Venetia's posts with tag: published poetry
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I sat watching her body
lie in the pauper’s coffin
and the spectators
as they reformed and performed
on the altar of a holy building
perfectly painted sun glassed faces
streaked with strategic tears
one eye cocked at the audience
and authentic mourners
they say that she lingered in a coma
say that she passed from a trauma
truth is
she died of despair (and a random bullet)
as she walked
unobtrusively
through the littered streets
waded among the human and inanimate
debris
to a house that was never
her home
too young to be so hopeless
so innocent
to be damned and listless
Mother says she loved her
Mother says her little girl was always so
quiet
quite an unassuming dormant
mouse
Mother forgetting the days
nights
weeks
months
she lay blissfully drunk
oblivious
to her child’s softly piping whispered pleas
of fried chicken, 'tator salad and apple pie
promised over and over but never prepared
of body, hair and clothing
never washed, beribboned and lovingly enfolded
of letters, numbers and stories
infrequently, drunkardly, reluctantly read or taught
of silly songs and ditties and the itsy bitsy spider
never with giggles and wiggles, sung
of maternal hugs and kisses, and make her feel betters
rarely felt, seldom offered and received
the bottle tends to blur and obscure these
memories, realities
transmutating miraculously into
revisionist inanities
one, who loved the child
sits quietly, angrily witnessing
the spectacle
wondering and grieving
why death by despair (and a random bullet)
never strikes the
guilty
I defy
biological and sociological
obligate imperatives
casting my lot
to the winds
freeing my ka
of all
preordained, preconceived and predestined
encumbrances
fleeing this crowding and confusing
realm of castrations and obfuscations
I escape
the grasping, greedy hands
seeking an alternative path
undeterred
by family and friends
politics and agendas
their expectations
and obstructions
in this ambiguous, ambitious world
where the golden flaxen lie
is spun into truth
and transformed
into facts on the ground
where truth exists
but is relative to desire
and the needs of the few
complex enough to confuse even Lot
where we are all
subsequently and consequently
compelled and sacrificed
to become pillars of salt
invoking cries
of Carthage, 200 oily, silver talents
and subordinance to the new Rome
whom I remain determined
to defy.
you articulate with such passion
sincerity and innocence
bellowing, yelling and insisting
THE TRUTH in capitals
quantum strings of lies
understood, only by physicists
I simply want to know
If...
you shout it from the mountain top
does it make your lies genuine?
if you swear it on a holy book
promise me your first-born child
cry rivers of sincere tears
rage and scream it across a room
will it make your fabrications authentic?
if you print it in a million books
tattoo it across your forehead
translate it into every language
wave it in colorful banners
does it make any of your claims real?
 | Language | Oct 18, '07 9:49 PM
for everyone |
My earliest memory is of language or rather the lack of. I have an older brother who is deaf; we were fourteen months apart and like many other younger siblings, I mimicked everything my brother did, or in his case, did not do. My brother existed in a world where his nimble fingers, were his words, accompanied by the expressions on his face. Being his adoring baby sister, I too existed in that world until I was three years old. He had the most expressive fingers and I saw and discovered the world through those loving fingers. At the age of three, my father enrolled us in schools, me in a private preschool, my brother to a school for the deaf and we entered brand new worlds. But I never forgot that the first language that I was truly fluent in, was not the Spanish of my family and place of birth, nor the English of my adopted country, but a private sign language, between myself and my beloved older brother.
| Bleed | Oct 14, '07 12:02 PM
for everyone |
I write for me
I bleed for me
I scream for me
across these pages.
if my bleeding across these pages disturbs you,
then give me a bandage;
if my words are painful and unsightly
avert your eyes;
if my sorrow makes you cringe,
then move on;
if my screaming offends your sensibilities,
go listen to some mindless patter;
if the darkness I expose frightens you,
turn all the lights on;
if I cross the threshold of insanity,
then you are beginning to understand.
I write for thee, I bleed for thee
I scream for thee
across these pages.
I don't like being defined
by a black/white certitude.
my mindscape is varied,
with colors, lines and textures,
that explodes against confinement,
and restrictive definitions.
I can be absorptive like black,
and reflectively white,
but other times...
I feel rubicund, passionate red,
or cynically, jaded green,
I can be cool, calming azure,
or exult in sunny, saffron yellow,
reactive in vibrant, vexatious fuchsia,
or isolated in contemplative, grave gray.
I won't draw a line that I can never cross,
my lines are wavy and zig zag,
they veer off into the eccentric,
or lead me to concentric circles;
guiding me,
sometimes, to you.
I am not immutable, inflexible, infallible;
at times I can be persuaded,
by cogent argumentation, emotional ploys,
and yes, even biological urges;
but whatever I am, think or feel,
I am me,
neither black nor white,
nor bound and defined,
by you.
I have a hundred words to convey my thoughts,
a thousand words to make idle conversation,
a million words to confuse you,
a hundred syllables to say the same thing,
over and over,
dozens of inarticulate sounds,
to infer nothing,
oodles of notes to sing and divert you,
but only three words,
that says it succinctly ,
so listen closely and intently baby,
I.
Love.
You.
Creamy , butterscotch, coffee au lait,
tropical, orchid colored,
steamy passions growing.
Creme de la creme,
I rise to the top,
stirring as he tastes me.
| Shame | Oct 1, '07 9:46 PM
for everyone |
waking slowly
I snuggle deeper
into the cocoon of my blankets
unwilling to start the day’s activities
lingering in the echoing silence
the chill frosted windows
stand as sentinels
to my isolation
my hands explore
smoothing down the body warmed sheets
seeking something
that is not there
the flesh remembers
what the mind refuses to acknowledge
I want to taste this shame
again
Laying about,
one lazy August afternoon,
when the world was slow, hot, and hazy,
while listening to Roberta Flack,
sing of a bird in flight,
imagining the freedom;
unconsciously,
I lifted my arms,
spreading them wide.
When the song ended,
Self-conscious,
I returned to reality.
My heart is captive
to the fear of falling.
I have created
my own cage.
how can i think of eternity?
when i am consumed by the minutia of today
from dawn to dusk
i labor over hearth and home
desk and computer
i must be all things to all people
child, mother, father
friend, lover and worker bee
at times, in stolen moments
and interrupted breaths
my thoughts veer inward
contemplative
i sit in wonder, gazing out my window
at the clouds that sail across the skies
recalling when i was young
before when i was immature and untried
i yearned to fly
i yearned to ponder
all the great questions
my thoughts were festooned
of seeking holy grails and silver linings
rushing and straining to hurry the march of time
now
sitting here grayed and bent
eyes lined and wiser
tempered and tried by the fire
i realize there are varied answers
so many paths and trails
to all my unanswered questions
i do touch immortality
in the sweet brow of my sleeping grandbabe
infinity in the afterglow of my love’s arms
perpetuity in the warm smiles of treasured friends
what need have i of silly, immature dreams
we walk home after the day's activities
skirting the broken rubble that litters the cracked pavement
debris of broken adults
and their broken dreams
my little daughter ignores the decrepit surroundings
bombed structures, shattered glass and abandoned vehicles
playing hopscotch
along the way
splashing in the puddles
she nimbly tosses her pebble against the chalked sidewalk
kangaroos uni-legged
one, two, three
to her destination
small children are not given to reflections
learning to take much in stride
the daily monotony of life
amidst horrors, joys
and random bombs
part of the fabric of life, death
more concerned with warm bellies
loving parents, families and friends
small happy dogs licking their faces
giggling late at night under the covers
until they grow up
or reality, policians and slogans intrudes
created in a moment's illicit passion and pleasure
you are the sacrifice
demanded by god, family, economics, or choice
sometimes desperation
abandoned with remorse, resentment
but mostly
grateful acceptance
motherless, fatherless bastard love child
birthed
to be named by none but law and state
a tick mark annotated on a bureaucrat's spreadsheet
left unclaimed in a forgotten dusty file
human warehouse cribs
left to die on
hills
or sold to the highest white bidder
and brought to America
where the warehoused American black, brown and crack babies
are left rootless to
rot and die, albeit
still alive
black/brown/yellow and damaged ain't never been beautiful
| Glimmer | Sep 23, '07 1:38 PM
for everyone |
have you ever watched light
as it shimmers
golden yellow translucent
as becoming and beguiling
as a butterfly's iridescent wings?
light dares not be static
I was once sequestered in a darkened exile
aggrieved
where the fear of falling and failing
was a habituated reality
one day jolted
by a glimmer
watching as it beckoned
seduced
by its dance
I knew the smallest breathe of a
whisper
would have sent it astray
with trepidation
and a barely acknowledged hope
I followed it
with a child's guile
I shadowed it
to a doorway
tremulous and uncertain
stepped through to the realm of
me
like a Poe character or a Blake poem
we sometimes
birth and carry the darkness
within
I received notification
that I do not fit the requirements
of a revolutionary firebrand
any more;
being too at ease with the current power structures
facile and adept
with politically correct terminology;
my poetry lacking that certain inflammatory
fire.
It was a most damning charge. I am informed that I have grown staid,
old and conservative;
having joined the ranks of the bourgeoisie.
My former afro is now a slick coiffure,
the combat fatigues, emblems and flags
replaced by Rolex, Chanel and a laptop.
This body
is unwilling to withstand
the excitement and fear
of facing the rich old white men. Despite contributions to green causes,
possessing a hybrid electric car
and making the proper, woeful sounds
when confronted with the genocide of Darfur, Somalia and Tibet,
the melting polar caps
and continued predation
of women and children.
Nikki, Nader, Tutu, the Dali Lama and others
no longer, have the ability
to penetrate through my cynicism;
or perhaps
it is just an experienced pragmatism. Maybe the children can lead the charge
while I write of funerary flowers, killing fields
and futility
leaving me to treasure
my meager comforts.
The following poem, "String of Lies" has been accepted for the August 2007 publication of Regard Poetry - http://www.remarkpoetry.net/ : you articulate with such passion
sincerity and innocence
bellowing, yelling and insisting
THE TRUTH in capitals
I simply want to know
If
you shout it from the mountain top
does it make your lies genuine?
if you swear it on a holy book
promise me your first-born child
cry rivers of sincere tears
rage and scream it across a room
will it make your fabrications authentic?
if you print it in a million books
tattoo it across your forehead
translate it into every language
wave it in colorful banners
does it make any of your claims real?
My short story, "Invisible Loneliness", has been published at www.mendingwords.com .
The following poem, "Pillars of Salt" has been accepted http://www.languageandculture.net/, for their Winter/Spring 2008 edition, which starts in December 2007. You guys have no idea how much of my inspiration is due to my friends Deb, Rusty, Alan, Stef, Nathan and Jus' Tammy. I am humbled. Thank you Deb, thank you Tammy. Thank you Rusty. Thank you Stef. Thank you Alan. Thank you Nathan. Regarding the poem "A Thousand Words", when there are enough submissions to fill the pages of The Federation of Canadian of Poets Anthology, all contributors will be notified as to how they may purchase copies. I believe it will be available for purchase through Amazon...for those interested, I shall let you know, when it is for sale... Pillars of Salt I defy
biological and sociological
obligate imperatives
casting my lot
to the winds
freeing my ka
of all preordained, preconceived and predestined
encumbrances
fleeing this crowding and confusing
realm of castrations and obfuscations
I escape
the grasping, greedy hands
seeking an alternative path
undeterred
by family and friends
politics and agendas
their expectations
and obstructions
in this ambiguous, ambitious world
where the golden flaxen lie
is spun into truth
and transformed
into facts on the ground
where truth exists
but is relative to desire
and the needs of the few
complex enough to confuse even Lot
where we are all
subsequently and consequently
compelled and sacrificed
to become pillars of salt
invoking cries
of Carthage, 200 oily, silver talents
and subordinance to the new Rome
who I remain determined
to defy
laying about one lazy August afternoon when the world was slow, hot and hazy while listening to Roberta Flack sing of a bird in flight imagining the freedom unconsciously I lifted my arms spreading them wide when the song ended I returned to reality my heart is captive to the fear of falling I have created my own cage
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