Expectations

I am the monarch
of Monday
when the world
watches and
expectations are high,
it is Sunday,
when I’m alone,
I cry. . .

For Carry On Tuesday
Sunday Scribblings
and One Single Impression

within

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there came a time
when the only
place left to
hide, was
within
herself

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for The Mag

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Love, Minus Cliches

love is described in terms
of the sublime —

stealing pieces of time
gazing into clear eyes,
testing the limits of flesh
while learning to fly,
being lost in each moment
with no desire to be found —

while these ideals may happen,
the real heroics
of love are found
in the discipline of patience
and persevering through
the tears of prophets.

Graffiti

 

 

 

 

awaken your mind,
heart and voice

rouse a spirit
of indignation
and righteousness

be heard and seen,
let your words be
awakened

history will remember
today if you refuse
to be silent

take what is written
on the walls, engrave
it on your soul

awaken yourself
to tomorrow

.

.

Anna at dVerse asks for graffiti this week. I looked at these stanzas as being separate pieces that could be ‘written on a wall’, or they could be taken together as part of the whole.

Missing Land, a haibun

I found myself digging my hand into the flower box outside the restaurant, to roll the moist soil between my fingers, feel it imbed under my nails, inhale the fragrance, close my eyes to relive another time and place — he was old before I knew him, on one knee breaking apart a clump of soil with his callused, weathered hands, knowing by the texture and smell whether it was time to plant — when dirt and grass were underfoot, few of the roads were paved and the smell of steel and filth was unknown.

covered by concrete,
a future only found where
the earth remembers

.

.

This week Margo asked for a piece about “the land”. She was a bit more descriptive, but that is why there is a link, so you can go read what she has to say. 🙂

One Time

There was one time —

at the cafe, a booth
in the back, after a couple
of drinks —

when she let herself go,
allowed passion to
overtake reason.

She wore a black dress
with white polka-dots.

There was another time…
but it is not so clear.

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.

For the image prompt at The Mag.

In Which Memory Replaces Reason

I remember watching her
as she stood on a beach
of crushed pink coral, bathed
in sea spray as waves

batter the reef, the dry salt
leaving designs on her skin,
like threads in the pattern
of a life unafraid to live.

I remember watching her,
lounging at a wrought iron
table in a New Orleans courtyard,
a plume of smoke escapes

open lips, empty bottle of rare
wine in one hand, glass held
with two fingers of the other,
ready to shatter upon the bricks.

I remember watching her
as she dances barefoot down
cobblestone streets — oblivious
to rain, thunder and onlookers —

while the music plays on
in her mind, refusing to
accept she is no longer
the princess of the ball.

Each memory a stain, an incident
never to be discussed.

.

For the Sunday Whirl.

Shared at the Imaginary Garden and dVerse

Jodi is Gay and Barack is Black

Well, it has been a while, well…at least a week, since I posted anything controversial. Must be about that time. I don’t know if it is age, or frustration, or anger, or just a bad attitude, but I feel less and less inclined to hold my tongue. Not that I have ever really held back…..

.

It was a big announcement,
a national platform,
attracted a lot of attention,
which, I guess, was the point.
Jodi is gay.
So?
Am I now supposed to change
the way I think about her?
I used to think she was a good actress,
now she is a gay actress.
I did not think I was supposed
to care,
whether she was, or wasn’t.
It honestly never crossed my mind.

More news to report,
Barack is black. The news anchor
thought it important to point
it out. I knew, I have seen him.
Now, he is not “depths of Africa”
black, but I figured it out. The thing
is, it does not matter to me. Was it
supposed to? I do not agree
with his policies on…pretty much
anything, but I did not agree with
them when they came from
the mouth or Clinton, Kerry,
Gore or Carter. Now, when I voice
dissent, those who voted for him
based on the color of his skin
and not the content
of his character, call me the
racist.

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Why is it those who protest the loudest against labels are the first to use them?

Majesty

Beauty and power
is inherent
in the architecture,
testaments to skill,
creativity
and imagination.
Awe is felt,
humility in the face
of marble facades
and statuesque
columns.
The building is
impressive,
but not the
majesty
I came here
to find.

For the photo prompt at Word Traveling

History, Lost in a Statue

There is a bust of an old man
kept in an alcove in the study,
only of passing interest to visitors,
barely worth the fuss of dusting.

If asked, a version of history
could be recited: he was a striking
figure and a prominent man — the first
in the family — in the community.

His rod-straight posture is remembered,
and the arrogance of having more
than enough and nothing to prove,
power, influence and a legacy.

Lost is the story of the man, a miserable
soul with a wish unfulfilled, unrecorded
are the nightly journeys where he would go
to the paths of youth to seek the sound

of her sweet song, aloft on the wind again.

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For the Sunday Whirl

Shared at Poets United