On my way home
As I walk towards my house
I behold an alcoholic
Drinking his daughter’s future
And somewhere at a corner
A cat taking care of its
Newborn kittens.
I start contemplating as usual
As I move ahead
I see a happy family
A responsible father, a caring mother
And a fortunate daughter.
I wish I had such a great family.
It would have been possible
If the drunkard whom I saw
Just few minutes back
Was not my father.
Four o’clock on a Florida morning
The car alone on a four lane
Finding its way home
Having heard heartbreaking news
The shock so great
The guilt
Of being gone
When I was needed
Rolled through my mind
Boyhood memories
Out of context
Played in a loop
In the silence
I wanted to holler out
To shout
My anger and anguish
Grief and sleeplessness
Mixed like oil and water
Grief over fatigue
The anchor
That held me
In a surreal world
The thought
Of what next?
How can I go on?
Death happens to others
But not to my mother
The woman
Who bottled her illness
Never allowing
It to keep her
From so many tasks
Milk of magnesia
Each morning
A stomach so raw
I could see her wince
When she thought
No one was looking
Knuckles that swelled
But did not keep
Her hands
From cold water
On her job
As a chore woman
She was invincible
My iron lady
But now dead
And all the gravity
Of this world
Bore down on me
Like a prospector
You search for a vein
Of truth
For pure ore
Words that shine
A golden vision
Of subjects
Important to you
Meanings buried
From the ordinary eye
Ideas you choose
To explore
To show others
As much
As for yourself
In the stream of thought
You find nuggets
But never enough
To quell
Your curiosity
I am a poem,
a pin pointing to the souls of these butchers,
I am stabbed into stanza by their swords,
I am motherless monkey black to marrow,
Whose body guns work on like harrow.
I am a poem
written with tears and blood of slavery,
Their tongues shall break by my sharp rhymes,
when they sing me with laughter,
and applaud for me growing mushrooms.
I am a poem
turning their heroic tombs to humours,
Where their achievements are labelled crimes,
and their honours are honoured with spittle
from soared mouths of sorrow.
I am a poem, little lyrics
sung with voice of raped mother,
Their guitars are my sister’s heavy breathing,
The drums, my brother’s head breaking,
under the gifts of your guns,
And the bounds of your boots.
I am a poem,
a pin pointing to the souls of these butchers,
I am stabbed into stanza by their swords,
I am motherless monkey black to marrow,
Whose body guns work on like harrow
But I cannot be buried.
The stone
Bears evidence
Of her interment
The closing
Of the book of life
But she gave me breath
Nurtured me through
Hard lessons
Held me
When my heart was broken
Helped me
To hold my head up
When my stock
Was down
And I still
Hear her voice
When shadows
Gather around me
When I need her most
Pigeon on a tube train
Strutting sociably
Eventually doors open
Down in Jubilee.
I bet you wouldn’t fly so quick
Commuters to confound,
If you realized that you were
Ten meters underground.
My wall calendar is still set on last May
I have redefined the word disarray
The desk is the final resting place for the unresolved
the past due, the neglected and the uninvolved
the unopened, the marked urgent and never done
a sea of pamphlets, journals and manila envelopes
it’s all waiting patiently to see what develops
I know exactly where everything is that I need
And I can lay my hands on it in lightning speed
so, all you obsessive, organized, neatnik types can go to hell
because when you guys straighten up, NO ONE CAN TELL!
He sat there in that dark
shady corner.
Crafty hands waving gleefully
with mis-Chief.
Media fingers spread over acres.
Those puffed-up fingernails
injecting that corridor, corrosive
syllabus
Into their tender backside flesh,
they cried in harmony.
Their brains rotting in
solitary confinement.
A mechanized solidarity march.
Drowning, an oblivious stupor.
Mary Jane hanging on black-toasted lips.
Mentally intoxicating like a spoiled dipper.
Anodyne pot, we smoke the sorrows of yesterday, barbeque ashes of tomorrow.
In that drunken cloud, puffing
on broken bridges.
Supplanting flowers of rue with weeded grass.
That mental manacling opiate, a ticking asylum bomb.
what if I had had just stayed in new York
what if Abraham dared to eat pork
binary systems only give us either/or
parallel universes offer so much more
what if Columbus just had turned around
what if Newton’s apple didn’t hit the ground
nothing really defies imagination
just consider all the permutations
what if frogs had fur on their back
what if moose never left any tracks
there’re so many possibilities on heaven and earth
from the house of gloom to the house of mirth
What if salmon only swam downstream
what if things weren’t always as they seem
Children should be seen, but not heard
That’s excellent advice for the totally absurd