I would live
as a machine, if the
small fluttering creature
could creak
I could surrender
to a mechanism
if the powder spread
on the wall
was synthesized
I would recognize
a uniform order
if the wings were
a kind of metal.
the universe is dusty
while the wall contains
order
other countless bodies
float through space
unmanageable and free
with no numbers
to guide their travel.
The fading sky bleeds
burnt orange tears,
giving way to night’s
shower of stars.
Piercing light cascades
from heaven’s waterfall,
eliciting a flood
of primal passion down to earth.
Stuck in the warm embrace
of honey maple syrup,
we strip naked
and wait for our flesh to burn.
Eager is the lust
of a draining moon,
kissing our enflamed pores
with its velvet rays of silent electricity.
A buzz hums in the atmosphere
as lightning pulses in wild waves,
accompanied by rumbling thunder
that drives the song into raw veins.
Pumping feverishly through blood,
a sugar rush of adrenaline to the head
pops open dormant glands
to release enlightenment’s echo.
Vibrations from the chaos storm
lick our souls to the bone,
cleansing away ancient remorse
and breathing fresh hope into our hearts.
More at http://17numa.wordpress.com/.
So this is what happened
a familiar rhapsody begins
of rumor and swirl and mix,
a rain storm of elocution.
So this is the way it went
down, they say, but if you
listen closely, you will catch
the lingering threads
of myth and tall tale
couched among their soft
words, comfortable azure
oxen of half-truth, blended
over time and across
the space of many mouths.
Empty spaces
in my chest
Hollow chasm
with a side of entropy
Apathy
doused with ketchup
Force fed
down my throat
Shadows
lingering beside me
Darkness
in every footfall
Wept silently
upon the cross
Too tired
to carry it any further
More at http://17numa.wordpress.com/.
My sympathies are naturally with the homeless and unemployed,
I’ve read statistics that
girls in unstable homes are
more likely to be raped,
or to run away which equals raped.
Boys are not immune to trouble, you know–
they’re more likely to join a gang,
drop out of school, use drugs, or attempt suicide.
Exactly my point, Mr. Mayor.
I’m running a children’s summer camp
here on city land. My families are not comfortable
driving their cars past tents
filled with boisterous kids
and parents who give us surly looks.
When we told our clients to expect discoveries
and adventures and learning and joy,
this is not what we had in mind.
It’s not fair, Mr. Mayor. Not fair.
—–
Trish Saunders is a Honolulu poet and nonfiction writer who becomes
visibly agitated when observing the widening gaps between poverty and wealth in Hawaii.
Let my actions be the herbicide
that clogs all tridax of mistrust
that sprouts from your heart.
Let my words be the plough
that makes furrows
needed to plant the seed of our affection.
Let my presence be the acqua
that bedraggles
our passion to yield fruits of love
Let my love be the photosynthesis
to sustain our vow of forever after.