Two things
that never need a break
But can.
The human heart
And the human mind.
Kale Brereton
August 19/18
A breakable heart
And the fragrance of a rose
Some tears in her eyes
For an unknown destiny
And a cold night of city
Mother buried hacked-up carp beneath
pink rose mallow. She knew the filthy cats
would come. A balled-up dirty rag
and coffee tin of smelly kerosene
were garrisoned behind a red berry twistwood.
Mother would hide in a column of shadow
near the porch. Ambush the cats as they dug
for carp. Their noses spiced with fish-oiled peat.
Tails flagged above puckered targets.
Mother was quick with her kerosene rag — spot on!
A hush-hush tripwire stretched taut round
the perimeter of mother’s mortared desperation.
The sacrosanct, lint-free, perfect world, where
she demanded God wipe His feet at her door.
Dear Mother, our Elizabeth Taylor dead ringer,
who could waltz with kings, or gut them with a glare.
Ghetto mother, who would murder to keep
her suburbs white, the cat crap gone, and
her prize mallow big as Frisbees. I couldn’t
let it storm on mother. She would get crazy
if her galvanized tin-roof mind was rattled.
Her daughter always had to shine. I kept
the attic window shutters well oiled. Mother
never heard my bare feet crisscrossing
the roof, as I ran to catch the rain.
Hold on who goes there.
Is it my dreams?
My life,
My Strife.
No its just despair.
Given to me,
I see,
And plea.
Hone in the nightmare.
Reality,
Fatality,
Brutality.
So I’m solitaire.
Afraid of lies,
Allies,
Then dies.
They go anywhere.
In this the time,
Its fine,
I shine.
My life is a tragic story
you read about
that kind of thing that
would made you sick
to dream about
but when you have a child
it's one of those things you
have to think about
and never question them
nor ever show dout
Mother you should have known
I'd never lie to you
you should have seen
then little girl inside of me
but how crazy am I for
even thinking you'd care
it's my life
be my hated affair
I didnt have to problem
to be the one to hate class
to me is was another pass
from the life of glass
i knew one day I wouldn't
be able to take it and it'd just shatter
instead my head was filled with
laugher, ringing in a painful screech
no reason to give a hopeless speech
of how right and wrong
effected me
or how his choices
made me into me
the angered, crazed and
halmful daze of a child left behind
I am a child to a mother
who was meant to be born blind
She’s breakable
as if she were fine china used for tea,
a cup one holds and sips from daintily.
Her arms are porcelain, for she’s a doll
She needs so much for one who is so small!
I‘d use MY limbs to shade you. I’m a tree
and solid. . . yet I’m liquid like the sea!
I’m durable, for I am standing tall,
while she’s a vine that crawls along your wall . . .
So delicate, your little chickadee.
She’s sapping you; she’ll never let you be.
Yet here stand I, prepared to give you all!
She’s fragile glass that you must not let fall.
She’s breakable.
For Joe Flach's contest: The Earl of Sandwich
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