Long Coughs Poems
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In Calcutta's heart, a symphony of need,
A chorus of coughs, a symphony of pain indeed.
Not music of strings, but of souls in despair,
Yet a love song hums, a love beyond compare.
Frail hands cradle a child, fever-wracked and thin,
Each touch a whisper, "You are not alone within."
Eyes, deep as wells of empathy untold,
Reflect the suffering, yet a warmth unfolds.
The stench of poverty, a harsh and bitter air,
Masked by the fragrance of compassion, a gentle prayer.
Laughter echoes, a child's joy, pure and bright,
A melody of hope, piercing the darkest night.
No grand pronouncements, no promises of gold,
Just a presence silent, a story yet untold.
In the crinkled smile, a universe resides,
A love that transcends, where difference subsides.
For love, like water, seeks the lowest ground,
Fills the cracks and crevices, where hope is not found.
Mother Teresa, a vessel of grace so deep,
Shows us the love that heals, the love we all must keep.
I prayed for you why quite a hopeless canto
indeed the angels turned their backs sighing
refrain from singing lovely hymns the cherubim
clinging with desperation while the holy spirit
actually gloated above the bishops nest of pure
kindness I gathered my prayers for you would sink
straight into unanswered levels of unconsciousness
a sleep state something right out of Dante' inferno
ravished by fire hindered by the rush of smothering wind
splashed within the sheer comfort of finally being drowned
at your own baptism feasting on unsavory malice craving
bitterness that you left behind with murder mayhem
confusion and haste pleading with me to pray for you
what kind of jester sends prays to heaven directly
from the dark one hissing cackling taunting laughter
that you bestow merely by simply asking this of me
why my mere soul tattered and torn just from simply
witnessing your presence your disturbing earthly acts
and you looked so vague so in need of this one last wish
uttered to enter into the mighty kingdoms passage
that never feels pain never bleeds never coughs
never sigh why only in your presence would
heaven fall and crumble beneath the black sea
you'll continue to reach for me until you realize
that you're already deceased evil so valid no tears
for you no burial no mourning no grieving pure evil
allowed to go on living on earth suffering all your deadly
vices forever smelling, choking, smoking forever coughing
forever dying the same death I shant pray for you Siar
I shall continue praying for my own soul hindered continuously
by your untimely wrath breathing suffrage and carnage
surrounding me with the infamous selfish hatred of mankind
They meet at the park at the crack of Dawn
A crowd of keep fitters ready to run
It may be a joy to those who are there
But it’s not everyone’s idea of fun
They limber up with a cup of coffee
And a few stretches to start the day
Up and about at Sparrow Fart
They will soon be on their merry way
As they gather in a reasonable line
Someone blows a whistle and off they go
Charging way into the early morning mist
Just like a rivers flow
A wise old Owl sat up in a tree
Watches intently as they go running by
I bet he thinks to himself
O why O why O why
A passing magpies lets it be known
That he will follow along
A hidden in the bushes nearby
A Robin lets out a song
Those overweight don’t last too long
And soon begin to walk
The others go about their merry way
As they continue to run and talk
It takes about an hour
To reach the end of the run
Believe it or not this is what is called
Early morning fun
But it’s mostly groans and coughs you hear
As they amble back to the car park
Never again I hear people say
Hear, Hear” says some bright spark
I think I will stick to my early morning walk
Less energetic and painful in the end
And enjoy the company of my little Sparrow
My early morning friend.
A young black boy stands at the border of a dream and reality.
In his hand he holds a peach, half orange, half red.
The kind that tastes sweet when you bite into it.
The kind that punctures and bleeds if you hold it too tight.
At times, it reminds him of home. Other times.
The darker side of what he sees when he steps outside,
laws, invisible borders, even police that don’t remember his name,
but remember what he looks like. The color of his skin.
He takes a bite of his peach. Its juice fills his mouth.
Some runs down to his shirt. Sweet as the parts of freedom
that we were promised to have but not allowed to taste.
As he stands outside his house,
he remembers what his father used to tell him.
“Take your time and savor every moment. Don’t eat until you’re completely full.”
Just enough satisfies your hunger.
He takes another bite, sitting on the front porch.
He sees the police ride past him,
eyeing him until they were out of sight.
He takes another bite, seeing the world as a giant prayer
begging to be answered.
A man walks down the street
covering his mouth as he coughs.
The rest of the neighborhood kids play down at the other end of the street.
After he finishes his peach, he rolls the pit of the peach around his mouth,
savoring the rest of the juice trapped inside.
He knows that some promises aren’t meant to be broken.
But just like his peach,
there is no border between being small and fragile
neither is there between when the sun rises and when it falls.
The police ride past him again,
this time asking him where he lives.
The pit sours in his mouth.
Verse 1
His coat is torn his
shoes are thin
The cold cuts deep beneath his
skin
Little boy coughs small
hands that shake
Winter's breath is much to hard
To hard to take.
Verse 2
Sidewalk echoes silent
prayers
People pass but no one
cares
Cardboard kingdom borrowed
time
Every step is a mount-
Mountain climbed.
Chorus
And the city turns
away
Like they never ever knew his
name
Still he holds his boy so
close
Chorus 1st Ending
Runs through streets to bring him
home. (1x repeat back to beginning of chorus)
Chorus 2nd Ending
Whispers / "Son, we're going
home."
Verse 3
Once had a home once had a
plan
Once held hope in calloused
hands
But fate’s a thief it moves much too
fast
Dreams dissolve like breath on
Stained kissed glass.
Chorus
Bridge
And he sings a lullaby
so low
Soft as the falling falling
Angel snow
A father’s love is his sheltering
Wings of warmth
Even when the nights are
Broken broken and torn.
Verse 4
"Daddy I’m tired my chest feels
tight"
His voice is weak his skin much too
white
Stars above blur in his
sight
The world fades into endless
Endless cold night.
Partial Chorus
And the city turns
away
Like they never ever knew his
name
Still he lifts his boy so
close
Runs through streets…..to bring him
home.
Final Verse
He stumbles down an empty
street
The world is ice beneath his
feet
He kneels beside the frozen
City of stone
Whispers "Son… we’re finally
Finally home."
Chorus
Chorus 2nd Ending
Whispers / "Son
we're finally
home."
Outro
The snow drifts soft the
Sunday morning gray
No one stops and no one
Left to pray
Two souls lost in winter’s
hold
Together now, for-
ever and ever
In a City Frozen cold
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windshields cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
lately, i have been in this female mood
for some kind of abandon, that
which exhales the tigress fire
out of my lungs digging the veins
from a week's' routine movements
pruned to the barest of a payroll’s droll…
antiseptic cubicles dictate the rags of
chlorine-infected lunch where rooms
i strut around have nothing except
robotic people, same rye snacks, basins
of expired coffee and files of schizoid
folio..
just outside, the sky coughs
of gas masks rendering a paper bag
of humanity to suffocate on clanking bones
along claustrophobic subways: such a
hemorrhaging day waiting for 5pm
to hiss, halt ,and heave…
i need to dance with the arms of a
jazzy moon fondling my back and
whistling the tunes of recklesness
when all but the spirit lusts for is just a slice
of raw breaths spiraling into tangy
punches of rockstar blues... spare me the cranky
claws of a friday so sore; i alight like
a feline dressed in black lace with cabaret wings,
feathers splattered on glitzy cobblestones...
voluptuous legs hot and wild sniffing sultry
lavender scent of friday night’s parade;
and the band notes howl, free like me.
Carol Eastman's Your Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud
At Customs
Delayed fatigued grumpy and miserable there was I
yet another queue at Oliver Tambo on arrival another
Check scan body search and
mind games in my baggage
Damascus had been an unusual holiday destination
had firmly attached a couple of splinters just a bit of
Shrapnel trauma displacement
on the movie of my soul
Amena breathing the rubble with one foot detached
collateral damage digitalised toes in my camera
Home still smouldering siblings
Riham and Yaman with Allah now
Sayid coughs up the message of
how the planes came planes came
again and again planes came planes
then mother and father had vanished
Assel unable to talk it is difficult to
speak without jaw when brain leaks
upper jaw lower jaw who
cares who minds the statistic
So many images am I importing the
injustice depravation guilt shame
‘Not in my name’ nameless no
frame in the hierarchy of evil
Destruction of a sovereign nation and
the king makers in the global North West
export and import in trauma and transit
memories narrative existential angst
In the queue at the airport OR Tambo
and the tambourine major plays human
beings sacrificed on the altar of a simple
custom of exporting terror and malice
I am importing so much on my return
from Damascus yet choose the line
‘Nothing to declare’ but sorry I cannot do this
there is no time and you don’t want to know
So much pain so much anger on my mind…
but I have too much to declare
Metallic city howls like a wounded animal
scraped by nocturnal vigils
of grandchildren and elders
emaciated like tuberculosis lungs
gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot...
and the face of a night is hammered by
ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms;
pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury.
This is the other side of town, so real...
beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders
ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin
as wives’ blistered fingers
clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn,
“give us daily bread, daily bread”.
Outside, the pier coughs off
the commercial honks of weighed cargo
reeked with labor’s perspiration,
where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker...
the evening owl attempts winks
under the grime of bloodied moon…
it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots
wishing morsels of fresh sunset
would pour some grace of life’s salve. I weep
before the shrill of red sets in... again.
------------
Truth Contest sponsored by Anthony Slausin
Re-post 5/28/2019
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A penny face-up in the gutter—
Abraham’s copper gaze half-lidded with rain.
I pocket him like a secret,
like the first digit in an equation
no one taught me to how to solve.
The laundromat coughs up dimes~
silver cataracts rolled under dryers,
buried beneath lint and lost socks.
I tally them in my palm,
each one a tiny moon
pulled from the tide of neglect.
My grandmother saved buttons in a jar,
swore they were pirate treasure.
I collect coins instead~
nickels in parking lots,
quarters wedged between bus seats,
their edges bitten with teeth marks.
When the year ends,
I spill them all onto the kitchen table~
a metal harvest, a jingling autopsy.
Enough for a coffee,
a lottery ticket,
or the weight of knowing
that fortune isn’t a mountain
but the slow accumulation
of what everyone else
steps over.