Handle my book, and read me ...
Who intends to understand me,
wish to experience my soul,
how does it do ...!?
I am a shut enigma book,
but I can be unfold ...
I'm a rough poem,
but illustrated ...
I'm a painting, not from Picasso,
but I have my details ...
I'm made of doodles,
Somewhat abstract but sincere ...
I'm weird, but not that much ...
I am peaceful, but I am warrior,
no one puts me halters,
I'm towering ...
I do not fear death, but I fear
not living life ...
Who desires to capture
my essence, come ...
Read the book, read me ...
In my inner book, I'm even further
thrilling...!
Though the seagulls be lonely
we must
now quell the thirst
to fly,
ever trust to go within
the stables where halters
hang awry.
The morning mood
is frequently in harm,
though this be so even when
we disarm and will not spoil
and evil glint deny.
The harps are playing
in the sky, and I,
oh I, am weary.
Take me to my tent of rapture;
test my fortitude for
all times which ride
against the sky--
while spent we no more
seek recompense and die.
Poppies in Profusion on the proud chests of the Brave
Old and aging survivors, of a time when things were Grave
Stones on a hillside, edelweiss under Moon
Light on a bomber’s wing carrying canisters of doom.
White hot flames of children, screaming
Blue murder in the darkness, instead of dreaming.
Nightmares manifest in visions real, or of pretence
Starving, bloated young ones, strung up on a fence.
A fence, THE fence, a barrier between your land and mine
A hatred, a blaming, wrath crushing grapes into wine.
Perhaps your thoughts are different, the way that things are said
Somehow it makes no difference, for we both bleed blood…
And it is Red.
The blood which flows to the horse’s halters in the Valley
Of Death, with notches on a sickle for a tally.
What glory now?
It is drowned, in the red of the blood
Of the Poppies in Profusion: a war memorial in flood.
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
Barbara Walters
Never wears halters
With her small B cup
She hasn't enough to hold them up
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