The stream (all workshops)
The rock on which I foundered
has rollen down the hill
to rest upon the Styx dark bank
where the waters yet run still
The coal-shell chain
that cloaked my face
lays shattered in the moss
gathered by my tortured hand
to pay the fare across
The silent sighs that echo
from the endless night below
strap themselves to my shame
as He begins to row
Hooded in a rosewood mist
from crown to rotten sole
he points a leaden finger
toward a swooping, lifeless crow
soul handset
I hear the sigh and whisper
breath against my heart
as the day turns dark
you the hunter of the spark
the hardcore scrapes
the soul crash stark
when you smile you glitter
melting all the ferocious
fears
and claim your mark
Yesterday was Tomorrow
Today will be Yesterday
My life will cease meaning,
after my last breath
Your pain won't restart my heart
Tears can't wash away death
Screams won't supply me air
I can't come back
Stop your sobs
Listen close
Tomorrow will soon be over
Today lost in time
Let me go
I'll be a forgotten memory
Survive
Live
Breathe
Love
Care
Cherish
Do what I can't
What I refused
Succeed Love...
Promise me
I wonder if you see my gifts most times
Cos you are lost - In the turmoil
Of your own drive to be enough
& I know how that feels
It’s a too common
Phenomenon
Of our deprivation
Babies that should have known
loving & nurturing
A solid belief in a life worth growing into
I had to teach myself these things
& you in your way
You learned to survive
& I love your integrity
& wish for you so much more
not just Moleskins & Birkenstocks
but faith in yourself
On an island
on the intersection of
Washington Street and Comm Ave
sits a large square
stone monument
It is gated off from
the rest of the world
with black cast iron fencing
Grass and flowers
grow all around it
two American flags
waving in the wind
next to it
on both sides
PFC Stanley N. Kaplan
engraved into the stone
along with other symbols
and epitaphs on it
Patterns on the Wall
by: c.m. mattison
When first you awaken
to the patterns on the wall,
They'll take you down the back stairs,
they'll lead you through the hall.
Like Alice's "Wonderland"
falling down a hole;
Then back through the looking glass,
in search of your soul!
And who could tell by looking,
at those patterns on the wall
That it really never mattered,
no, it mattered not at all?
blowing strong winds
a Jersey City King of Kings
everything . . . to cast his spell
yo! papa Obatala touching tentacles
chance upon this poet on an open forum
inside Harlem Botanical shops
beating for her lost voodoo box
enshroud earth, Virgo oils and pearls
adorn the day happen on
present Oshun crystal mojo, Vodka, chicken wings and Russian suicide writers
© 2011 Lepadah
At my grandfather’s
final resting place
lays an oval shaped
white marble headstone
looking as if it belongs in
Arlington National Cemetery
This slab of carved stone
marks many of the things
that have happened
during my grandfather’s life
including his date of birth
as well as his death
Among other things
it marks his service
in World War II
with the Sea Bees
of the United States Army
His career as a
founder and owner
of his own newspaper
with the moniker of “Scoop”
I've never read a Harlequin Romance
nor fucked the group-mind-think that
thought the Republican agenda
with Democratic pitch-the-dog-a-bone
and let-the tail-wag-but-say-nothing-drones
of-the-corporate empire that begat the
son of God. Jesus. How fucked up does it
have to get? And I'm lost in a bitter tea, swirling around
doomsday with nothing more to say except
that Bukowski should be raised from the dead
and piss away the last poem of the earth.
breaking bread,
breaking waves,
breaking the light
in prisms
of affection
what energy
suffuses
the moments
before
morning breaks?
a songbird lingers,
I do too.
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