poetry

Nothing takes the sting out of fear
death lurking somewhere
a bullet straying somewhere
nothing takes the sting out of fear
stricken in moments when
wind plays devil, and water swirls in mad tempest
nothing takes the sting
fear is a death disaster
fear is a broken shield of a car
fear is the calling of hyenas
and mad dogs
fear is in those atrophied bodies wasted by bullets,
world phenomenon,
how can I encompass fear
with its heavy leaden moments of corrosion, gnarled face, emaciated
children in subtropics?
I had better hold it by a noose, strangulate it, let go its moments,
one by one…

There is a stone staircase in a tower in a cemetery just outside the city.
After the climb up you will look out breathless among the bones and
the flowers.
The wind will feel like hands in your hair, it echoes
with giggles of the dead, divine creatures and monsters.
Don’t be afraid.
Remember you’ve known them, and time will bow its head before you.

Old Cyril with his tales of engines
Ploughing fields and suchlike.
The suns he once knew
The light he had walked along.

Seeds been and gone, flowered
To bread, fed people he did not know.
Wheels taking time with each turn
Under the clouds that quietly gathered.

They sucked up the words he said
Then rained them down on his retirement.
Now he sits with newspaper words
The only conversation he has left.

You know what I miss
About the Lone Star state?
The Tex-Mex food —
The chicken fried steaks.

The white cream gravy
To blanket your biscuits —
And ice cold beer
With Bar-B-Q brisket.

But the weather and religion
Can be so hard to bear.
Still Texans are always saying:
“Ya’ll come back now, you hear?”

And I do not miss the roaches,
The mosquitoes — all those bugs!
Bigger isn’t always better —
In terms of insects, faith or floods.

More at http://about.me/dklawitter.

Despoiled leaves,
memory corners lurk;
the past in a wish list, as echoes
of the wind saunter
in cleavages, who knows
what? Who does or does not?
Kills or kills not,
suddenly flood waters
are stained with red.
We write poems while people, flood-driven in a country, lie in
an anonymous heap. Who cares or cares not?