Long Bulldozing Poems
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It's not easy
keeping yourself together
when there is a part of you
hiding away still darkened
with fear. It's been curled up
there for years.
Then there's that other part
of you who can't keep still,
creating havoc as it charges
around your head
demanding answers, bulldozing
certainties until there is nothing left
except rubble strewn across
the mind.
Other parts play silly games,
or put you down or flicker
on and off in a constant state
of not knowing what to do.
They're the ones that stutter
on the lip of every day,
running down your batteries until
there's not much left of you.
You wake up
each morning feeling depleted
as if half of you has gone missing
in your sleep and what remains
is a bag of parts that no longer fit.
Like children you've given
each a name, fed and provided
them with shelter.
Worn out by the labors
of their want, you hope one day
they'll grow up and go. Then,
you can think about downsizing
into the less cluttered spaces
of the real you.
Dark clouds loom beyond battered mountains,
cracking sounds seep through broken walls
and murmuring voices echo near and far.
We did not know where to begin,
but I had a strong feeling that we would win.
We leaped through block doors,
trampling on broken glasses,
tearing down make shift barricades,
busting wires fences,
bulldozing fortified doors,
and chiseling sealed up walls.
Our stricken faces dented with anguish,
broken voices crackle with fear,
spilling unbridled emotions in the atmosphere.
Smoldering petrol engulfed the air
charring corruption,
cleansing hearts,
purifying souls,
while tears of joy flow without control.
We journey through dark tunnels,
broken bridges and rocky mountains,
cutting and clearing the bushy path,
until we finally made the mark.
One chance, one dip
we broke the glass ceiling with a mystical pick.
©2013 Christine Phillips
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers listen
through touch,
they become deeper, more blunted,
a vibration of mallets.
Frown the brow,
push the plow
make music drive a steamroller.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders, and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
comes a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing a blunt pathway
into cramped 19th century streets,
where in the absence of safety barriers,
all but one turns a deaf ear.
Never
Can I begin to
Comprehend
How could I ever
Understand what you went though
Imagine what your eyes have seen
Fathom what your ears have heard
Feel the hunger that ravaged your body
Comprehend the savage cruelty endured
Day after day
In the streets then in the camps
Nowhere to hide or run
Can’t even pretend to grasp
The meaning of
Extermination of loved ones
Evil staring you in the eye
Godless droids overtaking the world
Bulldozing all in their path
While the universe
Stands by in disbelief
How does one pick up and carry on
Beyond the nightmare
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Shutdown Day 21
The White House
Demolishing what was supremely notable
A wrecking of a Ship Of State unseemly quotable
East wing amidst the devils wings
A First Lady has in it blingy things
Like Blackbeard’s filthy lucre
The sea's treasure troves hook her
Taken the cargo of what it once stood for
Torn apart brick by brick a democracy we implore
Left is nothing but its shell
Fill it with devils’ gold and chime your bell
The Ballroom
Is it he and his faithful spouse
recreating a King’s Palace madhouse
How she yearns for a ballroom
A yearning for a youthful—not for a content trophy groomed
His words we could hardly construe
Music to his ears nonetheless he’ll delude
that the funding be all His,
certainly not the people’s that is
You can’t pull the wool over His subjects' eyes,
sprinkling a few pennies about—not our millions He lies
Ring The Alarm
Authoritarianism is here! Enforcing obedience
to authority at the expense of freedom with fear
Because He shreds the Constitution
Should He be granted some royal absolution?
Or let Him be the mad King George the Third
and declare Him unfit but fated to rule the herd
Bulldozing our regret
For His Marie Antoinette
Already losing their heads
Over (meaningless) shreds
Loyal is His henchman Ingrassia,
who evokes his Nazi streak of nausea
Wishing MLK Jr’s holiday to the circle of hell
As a Vice President shrugs his shoulders and sighs oh well
Whistleblowers you best beware,
This nominee bidder does not care
The People’s House
Tis isn't the modernization which rankles me,
it’s non-participation or permissions by the free
He molests ‘Our House’ —His temporary abode
Let our defiance find strength and our resolve unfold
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
To be clear...
I’m not asking you to love this.
I’m asking for you to meet me
where the words land hard—
where syllables ignite
like the last coin
burning a hole into your palm—
spent, but still cursing
what you could’ve claimed,
what you’re still pretending to chase.
I know...
you didn’t ask for this.
The ink staining your thoughts
like the memory of a tattoo gone bad—
the weight of metaphor,
that friend who never knows when its time
to leave even after you’ve abruptly shut the door.
I’m not here to make you believe
in anything more than the obvious:
the moon still shows up unabated,
the sun fades to an overhyped memory,
the world keeps spinning
because who needs a break, right?
However...
allow me to offer a word,
dew tap-dancing sweetness
against humbled slabs of rubble—
the way it burns like
that spliff smoked
in the backseat of a car
with no apparent destination.
You don’t need to love it—
I’m not asking for your devotion
just your pause,
your ear tilted toward the rung
of what might mean more
than either of us can say.
I’m not here to sell you
on the holiness of rhyme,
or to argue that a line can be
both prayer and weapon—
something churning in your soul
as you disappear into a crowd
too loud to notice.
I only want you to see
how language, this worn & battered thing
is the closest we’ll ever get
to a mystery worth chasing.
It won’t show up in the ding of a text,
or tucked between constant notifications
buzzing like mosquitoes
too thirsty to leave you alone.
This talk won’t beg your consent
only your presence.
It hangs in the air
like incense refusing
to dissipate from sheer obstinacy.
You’ve spent too long
bulldozing its remains,
lost in the whirl of your own doubts.
So let’s meet—
in the space where words
aren’t source guides or Google maps
but the body’s struggle to speak;
the pulse you feel in your fingertips
blushing on the page.
I don’t need you to love this,
but I can show you how a sentence
becomes a river you never meant to cross
but can’t seem to stop wading through—
how it pulls you under
and still,
somehow
manages to let you breathe.
(Dedicated to all Refugees, the world
over)
Here we are
Soaked in hunger
Dressed in thirst
Drenched rags
Fear, our pillow
Neglect, friend...
Then...
Our land yields peace
We sleep with eyes closed
We snore
And leave doors open...
Later...
Came the gendarmes
Guns booming
Shrapnels tearing
Bombs tearing
Shrill cries
Rending the airs
Bulldozing us into corners
Of submission
Blindly we ran
Leaving our all
Forcefully
Tearfully
Painfully
Exiting our homes
Lands
Savings
To a future uncertain...
Now...
We are in a forgotten corner
Once said to be
A citadel of intellectuals
Roof it has not
Diseases eat us up
Yet they say
We are lucky to be here
I ask
Is death not
Better than these?
We can't die
They say...
Aid is coming
when?
Soon it has been
Since we got here
Years ago!
But we can't
Go
Move
Run
Anywhere...
We have to wait
Here...
And wait
And hope
And have faith
With them
For help...
Cos...
We are...
... Refugees...
Yettocome...
Ramadhaan, 1434.
July, 2013.
A FLOWER FOR THE FUTURE
In 1964 a wall went up between
East and West Berlin!
What a barrier of shame,
What a humanitarian sin,
During the 28 years until
November 1989, over eighty
People tried to escape over
The wall, a number quite weighty!
People in desperation
Fell to their grizzly death,
And took their very last breath,
Trying to leap from a roof
From the East to the West,
They put their all to the test!
They tried crossing canals,
But were killed, lifeless bodies guards
Would fish,
Out of the water, freedom from the
East Germans their last thought and wish!
But in the week of November twelfth,
1989, this grim death wall,
Saw its fall,
As it became a historic monument
The end of a black moment,
An epic event
Where even East German soldiers
Were bent,
On bulldozing the wall to let people through,
It is true,
Asked an East German doctor who crossed
With her car,
Yes, We are free, come across,
Run from the east run away far!
People crossed in a daze, laughter,
And tears,
No longer did they have to live with
East German fears,
Moms pushing prams, lovers holding hands,
Rejoicing pensioners, all made
Many merry bands!
Checkpoint Charlie, a dreaded
Division, where-in humanitarian feats,
Took place,
Now became a place of jubilation, not
A sad face,
Champagne spilled and people sat on
The wall,
As an East German soldier offered
A flower of peace to the West,
East and west mingled and became one,
A grand moment in history,
West Germans had surely won!
This makes us think of Trump and his wall,
And one happy day, it’s inevitable fall,
How inhumane is this division,
That needs immediate revision!
Trudge home
All alone
Can’t condone
What I feel inside
Can’t abide
What constitutes
My whole
My soul
My hope for
What is to come
What is to some
Their whole life
An allergy
An allegory
Of their whole existence
Their whole subsistence
In the long drawn-
Out years
Rolled out in front
Of you.
Dispensed
In time
A specious crime
Tempted to make
Tempted to sate
Your long lost dreams
That have been
Lent out
To someone new
To someone younger
Than you
And you are left
Empty
Left plenty
Of something?
Nothing
No excitement
No enticement
To that glistening,
Mist revealing path
No mirror reflection
Of your past
That blasted
And opened your eyes
To the addictions
To the fiction
In their bodies,
The illnesses
Created by God
As a folly
To our greed,
As a folly
To their seed
That created
A new psychosis
Ripping through
Bulldozing anything true
The crimes of insanity
Crimes of humanity:
Rapes, murder, assault
.
These are the genes
I wear
That have
Teared
Through my heart
Left at its core
A lust
For stardom
For brilliance
To save the world
To help wrap-up
Those curled-
Up within their
Beaten bodies
To help those
Whose
Luck turned
Inside out
Had cast a doubt
All this
Was my destiny
My reason
For being
For seeing
All the past
Destruction
Past obstruction
To happy
Functioning
Lives
But the poison
Has caught up
Within my brain
And drained
All the energy
Away
Paying
For the transparent
Sins of my past.
In my dark
Hooded cloak,
Soaked
Through
To my
Weary bones
Feet scraping
Across
The ground,
I trudge home.