Closed

This blog is closed. Perhaps temporarily. Perhaps not.

The Stench of Death

What use is love for those whose hands stink of death?
What meaning does humanity hold for
those laughing through tears?

Where were the answers printed in gold?
Where were the guardians of hope on a day
when blood splattered faces spoke of a
madness that came home to roost?

We will shed two tears, perhaps burn a candle or three.
But who will wash the crimson smears off our common spaces?
Who will awaken our sleeping senses?

Stainless steel plates and plain blue chairs try
to shield a private sadness from prying public eyes.
Are you watching? Go ahead, step over crumpled
bodies, skewered limbs and satisfy your blood lust.

An eye for an eye you want in the vain hope that
you can sleep better and dream of a world
where only the righteous punish the sinners.

These rivers of dark blood smear our foreheads
and drip from hands clenched in fury.
But who will spare a thought for those whose
stories stopped with a phone call?

(Cross posted here)

A Gift

If I were to give something to you,
What would you like to have?

Shall I give you gold?
You can make – bangles, rings, anklets.
You may then win over your beloved
And make her yours.
You shall enjoy bliss, perhaps.
But gold is robbed.

Shall I give you iron?
You can forge – hammers, axes, chains.
You may then resist the conquistadores
And interrupt their designs.
You shall be free, perhaps.
But iron rusts.

Shall I give you stones?
You can build – temples, forts, palaces.
You may fear not rain or summer heat.
And be secure in their shelter.
You shall have peace, perhaps.
But edifices ruin.

Shall I give you friends?
We can form – alliances, parties, relations.
We shall have wine and dance and songs
And be mirthful.
You shall have joy, perhaps.
But friends die.

I shall not give you any of these.
I shall give you the one gift I have.

I shall give you words.
You can tell - stories, poems, truths.
You can tell me what you think
About love and peace and freedom and joy.
Your songs will be sung forever.
Your words will never perish.

not now, darling!

it’s not convenient that you die now,
do you understand?
you haven’t noticed but we’ve had wars.
friends divided over loyalties to henry and rose,
who fought bitterly over cds and books
and unused kishko cutlery sets,
but were happy to see sarah go in the spca van
dilip was finally incarcerated for hitting jane,
but only because we intervened,
and stayed night after sleepless night in vigil
at her side, trying to get the blood stains off the love seat,
playing U2 and Nirvana to drown dilip's rage
as he hurled the garden gnomes at the oak,
howling outside, high on jealousy.
sammy lost an eye battling brush fire
and then lost his job, and we’ve all taken turns
taking care of bobby and sonya,
while he’s stood the dole queues
hoping nobody would notice him.
my days are numb from carrying trays
of six-egg omelets and gravy,
the night shifts have left me not a single minute to think
about broken nails and straw hair and coffee gone cold.

tina told us about the rejection letter and your drunken binge
that has lasted three months and how the doctor was surprised
to see your tequila riddled pancreas still working.
so don’t tell me you are dying now,
dying, giving up the ghost, kicking the bucket
because your muse has been unkind to you.
i have exhausted empathy, have no words of comfort,
am tired to the bone and quite empty of tears.
and white, my dear, has never been my color.

The Impotence of Proofreading - by Taylor Mali

Hilarious. And a great learning for the perfomance poets among ye. Even though I do think he hams it a bit too much at one of two points.

Via Annie.