“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label race. Show all posts
Showing posts with label race. Show all posts
Saturday, November 9, 2019
And In the Fourth Place
*1st*
Nice guys do not race.
Finishing is not the End
All-Be Told to Run.
*2nd*
It may be You have
Anxiety from lack of
Things to want-not Now.
*3rd*
Enstranglement is
too desirous of a Thing
that breathes not-Life.
*4th*
You got what you want
in the past tense, now what more
does Tension require?
Painting by Louis-Marie Austissier (1772-1830), 'Lady with Basket filled with fruits', c. 1814 in Public Domain.
Sunday, October 22, 2017
Grass blades and power tools
Stood up,
freed our hands
to tool, implement and imply
utility.
Thus, sentenced within predicates
held under knuckled thought,
contortionist
fingers fist in refusal to feel,
with open palms, red
and pointed tactile tips,
being blue,
leads us through rooms, people,
towns, and nightmares,
fumbling for switches
to turn in from out, left from right,
divide man from beast, past from present,
and fulfill this suspicion to see
the last site from its first sound-
With time on our hands
seconds passed.
While waiting,
we outpaced ourselves,
only to find the finish line
lying down.
The race was over
before the dog slithered under
any fence, and the walls caved in.
Too late
to place
bets.
Artwork by Walter Crane, 1909 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. an illustration for the poem The World's Age' by Charles Kingsley and the lines 'Still the race of Hero-spirits/ Pass the lamp from hand to hand;/ Age from age the Words inherits-/ 'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.
Artwork by Walter Crane, 1909 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. an illustration for the poem The World's Age' by Charles Kingsley and the lines 'Still the race of Hero-spirits/ Pass the lamp from hand to hand;/ Age from age the Words inherits-/ 'Wife, and Child, and Fatherland.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Mid-April 2016
I hear but cannot see
coming from behind me
I go on reading
like this
Anyway,
I hear
(in a deep voice)
"Cuz 'nigger' is a weird word-'
"Yeah-yeah-yeah, I mean..." squeaks
another
And I look up to see
a preppy young black teen
accompanied by two of his friends
(a fast-talking Filipino
and a shy brunette, buried in her phone.)
The black youth is pushing a Diamondback,
(not the snake, the bicycle)
wears square-rimmed glasses, his hair is tightly trimmed.
Seagulls bitch and moan in the back-ground tarmac
bickering over scraps
(maybe sushi)
in the adjacent high school parking lot atop the hill
over-looking the ocean
(a
ffluent
beach town.)
He looks over
to the sea,
sighs and says,
"To me, it just means 'slave'"
They have moved on.
Image credit USMC [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, March 25, 2016
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle
Things were going along swell
rolling back and forth,
forth and back...
All is stimulating, titillating, and conversating
smoothly sailing the syllabic sea,
until suddenly-
I am slapped across the face (!)
with an open backhand,
knuckled under the weight of the word-
As though fired from an ex-husband,
who knows me better than me-
says he. Like a master I've never served,
who insists on digging up old dilemmas
from dank old trunks,
prying through and poking around
for the finest, sharpest, loftiest bone to pick.
Tossing ancient history at me like china darts
through fragile names like
-Racism and Sexism-
pointed accusations
hurled only by
an immaculate him,
who wants to deflect, deter, stall, divert, and exert
his preeminent preferences of him-
self-
less
threats to masculinity.
Never to be
for-
given
for-
peace
sake.
Image of Betty Ford's travel trunk, By n/a (Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Sweltering in suburbia
He is winding his cobra hose
into a giant pot
it knows the way
and conforms to its coiled state
He checks his wrist
as the Cross's sprinklers cough and sputter
erupting in four corner rainbows
just for the latch key cat to see
Beads of sweat match the dew
as he knits his brow
She buses the kitchen
tidies and tucks, neatens and preens
applies her costume makeup
before choking herself with cultured pearls
She grabs the knife noting the missing
empty vase, with a handheld guillotine
poppy heads will roll, the daisies do nothing
and the hydrangea trembled in sweet defeat
Her paper mache skin tears on a thorn
nearby, she sucks up her own sap
Somewhere a horn blares
two trumpets picks up the pace,
accordions shuffle along
a guiatrrón leads the falsetto
Her heels dig into the Bermuda sod
as the peeks through the fence, tipping her toes.
An entire expanse of brown earth contrasts
the blue-white linen in milk chocolate hands.
The thick brick woman on the other side
pins and shuffles along a line, barefoot
a little dog prances and pops at her feet
carne roasting wafts in the wimpy wind
As she moves along, some are dry already
pressed and flat, stiff without starch
same as paper doll clothes with foldover tabs
her yellow tooth sweat stains circle her silk pits
Night and day
they do not say
or share a word
Next door
the paint has given up on its tone
the grass doesn't bear fruit, or wishes
laundry is pressing itself in midair
The Senorita hums and smiles blindly
Blanca sighs and tries being kindly
An alien in her own skin
not knowing how to begin
a new accord.
Escaping from the scalding sun,
Blanca goes back inside to hide
The Senorita stays 'til done
her side wafts with pride.
“El que más temprano se moja, más tiempo tiene para secarse.”
He who
gets wet earliest has the most time to dry.
Image of painting by William Aiken Walker (1839-1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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