“Home” by Warsan Shire

The power of poetry; the power of words:

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough

the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here

Altar-ation

A dimly lit lamp
in the corner solely
lighting a book of poetry
stained with tears, still damp

inside: pouring rain--
outside the window,
the wind blows
rattling the pane

in a procession--
as a roaring crowd,
beckoning loud-ly
the call of participation.

My Soul's Instinct

Every breath my lungs fight to take betrays my soul's instinct to find a way out; whether it be with alcohol, some varying form of dissociation, or a hard collision with a tree by the side of the road is of little importance, thankfully.  I've fought these demons before -- but I thought the birth of my son 17 years ago had saved me from ever having to fight them again. I was wrong.

It began six weeks ago or so when one sunny afternoon as I sat at my desk working on whatever project was at hand, I caught an ever brief glimpse at the horizon's slow descend into darkness.  It didn't really register within me at the time what was coming because that horizon hadn't come into view in so long. Looking back now, I should have stopped everything and walked away to take a break.  I've been saying for months that I needed to take a vacation from life and check into a hotel room for a few days and just write.  Since there aren't any hotels that allow guest to stay with only a payment of a thank you and a smile -- I was unable to take that break I instinctively knew I needed. Instead, I busied myself with more and more projects; working toward my goal of saving the world -- forgetting myself.

Within the last four weeks I have googled, "how to commit suicide and make it look like an accident" twice.  As I said earlier, luckily my soul's instinct to escape doesn't seem to matter how it escapes, so long as it escapes.  So, I make a drink involving bourbon in some fashion and put my headphones on blasting Nirvana, or Ozzy, or Seether, or anything loud and hard -- escaping, if only for a moment or two.  Sadly, with drama lurking in every corner -- the reprieve is short lived and not nearly cathartic enough. Defining the drama is unnecessary for this current piece -- drama is drama no matter what shape or form it takes that we can all identify with. When the horizon has darkened, being blindsided by an insensitive bastard's discarded gum on the sidewalk -- now on my shoe -- can feel like the end of the world. That, and I had to put my dog to sleep last week. Drama. Is. Drama. Is. Drama.

Monday, August 11, 2014 at 7:08 pm I read my first post about Robin Williams.  Within 10 minutes I somehow knew his death was not an accident.  I knew it.  I knew it with every fiber of my being because I saw me in his story.  I saw the masks he wore, though very different than my own.  My very first thought when I came to the realization of what had happened was, "how can I be expected to fight this battle when the genius Robin Williams couldn't fight it?" Selfish? Yes.  But it's what I thought -- it's where I am in my life.

This week has been difficult.  The people of the world lost in conflict and hate and chaos -- digging a hole the size of itself. There I am, standing on the side of the ever growing hole, ready to leap, but I don't. I -- in my weakened, fragile, heavy state find myself reaching into the hole to pull others out.  This is both my blessing and my curse. On a very instinctual level, I know it's something I have to do; and yet, the weight of it all is suffocating me.  Robin Williams leapt into the hole.  Will his leap pull some others out?  Will it cause others to leap with him?  Will it cause me to leap with him?

The conversation has been started, but it will fade away like everything else that is hard -- and nothing will have been resolved. How do we begin shrinking the hole, thereby reducing the amount of souls it sucks in? Why is it that I have reached the bottom of this piece without once using the words suicide or mental illness? Both words have impacted my life -- so many lives for way too long and yet, stigma is still attached to them making it laborious to even softly utter them. The Band-aid was an ingenious invention -- but we, as a whole have got to stop slapping them on a broken society and look for ways to mend and heal what is killing us... what is killing me.   My soul's instinct is to build a bridge of unity for the world -- and yet, here I am falling apart.  Ironic.  Yes. In order to help others I have to help myself, I know this... and yet... I feel lost.

Stillborn

the road to creation, long--
the current being so much different
than before.
on the cusp of his birth
The heart, stopped
The voice, silenced
The soul, flatlined.
The new beginning
buried before the final
preparations begun.

the anticipation was grand.

Running Shoes

Millions of miles traveled
All on foot, self propelled;

Almost two thousand pairs of shoes
In over sixteen thousand days, where
Running wears them out, so fast.

Twenty four months
Give or take
Destination discovered... ?
Time will tell
Four corners held by beams of steel
Walls of colors painted with the breath
Of a kiss,
A thought,
A mood,
An inkling,
Or the contractions of climaxes yet made.

My head, spinning
At the ever changing colors,
Enchanting,
All encompassing
Before I realize
I hear the
Smacking of lips
Her walls, swallowing
Mine.
Perhaps a good place to rest?
For a time...

The Rack Room is on speed dial
Just in case.

Facetiousness

I wrote this for one of my projects for my creative writing class.  I had writer's block for most of the day... but pulled it out in the end...  and--grateful for a little help from my friends!!!!

Facetiousness

With a summons in hand
the flood appeared in a fit of piss and rage.

It found me in my bottom floor flat,
following the map I drew in my prayers last night.

With the force of a million hands,
the flood pushed this and grabbed that.
It lunged –
reaching for my neck
wringing like a scolding mother
in a climactic scene.

Its breath smelled like a garden after a gentle rain--
My body went limp as half a million hands
held my waist in a lover’s embrace.

The other half million
shoved my shit around like boys in a locker room--
like “Brick the Bully,” that roaring flood of torment
who, every damn day at recess,
reminded me how far I was from any safe harbor.

Giving the flood my last breath,
I rolled over and hit the snooze button.

Uncertainty always has gotten the best of me.

Past Tense-Shun

The rose, with soft petals:
Destined to die
before it can rise.

1998

Tonight,

One shot and a beer;

Or

Was it one beer and three shots?

No matter...

Though the latter

Sounds more like truth--

I drink to keep

My mind from wondering,

Should I shout

Out your name;

Or

Continue to drown

Out this drunkenness

With more

Liquor?

Hard Stuff

I'm repeating this as new, cause it's.... relevant again.

The spirits hold me

when it hurts to see,

Drowning

is what I feel

when I’ve gotten a raw deal.

It

doesn’t really matter much

cause there’s no such

thing as having it

All.

The spirits know

when it’s time for me to go

Away.

Be, Do, Embrace, the Different

I find it interesting how, as human beings we are so scared of change.  But, the kind of change we are most afraid of is the kind of change that requires us to do something different.  We pray, hope, dream, wish, (whichever word works for you) for change every single day.
                            "I wish I could have that."
                            "I pray tomorrow will be better."
                            "I hope I find happiness someday."
                            "I dream of the day life is kinder to me."

And yet, when something, (or even someone) comes along that offers a resource to realize those changes... but it means that we have to do something different (change the way we act or think)... we close up tighter than Fort Knox.  We want change, but only if we get to keep living in our same world of denial.  It's a vicious cycle.  How do we grow to understand that in order to get the change we want, we have to do something different?  How do we get ourselves to eagerly embrace changing our point of view, or our way of doing things to foster the change that we are praying, hoping, dreaming, wishing for?  It's interesting how we look at "so and so" and think to ourselves, or HELL! --we might even say it out loud, "Look how happy they are! I wish I could be like them!"  But, we usually don't do what it is they do to be or do what they do. (wait... did that make sense???  HA!)  In other words, we just keep doing the same ol' shit over and over again... Why?  Because "My way is the best way! And if the universe really liked me, it would give me what I want because I want it without having to leave my comfort zone, DAMMIT!!!"  Albert Einstein said my most favorite quote of all time.  He said, "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results."

"We have to be the change we want to see in the world."  Yea, that doesn't mean exactly what I'm saying here, but it's still true.  If you like your life the way it is, keep on keepin' on.  But, if you find yourself lost in a state of perpetual hope for something different, then you gotta be different, do different, embrace different.  Stop bitchin' and change it up; it's as simple as that. -- I know what you're thinking. Since I'm on a quote roll, "it's easier said than done."  Yea, I get that, I'm living that right this second.  I said it for years (My wish, dream, hope, prayers to "save" the world --well, not really save the world, that's a different story for a different post. But, if you're a regular southern poetaster reader, you kinda know what I mean), but now I'm doing it!  And you know what?  I'm probably going to spend less time doing it than I spent saying it.  You just have to get started!  Now is as good a time as any!

Stings 'n Strings Snapping

The bee buzzes
Circling. circling.
Round 'n round
Her head.

She doesn't flinch;
She doesn't blink.

Cause
She knows
Any sudden moves,
Will signal

The bee to sting;
Again.

Conflict

The noises scream
at supersonic speed
like an F-14 flying in his head
with the Top Gun theme
softly competing for space:
                                                    To fly.

Missiles launched. But,

By God! Politely
he asks, "When will the war end?"

Strike

The brilliant lightning

  like a thief

stealing the shadows

    off the panic

stricken faces taking cover

    down below;

for one second too many

A Rhymester's Tale

My hand is chained to my pain
holding hers helpless to let it go
and too powerless to keep it;
but when the wind changes
and the sky rages
the lightning can strike ya
if you don't run for your life
despite the strife it lays out.
It ain't 'bout this or that
but all of it that too much
sludge will pull you under
when you're foolin' yourself
that thunder is only thunder
without a strike hidden in a fist
full of words that always insist
you're as wrong as the sun at midnight;
that's the plight of it and
that's all I know, for now.

Resonance

Like a black strap on a wall of brick

The lights dim in a orange glow

of terror sparked memories

of a prison full of love

whispered from above

its familiar comfort; not unnoticed

none the less, she waits.

Fallen

In the weeping hours
one by one
the leaves gift their last breath
to the soil that gave them life;

Aging into crumbling bits,
till there is nothing left
but memories of the
cool shade they once made.

Classified

When you see him
with fingers tip to tip
blanketed in darkness that
covers the weary expression
from blown out fuses;
don't be a bit surprised 
if upon closer inspection
you find a fat lip
from words thrown
harder than a fist swingin'
fight at the corner bar;
in the back room, of course.

obsessing

----- When the world swallows you whole, the least it could do is to give you the courtesy of belching -----

Indication

Everyday, for weeks now
Right around noon
The rabbit, wrapped
In stripes of grey
Sits by my window
Just inside the shadows
The hovering tree casts

Straight through
Half the room,
Until the sun lowers
Just enough to reach
The darkness, swallowing
It all in a single gulp;
Leaving the thirst unquenched
                                       

Turbulance

From a cloud, plummeting

At free fall speed

Straight toward the ground, with

A kerplunk!

The sound of shattering dreams

Because the wind just

Happened, to change directions.

--the ground didn't flinch--