Okay, so posting everyday is not going to happen until I get caught up with work, internship and school... just too too busy with service work too ... looking forward to Spring and a fresh new start when mandatory hours are completed and school is over so I can dedicate more time into my writing,,.. :-)

Expired Trinkets

Expired Trinkets



Death follows-

right behind you.

Tip-toes

He's creepin'

Spy when he must.

You might even be sleepin.

Gleeming

He's knowin

You fell and are stuck.

Even the tough outta luck.

As your pain gets deeper,

out steps the reaper.

Into your dreams he settles you,

so unclear, wallowing-

denying our fear.

Haunting and taunting-

he's lurking

he's stalking

Don't listen if he comes a knockin'!

You hum those sweet prayers,

those nursery rhymes

and anything peaceful to pass the time.

This distraction might work for a minute or two-

but what now should you do

when your senses are triggered 

to the drug's sweet intoxication,

speaking straight to your disease-

bringing you down to your knees?

You ain't goin' on no airplane, train, or bus.

So there's no need to rush,

'cause this ain't no ticket-

the only road it leads to is nowhere.

So make these expired trinkets! 

RED

Never noticed red before smoke filled blue skies grey and young lungs poisoned by man-made drones believed heroes by pawns like prisoners of nuclear families with white labs and white picket fences.  Green their God.  Never knew red before pursed lips blew away the ash caked city.

Starting with one little book under piles of rubble.

“Mary’s Rose Garden” was the title- inside were tips on keeping such beautiful flowers in blossom.  The ever changing colors – even on trees were unreal.  

Was there a world before red and grey?

Before these dreary shades and isolated existence of but a few?

Before death was not such a daily reprieve?  A burden, eventually desensitized out of us still living.

Young love before red…

How amazing!

It’s truth paradoxical and unrelenting: the little boy’s eyes gleamed.

Had the myths maddening tales been real?

Growing Pains

----Bullying----

Cyber wars, silly name calling games-

Twisted words

spouted by two faced girls!

Worse when the worst is when they whisper hushed comments under Doritos stained tongues about her lack of style, nervous twitches, braces and goofy smile

It’s only a five minute walk but feels like she just ran a mile.

And those words still echo through her head, daily,

Making her mind crazy

She’s been cut down to the bone,

Throwing her of mommy’s little princess throne.  

----Teenage angst----

Where am I from?

I am from the ocean tide.

My mother?

Who was she?

Where is she?

Still lost at the sea where she left me?

Maybe.

I am from another place.

Sometimes alone-

like in outer space.

Ya, minimize and call it “teensage angst” if you must,

But I am NOT coming back,

So don’t worry come dusk.

Feel lost and abandoned without a trace.

Nowhere to hide in such a mysterious rat race,

I can’t keep up the pace.

Who am I?

I am just another number.

860-988-1324- my cell

What a disgrace!

Is a number a person?

008-30-1236- my S.S.

Fuck!

I am so confused.

Where am I from?

I am from blood shackles and stale tears....

lonely echoes of dirty caked faces and inbreed fears...

cracked out bottomless bottles of despair...

Freeze dried tears to save for future years…

Where am I from?

I am from the institutions of regret.

Like a teacup shattered and glued back, but never the same.

Never again the same.  

Broken.  Impossible to tame.

Zig-zagged and ridged.

Crazed and fragile,

No more shakin’ the rattle.

Boiling water pours through me everyday.

I stand strong because I like it that way.

Standing tall. Proud.  This is me.

But there are cracks.

So please don't laugh

Just cut me some slack…

Where am I from?

I am from the comfort and solace...

God gave me when you left my empty palace-

the root of the tree with no name.

A place where fear resides but shallow cries

break free from shame.

Turn me into a spark.

A spark that ignites the coals.

The black, crumbled coals.

A spark that sings a song of red-orange tones.

A spark that warms the restless walking in the cold.

Now I am fire.  

Destruction!  

Everything and everyone crossing my path is gone.

I am alone.

So don't touch me.

Don't hug me.

Don't even try to love me.

I am alone.

I want alone.

I need alone.

I die alone.

Where am I from?

I am from emptiness.

I am from despair.

But God gave me the tools to give a care.

So I will take the dare and move on from there.

The real question is not

“Where am I from?”

but “Where will I go from here?”

Roots

Where am I from?

I am from the roots of a tree

without form;

a river with no depth

a canvas with no paint

An untainted, un-tattered, untouched, unknown divine miracle,

the unborn.

-------------

Without form,

there is no name, no label, no habits, no judgment, no scorn,

no pity, no forlorn misery, no shame, no fear, no blame, no ignorance…

just a heart beating wisdom of, the Sutra,

a reverberating light chanting, the Mantra.

Without form,

there is peace, an awakening; room for impermanent change

because everything and nothing changes,

thus, the irony of meaning and purpose;

the paradox of life.     

---------

Who am I?

I am a she, a daughter, a sister, a child, a human being.

Alas, as she wakens, she becomes real!

She begins to feel, as she bonds with a mother, who’s one;

one with the earth, wind and the sun;

one whom once too had become.

Blossoming into life,

Breathing the air,

enjoying simplicity without credence or despair.

Every new scent,

a discovery,

an exotic revelry,

beautiful and true,

a precious unity.

II

But as she awakens to the world around her,

Her fantasy will break, her heart will crush and her brain will rush,

forgetting what she knew as a babe,  

forgetting the universal gift we call the present.

Lost in a maze of endless possibilities and unclear deliveries,

She will freeze up, calm up and jam up.

She may even loose it all and forget her gratitude cup.

She may wallow in self-pity, curse God, her neighbors, even the old oak trees.

she will eventually become forlorn

and fall to her knees, in prayer, like a newborn again

she will foresee, things will not be as she once believed,

through the blood, sweat and tear stained blindfold,

finally shredded,

she will see truth expose itself as suffering

dreaded fears will unravel,

stumble her into regret, unleaded.

-----

Saw blood, felt pain.  Saw greed, felt envy.  Saw madness, felt confused.  Saw death, felt grief.  Saw injustice, felt anger.  Saw corruption, felt useless.  Saw war, felt sadness and fear.  Saw addiction, felt desire.  Saw ignorance, felt frustration.  Saw shame, felt doubt.  And the list goes on and on and on…

-----

At times, but for the most part, she will still be the tree without form, yet it may take a lifetime to find her source again, her beauty, he perfectly imperfect grace, her creativity, her spiritual space.

As her world drifts in and out of consciousness and her beautiful, perfect emptiness is replaced by an orchestra of colors, splashing from a palate to a blank slate so fast like Picasso.  

Never looking quite perfect.  Never looking quite sane.  Never looking cautious.  And never, ever, the same.

How do you then explain to a young lady, that she is perfectly imperfect and that’s what makes her so beautiful?  How do you explain, the lies behind the masquerade?  

How, when everyday for her is a battle.  

Hidden Message: Can you find it?

Introspective- September, one, one.

True to our heart, 2001

We raised our flags, eleven

And

Screamed

At the wrong news, Jihadi’s and heaven

Let it happen

I cried. We all did and felt united forever.

Even some of the catalysts who organized or turned a blind eye,

regretted, the death of innocent pawns used to mask a cruel disguise.