FLOTILLA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
her heart, once a crammed attic,
overflowing with yesterday’s dusty relics,
became a barren room.
each secret—a silent, fragile confession,
she scrawled on paper thin as skin,
slipped into the throat of antique glass.
a cardboard ark, ferrying her bottled truths,
down to the shore she walked,
where the sea sighs secrets of its own.
a flotilla of confessions and longing,
a bobbing armada of regret,
pushed by the tide—away, away, away.
she raised her hands in farewell
releasing all her burdens,
their echoes fading on salty winds
I live trapped in a basket of predators,
their skulls crammed with futile idleness.
They celebrate misery like a morbid feast,
with the suicidal arrogance of heirs to nothingness.
The flames of humanity have burned away
in the abyss of their barren souls.
They worship the anarchy of weapons,
I see nothing but fields of ruins.
Their battles are the masquerades of capital,
poverty spreads across the Earth like a plague,
and the closeness of deprivation becomes a nightmare.
I spit upon their rotten idols,
those false sanctities with profaned orifices.
I have piled up sins to taste the ecstasy of raw freedom.
Born from the wounded entrails of the Third World,
I refuse to bow before the putrefaction of consumerism.
Free from the origin, yet prisoner of a banana republic
delivered to the savage plunder of predatory empires.
I fight my demons in the trenches of the mind
to adorn my reality with fleeting mirages of this convulsive world.
They consign me to the dungeons of their alienation,
but I rise, insurgent against their servitude.
I knew that the water I saw was a mirage.
Unfathomable depths seemed shallow when measured.
This is a world where facts and fancies camouflage
Within wombs of empty tombs, riches are treasured.
The sketch that looked like a wall was, in truth, a pole.
Beasts that dined on guavas at night weren't crows but bats.
My crammed glance makes the earth resemble a ball
I pause and cut short my tours, confronting black cats.
Peeping through the holes of Qutab Minar, I faint.
Shouldn't I reach the top? Should I simply go back?
With colours of likes and dislikes my walls I paint.
With burdens of pessimism, my corridors crack.
Are these angels I find herein mere illusions?
Are these candours that have been tested, delusions?
Depression.
Can be flung away.
Can stick to any surface.
And me.
Depression.
Could be crammed in.
Stammering and tightening.
Tearing feelings.
Depression.
Can sit on the porch for weeks.
So you don’t leave for weeks.
The groceries dwindle.
Depression.
The gold metal I carry.
Gets rusty.
I can hear it.
Depression.
Could be crammed in any surface.
Rusty on the porch.
Sticking feelings.
Depression.
There are many ways.
The groceries dwindle.
No matter what.
You crave my honey-glazed legs,
relish my breasts with practiced flair.
You chip my wings mid-conversation,
While dissecting my dressing,
Too raunchy, too clingy
never quite suited to your taste.
You want me plated just right:
thighs weighed in grams,
skin stretched to your appetite,
injected for volume, deboned for ease.
my fear tenderized for flavor.
Still, palate demands more
side dishes to seasoned
to disguise the ravine taste buds.
I am your blistered indulgence,
charred silhouette served hot,
just a piece of meat.
But my journey to the plate
lasted sixty days crammed,
in a A4 sized cage
under heat lamps.
I cried once. But here,
crying is considered inefficient.
They said my flesh would serve a heavenly purpose-
add protein to your ambition.
But even my bones bore devotion
chewed, splintered and sucked clean.
The roads are jammed; the traffic crawls
And rain clouds fill the sky.
The cars are crammed and, on the walls,
Graffiti passes by.
The cabbie shrugs, “That’s how it goes”
As we head slowly home,
The morning’s hugs, you might suppose
The highlight of the poem.
Yet sunny skies and swaying palms
Don’t equal paradise,
So don’t surmise that lifestyle calms,
Though while you’re there it’s nice.
New York has faults and though it’s true
That life here can be hard,
You can’t just waltz through what you do;
It’s tough in that regard.
For where you live is in your bones –
The good parts and the not,
So you forgive what causes moans
And deal with what you’ve got.
life has been renewed
eggs and the fluffy chickens ~
crammed with happiness
I am a collector of worthless things
How they pile up I have no inkling
I clean out my junk drawer at two o’clock
It is crammed full of extra things by two fifteen.
Do others have this problem?
What solution have you found?
Would it work for me?
Bear in mind I refuse to throw away anything
And a husband who stuffs all his extra stuff into drawers.
All these memories,
All the joy,
All we love,
The real McCoy,
A fast paced life,
No time to stop,
Plenty fizz in homemade pop,
We did so much,
We crammed it in,
Somewhere safe,
It's stored within,
My mind is all I have to view,
Those precious moments,
Made with you,
I try to think more of them,
Instead of the trauma which overwhelm,
It isn't so easy I let you know,
Like many bad things you can't outgrow,
Life can end at anytime,
There's no happy ending in lifes pantomime.
My garage houses sixteen hundred paintings you see.
Large cartoons on canvases, painted by me.
There are floor to wall shelves, crammed full.
My garage is alive, a living, breathing happy soul.
There are garden tools –spades, trowels, a yellow rake.
Two axes to chop trees, for nature’s overgrown sake.
In the corner is a pink frig full of crème soda too.
If they are cold and fizzy, I am never blue.
My garage houses masks, statues, and teacher’s things.
Somewhere in here are purses, one with two diamond rings.
I have not found it yet, for there is a lot of stuff to sort.
There are balls of all shapes and sizes, for every kind of sport.
There are two cars – my husband’s is sixteen-years-old.
There are garage sale signs, written in magic marker bold.
A bike, riding lawnmower, shoes, boots, and mittens too.
Material, yarn, tools, office paper, books, and hot guns full of glue
When we injure our bodies, we expect it to take time to heal, but why do we not extend that healing process to ourselves for emotional healing as well?
Someone walking around in a cast easily receives sympathy whereas someone struggling with an emotional scar and is short tempered gets our annoyance.
I walk around with physical scars for the world to see but have those emotional
ones crammed deep inside as far away as I can hide them.
What if we decided to heal those wounds that no one can see? What if we took the time to clean, bandage, care and heal them?
You cant change how people treat you but you can change how you treat yourself. You can learn how much you can tolerate and when to walk away.
I hope you take the time to heal. I hope you learn to rest your mind as well as your body. I hope you realize how important you are and needed in this place.
It's late, lo. I knew that the water I saw was mirage.
This is a world where, often, facts and fancies camouflage
Depths that seem unfathomable are shallow when measured.
Within wombs of tombs that seem empty, riches are treasured.
The structure that looked like a passage was, in truth, a wall.
Doesn’t my crammed glance make the earth resemble a ball?
How could crows dine guavas at night? Lo, they were mega-bats.
Waiting under guava trees, I didn't know, were black cats.
Peeping through the brick holes of Kutab Minar, I feel giddy.
While I could reach the top, are the stairs now playing kiddy?
Each move of being is filled with likes, dislikes, dreads, and fears.
Equally in joys and sadness, as though raindrops flow tears
Running shoes, highway lanes, sleepless sleep, and suppressing thoughts
Each act, as though steering sailboats, becomes threads full of knots.
Is this shop I find between this and this bush mere confusion?
Aren't facts of truth tested in hot furnaces of illusion?
My mom, she, when I was just three,
Would binge operas of soaps, and she
Tethered to the television, after her sail
Home from Pearl Harbor, would not fail
To hug and kiss our butterfly eyes and cheeks.
She’d store mama’s milk in freeze for weeks.
As we’d march off to church crammed in car,
Mom saw her binge as a sin and went as far
As to stop watching all three, especially as
We’d call them Mama’s Soaps. Her new jazz
Is God and the bible, and her church friends.
Some have kids our age. On weekends
We’d go to explore the beach, but then
We all moved and Mama said Amen.
My brother, once said, Mom, you’re not old enough to
knit and crochet. She said, Then how do we learn to?
Rolling eyes…as at some point, she
Started writing, took up poetry.
Those rolling eyes and whys, recorded for posterity,
She reads to us one, two, three - her peculiarity.
so some wooden spoons and a potato masher
with a spaghetti spoon and some other utensils
being what they are every day, stoically on duty
crammed into the unremarkable utensil holder
but one particular day when they and the light
decided to converse secretly with the universe
over an unknown coffee among chatter and din
bereft of sticky fingers, cast a phoenix in flight
majestically across the kitchen wall, the meal
was several seconds later that magical evening
and by another incredible zing, a conspiring
of the universe and other distant table waited
secret evening suppers, the bedroom pointed
to the lampshade upon a low lit ceiling behind
it became a robot warlord’s head ripped from
its body, circuitry dangling like vein and sinew
and then – hey look at this, said the universe
I wondered how many times the universe had
reached out but I was in too much of a hurry
and sleep was several seconds later that night
Crammed in a Makeshift Vessel they embarked out to sea
Seeking the air of freedom to be like you and me
One mother held her child as the raindrops hid her tears
The father held the mother's hand giving him
Strength to conquer his fears
Besides them were other strangers who nourished the same request
Arrive safely on America's shores the country they flavored best
The scent of the ocean as they passed creatures of the sea
The Sharks, the crustaceans, and other ocean mysteries
The peace of a better life they yearn to taste
To breathe the fragrance of freedom the fears erased
The aroma of liberty the flavor so sweet
Despite the unknown endeavours they were soon to meet
The adversity of the weather dictated an unforeseen course
The journey to heaven was not their giving choice
The vision they dreamed of savoring
The dream they dared to pursue
They are not inhaling the breath of freedom
The freedom as me and you
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