(Parents Peril * The Nightmare)
Evil sits and whispers -sweet lullabies
Chimes within my head,
I feel damnation scratching at my conscious
Of what was and is!
Water running down my toes
Rain taping at my windowpane
I fear; I’m reliving my childhood days
~~Dark April showers have a chronic look~~
Motioning me to escalate before daybreak, to face a colorless what!
The trickle of musty wind mesh under my skin
The panics initiates,
But all I conquer and collect is a gash of movement that very moment
Feelings and wants exist inside my head
Visions of slitting my wrist from end to end
My subconscious is no longer my friend
At night, praying is what got me through the dark-mares.
I held my own hand that very night
Telling myself it would be all right
EYES OPEN WIDE……………….
Walking down the narrow hall
These Chimes, these Chimes!
Grew with entanglements of crime
In my parent’s room, is where the lullabies were coming from?
Shhh!!! Hush now, I’m humming to the evil sweet chant…
Whispers of dust suddenly stop
The envelope opener, I punch in and out each neck
One by one, they look up to only see me
A demonic child’s laughter erupts
Chronic Pink escape…
Pacing myself off the bed
I did not realize at that moment of what I've done
Cries of nothing led me back into my room.
There and only there water still sits under the sheets
The emptiness in my head was a sign that finally I can go back to sleep.
Falling asleep too the quietness that spilled around me
Waking up to, the parents peril sight every night
My subconscious held no sympathy
But, my chronic pink eyes relive this everyday memory
I cannot stand this….
Once again, I begin to hear the sound of scratching violins
Where dreams of ANGELS come in Chronic Pink.
I was born in a world of poverty and soiled life of a third world country
The way I lived till I was five years of age was walls of boundary
These walls had towers of guards that had no heart or care
If a child would try to climb the wall they lose their life I swear
Father had drank and threatened my mother with a knife
My father lost his job and wife and that was the hardship of life
He stopped my mother from taking off with me in her arm
Hoping that my father would ignore and left me be with no harm
When my father went off to drink one night and came home with rage
My brothers stood by my crib and took a beating that set up the next stage
My father had woken up to three scared children half starved and in pain
His final words as he walk away from the orphanage gate live life do not go insane
I was still a baby in the orphanage; the caretakers did not really care about the babies
They stole items and materials those wicked men and maternal evil ladies
They starved all the babies because it cost a lot to keep them alive
As a child of that age I could feel the sins and greed that gave out bad vibes
I was ignorant about what I drank and ate, as I see white maggots move in my bottle
As I see them move I thought about how they were playing and some were hostel
They ate each other to keep each other alive in a manner that took me by surprise
In the back round I hear others throwing things with sounds of painful cries
I got very strong at a young age I was able to start pulling myself up over the cage
My feelings were to see my brothers with strong lungs that I cried out of rage
My two brothers came to see me and sneak food into my crib
The caretaker would find the food in my hands as they grabbed it and hit me on my ribs
As painful as it was I kept eating the food with blood in my mouth as it was instinct
I sometimes laid in my crib dazed and confused with smell of death so distinct
With all my might I kept myself strong and climb the small wall
I finally was old enough to get out of the building and I could hear my brothers call
With tears of joy with short legs that ran as fast as my heart
I ran to my brothers arms and held their hands to have a new start
I grew stronger everyday but more things came into my life in a manner of dismay
If my brothers stay by my side I could smile and everyday their would be okay
Afternoons the sky shuts down around the swamp's warning tapes
propped up with restoration piping and dirt leak fencing.
We’re fleeing toward the wild, seeking the names and shapes,
the same way the Cedar Waxwing flit and grip for berries tree to tree.
Canada Geese are easy, they lead off down the lane leaving residue,
Widgeons have green stripes and gold stripes, one American
the other European, and they’re all mumbling our family phew-do
they didn’t burn the kid, they can’t keep the house clean, drugs…
Blink away the cold wind tears. Forget all that, only remember
Shovelers have the long low profile and the long bill from studies
in New Zealand, like a deep breath, we set aside work, unlimber
spy the race of killdeer away from their guarding territory in gravel.
Our boss didn’t try to replace us, he ducked out to a new job
leaving the crime ringing in our ears like the police car roaring past.
Head down, we tunnel under the high way finding the dunk and bob
of mergansers and their hallowed or red heads,
remarking differences when the sudden scream of honking
mallards flee up river. Caught off guard, we wonder did we cause
all this pain? The rise and dunk flying goldfinch happily chirping
cling to the thistle, their favorite waste near the waste water
ponds where all the Black River water flows for cleaning
spilling into the nesting lower stages of the tertiary treatment.
That’s all this is, treatment for the shock wave week riding
current events on our shoulders, almost like the red-tailed hawk
that screams and skims our head, rising up to the setting sun
turning the sky purple and pink and bruised. That’s when wood
ducks skim into view, our breath captured and then steaming undone
but soon the heavens offer confirmation, blue angels
with their huge oversized wings soar in pairs down as gift.
We hold each other then, let screams silence, detail enriched.
I'm a cop and my name is Dick Tracy.
A lot of cops are corrupt but not me.
I can't be bought just like Eliot Ness.
Because of crime, this city is a mess.
A Crime Lord runs this town and his name is Big Boy Caprice.
While he's operating, there will be no peace.
Some times I fight criminals with my fists and some times I use guns.
This town will be safe for people to live in when my job is done.
Yesterday I got in a shoot out and I killed Pruneface and Flattop.
Taking those two down means that a few of the crimes will stop.
Two months ago I brought down 88 Keys and The Blank.
Citizens are grateful for what I do, they all say thanks.
I have a wonderful family and that makes me blessed.
I have a boy named Junior and a wife named Tess.
I wear a 2-Way Wrist TV that allows me to communicate with other officers.
When I bring Big Boy to justice, the streets will be safe again, that's for sure.
(This poem is based on the comic strip that was created by Chester Gould.)
I do not know?
*A assignment was due in class. *
Every time a gun shoots
A tree looses its roots
Every time there is bloodshed
Along with it millions of tears are shed
Every time a heart is stabbed
Someone else’s life gets barren
As violence grows
Many more mothers moan
The sounds of destruction
Overpowers the voice of those
Who are innocent
Who suffer with no reason
Who beg for life
Who have heart full of innocence
Why do so much violence?
That the child’s cry cannot be heard
When his father is killed
Why do so much violence?
That a mother moans
Over her child’s dead remains
Why do so much violence
For winning any stupid battle
Which is taking lives
Of people who have wives
And mothers and children
When you can keep calm
Talk things out
Do whatever you can
To keep violence out
Because there is no sin as big as
Guns don't kill people, people do. I have lost a loved one
because of you.
I will hear no more footsteps coming down the hall, no more
fingerprints on my wall.
No more laughter, no more tears. No more memories in the
How does it make you feel inside, not knowing if the person
you shot, has lived or died?
Whether you're in a gang, or you stand as one. You're not
that big without a gun.
What if I had went wild, and the gun I shot had wounded or
killed your child?
Our situations would be the same. Two individuals fighting a
never ending game.
The message here is very clear....
You shoot me, I shoot you...Guns don't kill people, people do.
I want to write
This time of that cold night
when I heard my mother cry
When I saw her lie
Flat on her belly
Her back bare and scaly
Her eyes swollen
Her right stolen
By one she called husband.
I saw the tears
I saw her fears
she sobbed between the whips
she tightly bit her lips
And tightened her hips
to swallow the pain
just for her stay.
I want to write
this time of that night
that night without stars
when I saw the scars
On her back
the scars stuck
made a permanent mark
on her back.
I want to write
I want to write
This time of my mother
write her as a victim
tortured by male chauvinism.
write her as a strong woman
Who challenged the stress of a man
Mama who raised us
so rise mama and shine
All will be fine
Mama rise and shine
All will be fine
RISE MAMA AND SHINE.
All will be fine.
Man whose that chick over there repping blue
thinking she can come up here and mess with my man.
Don't she know who she's messing with?
i got to show her wassup.
Can't come up in my territory
thinking she owns this place.
Who she think she is?
Such violence rises
Gosh that chick over there
look like she want to start something.
Need to call up the boys.
She don't know who she's messing with
and what she's about to get herself into.
Do she know who I am?
As these gangs and violence mix like water and oil,
full confrontation blend and war is reborn.
This division of color
leaves them blind to see what is really there.
To see who is really there.
More people die everyday
because one person chooses to allow that effect,
chooses to allow that resentment,
chooses to allow that hatred.
Red tears fill the ocean young souls swim in
just because, YOU claim another color.
May 19, 2007. I was murdered on the front steps
of my door. My little brother still remembers
the day i fell on my back.
May 30, 2007. I was murdered at my niece's birthday
party at the park because THEY thought that
I shot HER.
My last visual was seeing her blow our her candles
and making a wish.
June 1, 2007. I sit here in this room.
Between two cousins, two lifeless bodies.
One shot at home, the other shot at the park.
Such lust for regret represses
After the storm, my brother
(all gangly knees and elbows)
bore the brunt of its ferocious aftermath.
Every day after school
I watched his wiry biceps bulge a little
as his handsaw scritched against the tree
which had fallen diagonally across our front yard.
I witnessed the violence of metal on wood,
the violence of The King of the Mountain’s smirk
as he too watched, his greedy eyes
taking in my brother’s razor sharp collar bone,
with jaw set in furious concentration.
This imposed punishment was meant to goad my brother,
meant to tempt him to rage
so that the next time the stepdad slugged him
he would feel justified, holy even.
Kneeling on scratchy couch to watch
I scrunched my shoulders,
Folding into myself like an accordion,
gathering myself up to make of me something smaller;
I pressed my knees together
wrapping my arms around them
and lowered my head,
waiting for the sky to rain trees
with swollen trunks, and branches thrust downward
as if warding off a sickening impact with earth.
My brother, it seems,
must be punished for the crime of
for this the stepdad’s eyes shone bright,
bright as the heavy duty flashlights
he begrudgingly loaned my brother
so he could work far into the night.
His eyes fairly burned with lust—
The lust of sadism’s glee.
I saw him lick his lips;
You’d have thought he’d conjured up this
Columbus Day Storm all by himself
for the sole purpose
of proving to my brother
that he had no right
to co-exist with him in the same universe.
I watched until my eyes burned
and my head ached dully
and my brother, sweating and chilled,
laid down his saw
swiped his arm across his forehead,
and straightening up, met my wary gaze
with the scoured look
of shame whittled down into hatred,
sawn away into stumpy pieces like an old tree trunk.
After the storm my brother cleaned up nature’s wrath.
He stood a little taller and his eyes, when they met his abuser’s,
After the storm we feigned memory loss
Pretended that nothing had shifted in our family dynamic.
We sat down to meals silent and repressed and picked up our forks
as if the stepdad hadn’t just won a major battle,
as if my brother’s days in that household were not numbered.