley.
Down by the market
Ebony skin glistens
Sculpting a basket
of the reedy sawgrass.
The old market echoes
cries from the past
that trail a carriage
of modern day belles.
Sidewalks sizzling
Paddle fans twirling
down Meeting Street
people shuffle.
Over to St. Mary’s
with whispers from the tombs
over to Poogan’s Porch
Miss Zoey speaks.
Lazily sipping on the side porch
trying to catch the afternoon’s breeze.
Over on Queen Street
tantalizing smells waft
calling your name.
At the end of the Battery
regal homes stand
taking notice of
all the years.
The images pieced
create the majestic.
Charles Town
your spirit will always remain.
[b]Talk of Nothing[/b]
talk of nothing
nothing on the black double
tracks of phone line
nothing but birds
birds like crows
or blue jays squawking
birds bearing bad news
news from the Mockingbird
two streets over
news of a neighbor’s death
death by electrocution
fried burnt hair and smoking bones
talk
of nothing
but
lines
of birds
news of death.
[b]Blackberry Summers[/b]
Plump,
Juicy,
Sloe-black,
the summer fruit of mine
tempting on a vine.
Scratched,
Stained hands,
plopping into the tin bucket slowly
stretching highly and bending lowly.
Sun,
sweltering,
summer fruit,
to be savored to the last bite.
Eaten morning , noon, or night.
Flaky,
butter crowned,
crust,
displayed on the windowsill.
Dyed blue mouth getting its fill.
Ambrosia,
Delectable,
the fruit of blue-black
the memories of my youth take me back.
[b]I’ll Take Ft. Lauderdale[/b]
“New York is cosmopolitan”
Maria once
piped to me.
“Florida” is so pink flamingo-ish.”
True
but not iced in
dun tinted snow
in mid-winter.
I am loath to leave my
-aquamarine
-chlorine scented
-kidney shaped
-palm hated
pool
simply to be
cosmopolitan.
Besides
the
– portly
-Aqua Velvet reeking
-tobacco stained
man
at the air port terminal
took my new
size 10 Herringbone coat
instead of his when
airport security was frisking
my 11 year old
-peanut butter smudged
-gotta go to the bathroom
– wiggly daughter.
Because they deemed
her squirming terrorist like activities
to be a threat to national security.
Obviously they had never been on a two-hour flight
with a bored child.
so
Maria
instead of being cosmopolitan this winter
I will reapply
another coating of my
– SPF # 25
-Coppertone Bronze tan like a goddess
sunscreen
and simply stare at the
-plastic
-flapping
-one legged
flamingos
by the pool
this winter.
[b]Lunch @ La Belle[/b]
Down to La Belle
for escargot
garlic-butter gravy drippings
down Kelly’s chin
The large lady next
to us reeking of
lavender
toilet water
and adorned with a droopy
chapeau
flies buzzin’ in a craze around my crepe
exhaust filters in
the city sounds
certainly not a Monet
lunch @ La Belle
the monsieur in the tropical print
and polyester pants
belches not-so-discreetly
excuse moi
or something like that
cheap blush wine
and
tap water in a cobalt blue bottle
re-corked I believe
lunch @ La Belle
Kelly laughs
the sounds and scenery charm
her
amusant
or something like that
Lunch@La Belle
by Carol Parris Krauss (c)2002
([email]ckrauss [at] ahschool [dot] com[/email])
Carol Parris Krauss is a poet and teacher. She currently lives with her daughter Kelly in south Florida. From September to June, Carol teaches English at a local private school. She longs to return to coastal Carolina and inhabit a rustic beach cottage. Her poems are quite visual, complexly simple, and usually about the South.
[b]Author’s Note:[/b]
More of Carol’s poems can be found at [url=http://www.deadmule.com]Dead Mule[/url], [url=http://www.kotapress.com]Kota Press[/url], and The Florida Palm.
and he hits you
then brings you flowers
or he just hits you
it’s not a story anymore
it’s a religion
and i choose not to believe
the earth will be consumed
yes
but not in my lifetime
the days will pass too quickly
and the reasons for leaving
will fade
and it’s always someone
a friend
an old lover
or a sister-in-law
and just beyond the brutality
are the sounds of children
playing in the street
the approaching scream of sirens
after a man i’ve never met
finds the brakes too late
and we call this autumn
and the sky is a brilliant blue
and without warmth
the sun is old beyond years
and we have begun
hearing rumors of its death
i have found myself standing
by my son’s bed in
a whiteknuckle rage as
his temperature hangs at 104
the list of people
i would strike dead so that
he might be spared this
is endless
[b]at the joining of sky and horizon[/b]
the prints now left behind in sand will soon be washed away
the fires that burn bright tonight will all burn out by day
remembrance does not come for those who carve their names in stone
their memory decays and fades as even stone erodes….
no guarantees implied or written come with human birth
no standard set nor written guide can say what life is worth
one day life is, the next it’s not, the next new life begins
that life will live, that life will die – and that is how life is….
the author writes – his paper fades; and so his story dies
and who he is and what he was gets lost in seas of time
since all men great and small one day must breathe a final breath….
the greatest shame of all would be to die in fear of death….
[b]illumination:[/b]
the darkness from the light of day will leave unmelted snow
illuminations far removed leave candles left to glow
that candlelight is still romantic – so the lovers say…
but are dim lights and silent nights the proof we’ve grown afraid?
if so then those who pause to look might see what has been lost
and if in this lucidity – they choose a road unwalked…
if finally they gamble and let go of all they grasp…
they might discover candlelight can light their life at last….
[b]in the dream and what is hoped for, maybe[/b]
in the dream and what is hoped for, maybe;
i will see with different eyes.
i will walk inside your shoes,
i will live another’s life.
as maybe you would also.
maybe in my aspirations;
i’m the man i’d like to be.
i’m the hero of the story,
i’m the difference; i’m the dream.
and always living in it.
maybe in my daydream fancies;
i was things i’ve never been.
i was who i’d least expected,
giving out; putting in –
with so much left to offer.
in the dream of what is hoped for, maybe;
mirrors show me things i like.
reflections are the least revealing,
i paint truth about my life.
and there, i find my shelter.
it’s just a shame
that when it’s done,
when i must leave the world behind –
glancing back,
i’ll see i lived…
in dreams alone;
alone in life.
my nightmare then upon me.
[b]maroon and somnolescence[/b]
the words i write upon this page are thoughts which slowly fade
as time makes mind and body blend into the endless shade.
the will is strong, the dream is real, or so it seems to me
though empty glass and ticking clock is all i now can see.
fatigue sets in, and makes itself at home… like it belongs.
and till the sickness runs it’s course there are no sounds of songs.
there’s just the old ironic dream i sip from reddened glass,
the dream that i might wake to find my happiness at last.
by Joel R. S. Young (c)2002
([email]FndleMcGoat [at] aol [dot] com[/email])
[b]Author’s Note:[/b]
Joel R. S. Young poses this question: “Am i an artist? Read what i have written, and decide for yourselves.”
