Dissent

When the first bombs dropped in Kabul
I was called a traitor,
My silent display of values strived for,
drawn each day on my face.

When the first bombs hit Baghdad
I was on the march,
Frozen cold in Minneapolis,
But we shivered till they heard us.

When the first bombs hit our soldiers
I asked to call it off,
but the death toll continued
for each casualty should not be in vain

When I questioned why the bombs were ready
They told me we’d been hit
When I asked for proof of guilt
They pointed to U.S. receipts.

When I questioned why the bombs were ready
They told me it’d be over soon enough,
But each time they said “our way was righteous”
It reminded me of the day

When the first bombs hit our buildings
and no one asked their motives
because the courage to answer questions
disturbs the freedom to ignore.

She sits solid in her box of isolation
-preferring to assume that responsibility plays the only role.
But sturdy in my resolution and goal
I do not give in to intimidation.
Big picture thinker I am,
she prefers to not give a damn.
So I highlight the theories, the critics,
she scoffs at my cynics.
I, like a junkie activist who can’t get enough,
She stops me,
says she’s heard enough of my stuff
she insists on the individual,
so I break in to the personal.
She slings it off, saying
I don’t know her so well.


(((((a fight with my step mom)))))

Fever dreams

This man is Green, quite green, and bright as lime
but lemon colored face repudiates-
the sweating Hero stands, in shimmer gold
Without a sword, a monster he beholds.
He fears, they armed the mannequin,
that man akin to lying in wait.
Courageous he stands, no attempts to flee
A sword in hand, a showdown to be.
The two men stand, one sweating, one calm-
but as plastic stabs he wakes, and fever breaks.



(((((((from a dream)))))

Expectations of Spring

The girl on the left speaks of lying with the sun streaming around her face, wrapping her so tightly with its warmth that the light traces of wind that tickle her cheeks stimulate smiles on her skin- stimulate smiles within, till she falls asleep.

She wakes to be comforted by the closeness of friends, who have protected her from: small creatures, Frisbees, kites, tackles from the flag carrying capturers but never the sun, to which the one on the right exclaims “I know, I always wake up with the white around my eyes painted solidly pale, contrasted with the blister, a gift (she supposes) of glasses.” The blame positioned on mechanical devices, on creams that do not suffice, on green grass which entices a rest and a guitar playing its best, but never the sun.
Blame withheld, for that which has been withheld by seasonal turns, rotten weather, exhaust-pollution and momentary solutions to energy confusions.
Eagerness and never blame for that which has been longed for, because
expectations of spring = green grass and burned skin.


(((((((pretty much everything in this poem is from a conversation I was listening to about spring)))))

20 Days Past Equinox

I see their eager tails twitter.
Those birds, who hobble.
Foot to foot- shuffles.
But the spring sun is deceiving.
Its reflection two-fold,
off the ice, and the sky.
Snow barricades away the seed and bud.
And all that anticipation,
Soon leads to starvation,
but not for you and I. No,
never for you and I.

ars poetica

Sometimes when the beat is in me,
My hand starts dancing
A mind of its own
And it’s conducting
Each increase and decline,
Reaching across, line after line
My toes are tapping,
They keep the meter
And my thoughts all scatter
But the dark of eyes closed
Is replaced,
by a spectrum of beautiful images.

Sometimes I connect with the music
Aware of the next movement.
Other times, lost and confused
I miss the obvious cues
and feel like an idiot when,
I don’t understand the timing.
And as my toes miss the step
And a ninth beat adds to my stumble
Open eyes jolt to seek
the position of my fumble.

((((((((have u seen me listen to music? its like that, only ars poetica means a poem using some other metaphor to describe writing poetry))))))))