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Showing posts from October 18, 2009

SEEING INSIDE THE WOUND (The 8th Violent Verse)

What it is I've found in the course of this
I will tell you. I will. I will,
But there’s little comfort in knowing.
The awful and the good get beaten down
Like a snitch in the prison yard,
Fist upon fist, kick upon kick,
Pain upon goddamned pain.

How many of the living, the wounded,
The blameless and marked,
Should I expect to be wasted?
The abuser has cruelty like illumination,
They can see within it, yet know not its heart.
The abused have fear like darkness,
They can't see within it, yet know when it's upon them.

What I’ve found in the course of this
I will tell you. I will. I will,
But, like I said, there’s little comfort in it.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman


THE PALE LITTLE GIRL (The 9th Violent Verse, poems for October- Domestic Violence Month)

The pale little girl
with the long brown curls
and small bare feet.
The pale little girl
shrunken in the corner
that keeps her hidden, that
banks the echoes sharply
and holds in her tears
lit of a violent ache.

The pale little girl
closes her eyes, remains still,
silent,
“To avoid being seen.” she sighs,
and looks to the tiny fairy
that alights upon her knee,
“You are so brave, my little one.
So very brave and beautiful.”

The pale little girl exhales,
sharing her warm breath,
knowing what’s real
between the savage air
and furious skin.
Best to stay motionless
than feel such things.

The pale little girl,
With the long brown curls
And small bare feet.
Hushed between worlds.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman


OUR PORTION (The 10th Violent Verse)

When I think of the families torn up,
leaving their trust at the gates of horror,
unable to find the pathway from loss,
when I think of that unbearable defeat,
that howling ache, no words can mend,
no amount of joy-filled photos puts right.

Violent fury is the scrape of the serpent and
lends no favors upon the abused. Serenity,
if not within reach for the whole world,
might nod a favor upon a small portion,
smiles letting go their fissured frame,
laughter feeling safe again.



© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

COMING OUT (The 11th Violent Verse)

Why isn't the landscape more scarred
after such terrible storms?
Why aren’t all the lampposts cowered in gloom,
all the windows without glass, bricks shattered,
when violent winds toss their worship like bombs
on the moon?

These questions haven’t motive, they’re human.
Bloody human, gripping at life boats. I’m curious,
curious as to why we’re floating so close, side
by side, but this, our proximity, doesn't reach
or teach, it has yet to sketch grace upon our
ragged canvas. On the final minute of our final day
we’ll blanch at reflections of ourselves, ghosts,
save for the wide open wound of our somber account,
our soiled adoration of battles and grief wiped clean
for tomorrow, covered in the same, too sightless,
too diverted, whatever we've done and will do,
everything we've made of ourselves, of others,
the moon, we’ll not risk taking off our masks…or learning.



© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE SEED OF NIGHTFALL (The 12th Violent Verse)

We’re holding out our colors, staring into the
Sun, its beam of traumatized expressions,
Our foreseeing the breaking of a noontime
That raises its hand, summons the leak of nightfall
And runs down the face in a reddening cascade.

We are cleaved to a striking second, a screaming seed
Of dread, like a child’s face meeting with the edge of
Something angry, the gash of a white-hot cacophony.
It is a tale as old as the soil, a story of cruelty, of
The beating blue lines on our necks. O our victory,
Our triumph! We can claim our prize in one breath
And smash it to bits before the next!

Our tale is far from over, we've things to conquer,
Cambers of flesh to split in anger, mounds of glee
To murder with our unsteady hands, shafts of daylight
Calm to shatter like a stack of plates falling down,
The powder of color falling all around us, triumphant
Confetti for a heroes welcome.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE CELLAR DOOR (The 13th Violent Verse)

After it all falls,
falls away,
after it all falls,
falls away,
I will greet you.

The green ground is wet again in the St. Francis Forest,
it is weeping for what’s taken place,
and the deer look sad, like old bullfrogs
sunk in the swamps puffing their throats.

I will meet you by the cabin,
by the moss-green cellar door with the rusty handle
and we will hold one another and the bullfrogs
will bellow their melancholy.

The world’s gone mad, my dear,
and no one seems to care.
We’re happiest breathing air the color of smoke
and swilling fury like a rabid dog tethered down.
But something’s changed, the gait of man,
teeth show more than before,
as if we’re grinning beneath our howls,
happiest when our foul fists crack against innocent flesh.

Something’s changed my dear, something awful.
In our quest for compassion, our search for ourselves,
we’ve come to greet the moon like beasts
and we’ve come to crave this ill-used madness
like addicts of failure, sightless hunters of ruin.

After it all…

I HOPED (The 14th Violent Verse)

Oh how I wanted playful love today.
I wanted mommy and daddy to play with me
And brush my hair and we’d all giggle,
Not this lesion of unkind words.

As the whole host of whirling wheels
Speed down the unfeeling interstate
Like androids on their way to get oiled
Or assimilated into a new family,
I'd hoped our day would be lovely
And we’d all go on a picnic at the lake
Or daddy would win me a big pink giraffe,
Or mommy would buy us matching dresses,
So when it was quiet, she and I could
Pretend that we were happy drinking tea
From tiny little teacups.
Maybe it’d start raining
And we’d be laughing so loud
We wouldn’t even notice.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman