the remoteness of our lives
leaves us vulnerable to beleaguered
domestico-socio lies from out past.
free spirit offspring suffer the outrageous
slings and arrows of parental misfortunes.
our love questioned existence rehearsed
weighs them down from once of constant
smiles, to frightened, forlorn, frivolous frowns.
we bathe them in our born-again baggage,
murdering their true inter-be spirit to
frenzied, postmortem parental put downs.
will we ever lean their presence is one
of holy matrimony to be-ness, to want, to plan
to have and to hold in foreverness?
Not of stupid, misguided sexual folly,
torturing them with outdated, misguided meanness?
Let us live, love, trust as they grow.
If the meek shall inherit this Earth, they
will learn to replicate our lost, latent legacies.
oneness to none-noneness to one
And the beaten go on to adultress ruin.
Behold----------another child is born.
Picture This Half Of The Sky
A terrified woman in India
Burned beyond recognition
Her husband enraged
... She could not beg.
An outcast girl in Iran
Beaten, shamed, then stoned
the adultress lie
... She could not convince.
A woman and her children in Juarez
Working for mean, meager wages
The patron suggesting some sordid sex
...She could not protest.
A young black girl
In South Central
The rap song caller her a *****
...She could not stand up.
NOW, they all can and must
#StandUp.
She wades in anoxic swamps
She feels with her heart
Her mind never still
Her soul torn apart
She craves understanding
She craves conversation
Her thirst for the dark things
Precedes her reputation
She is never sated
She is never stilled
The void in her heart
Crying out to be filled
Silken, lying in his arms,
Within fair summer’s balmy clutch,
When all life’s trials seem too much,
She revels in his gentle touch.
And all the men of all the farms
Will drool over my lady fair,
Dressed in crimson, shoulders bare,
Who seems to flirt without a care.
For he alone, the tempest, calms;
When Lord and Lady seem not well,
Or ring not on the dinner bell,
When lacking, tears and bosom swell.
So gaze upon my Lady’s palms,
You’ll see her marriage in that line.
And all that should be, is not fine,
For this fair Lady, she is mine.
A
tad too
close to home-
to throw the first
stone.
Ekhrasis after Christ and the Adultress by Rembrandt
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