Showing posts from September 27, 2009

IT WAS AFTER... (29th Violent Verse)

It was after we placed the flowers
upon the somber wooden frame,
when the fatal deed was done

and we’d slept in our rose-colored
beds prone on the complacent floor,
that we stood for something howling,

something writhing in our minds,
across our lawns
as our children’s feet scuttled past

the IED’s of cruelty.
Dodging the flowers in bloom
and painted of life,

we waved our wary-worn hands,
weeping to lift such pain
of wounds that kept crashing,

continued pummeling our shrugs,
our ‘that’s life’,
stumbling away from detonation.

Muzzled worry and trouble,
wedged risk in our voice,
thus… we vanished.

Too late, we’ve found our voice
and stand tall and bold
to say, ‘We’ll miss you’.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

NAMELESS BEAST (The 30th Violent Verse)

I wait beneath its stance. I watch from safety,
away from the pain that riddles the air I breathe.
I walk near enough to hear, stare at its jaws.
My knowing creates a sound, an echo, like space
bending down to greet my sleep, to growl
my last wish, which splits in two
and exposes a stranger in my sight.
I wait beneath its stance. My words chained
and mangled by my thick tongue. The breath I
allow in my throat. The noise I hear is close,
close enough that I feel its movement, just above
my exposed flesh, where jaws drip with iniquity.
The moist ground writhes in its jagged shadow
where my feet once touched, where our eyes met.
A nameless spirit waits with me here,
beneath its gaping stance. I step forward now
and turn to greet it, let my fright wrestle the beast
…it is me.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE CHILDREN OF SHADOWS (The 31st Violent Verse)

How grim are the children of shadows.

Their rooms cast a faint glow over them,
And their keepers; the ghosts of sleep.
Men and women, abusers of their obligation, abscond,
With injury and wickedness jumps their lullaby,
Hush little baby don’t you cry…

This throbbing tune
Has teeth to rip,
Has fist to strike,
To bring blood where only love should be flattered.
To hold mirth and clear eyes and things of gladness
Aloft in the bright passageway of serenity.

How grim are the children of shadows.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

The First September Song (a poem for the hungry)

September is Hunger Action Month This is the first poem in the month-long series of daily poems,September Songs, posted for the month of September 2009. (I reversed the dates so the reading order is better, dates are thus... backwards.)
The lyricists are going home now, receding to a more forgiving landscape. Breathless, music surrendered.

O! Rise up, but do not go! We must compose, empty tummies rumble songs, pleas, prayers, waiting our return!

Listen, the drone’s displaced elegy expands over the children’s cleaved, trembling notes, empty mouths.

O! Invent a joyous song, a celestial symphony! Carry your music to them as if a mother’s kiss, felt evermore…

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

2nd September Song... (a poem)

A boy I knew, when I was a kid, was as skinny as a handrail. His tattered clothes fell around him like shadows at a funeral and I never saw him in the cafeteria, except on Fridays. He’d bring a sandwich and a raw potato in an oily sack. He’d take his time eating too, as if the executioner waited.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryma

The Third September Song (words for hunger)

One slice of ham coats her dreams, a meal uneaten wears her name, tossing from emptiness, sleep, a deep pain in consciousness.

One meal speaks her name, wears her clothes, cries her tears, dries her lips, her hope, her heart, her love, her end... one.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Fourth September Song (a poem on hunger)

There once was a child made of snow, in the name of hope his body was wrapped in plastic through the summer and he lived inside a large freezer until winter.

Come winter, the town would have a magnificent festival of emergence in the boy’s honor. People would come from all over the world to witness the child made of snow emerging from his icy tomb, pale and hungry he would enter to loud music and imposing spectacle.

This went on for years, until, at age fifteen, the boy said he’d had enough. The people protested loudly and called the young man dreadful names, but, he persisted, telling them it’s his life and he’d no longer play along. The people, disappointed, cursing and grumbling, made their way home.

The following winter the town decided to show the boy that he was wrong, to stand him in the sun until he began melting and begging them for help. The sun was very bright that day, and as the boy stood in the middle of the arrogant crowd he began to cry. The salt from his tears made hi…