Long Unwed Poems
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Now, Railroad Bob has lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a damn, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
and stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Continued
They claim that you were ‘outdated,’
old-fashioned and ‘not with the times,’
because you hesitated to
give up traditions of your kind.
They claimed new was always better,
that you weren’t on history’s side.
You noticed their way rarely worked,
“Reactionary!” they all cried.
Your life already had you stressed,
so you just went along with it,
unwed mothers, disturbed children,
more and more it all went to s#@t.
You’d hoped to get them off your back,
that bending the knee would bring luck,
instead they brayed,”You damn white man!”
What you do is never enough.
Then they claimed it was your skin,
it’s ‘privilege,’ you ‘can’t understand,’
despite working since age fifteen
and not being a college man.
Your dad didn’t clear forty K,
and mom barely made half of that,
yet they called you ‘oppressor,’
for the world’s ills you got the rap.
Accused of crimes you didn’t do,
that were done before you were born,
told your skin made would a bad man…
Now where have I heard that before?
You plead to crimes of men long dead,
in hope it would make things less rough,
but then they cried,”You toxic male!”
What you do is never enough.
Next they said that masculine men
are no better than raging rapes,
they called you ‘sex predator,’
said all male-female sex is ‘rape.’
They say male instincts are ‘toxic,’
and somehow will bring the world’s end,
you point out that men built this world,
they just get mad, or won’t listen.
You saw some man get thrown in jail,
only to learn the woman lied,
a life ruined, yet challenge them
and “Believe all women!” they cry.
You know much is hysteria,
but go along to get some love,
yet they still won’t sleep with weak men,
what you do is never enough.
Then they go on TV and ask:
“Why are all our men drifting right?
Why do them meme and laugh at us,
and banish us all from their sight?"
You don’t believe that anyone
is too dumb to figure it out,
but the left thinks they’ve done no wrong,
they’re truly confused and in doubt.
They thought that demonizing you
would somehow make your nature change,
as if you were just some chess piece
that they could simply rearrange.
But you’re sick of the ‘purity’ tests,
and all that cultish lefty stuff,
The right love individuals,
being one is more than enough.
We are called to love one another as sisters and as brothers. We are called to pray for one another, our mothers and our fathers. We are called to spread the good news of hope, grace and mercy, across the seas and across the lands. We are called to understand.
We are called to preach peaceful solutions in times of peace and of war. It is one of the reasons Jesus Christ put his peace keepers on planet earth for. We are called to be the disciples of our beloved Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. We are called to follow in his footsteps. We are called to feed the hungry.
We are called to offer shelter to the homeless. We are called to provide shoes for the shoeless. We called to provide shelter from the natural storms of life. We are called to spread the gospel news of Jesus Christ. We care called to provide hope for the hopeless. We are called to become the friends of the friendless and lonely people of the world. We are called to speak out for social, domestic, and political injustices.
We are called to speak out for freedom and justice. We called to liberate all of the slaves held in captivity by their fellow man. We are called to become the voice for those who have no chance or have no choice. We are called to be united to be called "for liberty and justice for all." We are called to await the morning's sunrise and thank God we are still alive.
We are called to always be there in good times and in bad for those who have no mothers, no fathers, or no sisters or brothers. We are called to comfort and provide care for the orphans and needy children of the world. We are called to rescues those in the drug trafficking and drug cartels, street gangs, organized crime and the sexual slavery trade. We are called to reach out to those who are afraid and are unable to run away from sexual slavery and domestic violence.
We are called to reach out and help single and unwed mothers or unwed athers and their unborn and born children. We are called upon those who are unable to take care of themselves. We are called to become the mouth, the eyes, the hands and the feet of our beloved Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
January 28, 2020
Author’s note: The following is in haibun form—poetic prose (microfiction with less than 200 words in this case) coupled with a haiku. It was written in response to a writing prompt to (re)tell a Christmas story in local (Michigan in this case) contemporary terms. Bronson Hospital is our local hospital, and deer are mystical creatures when encountered on foot in local parks but road hazards when encountered in vehicles at night. Indeed, we all have mystically tinged obstacles on our sacred/secular life journeys through the dark toward the light.
Journey of a Contemporary Joseph
By Mark D. Stucky
José suddenly brakes and swerves. The rusty Jeep barely misses the deer that had jumped onto the dark road and stared wide-eyed at the approaching lights. Fortunately, no other traffic obstacles slow the drive to Bronson Hospital…but he still fears the future since he and Maria have no insurance or documentation.
José feels jumpy-yet-paralyzed like that deer, haunted by fears about their long journey from their impoverished village. They had often felt unwelcome in this strange new land, but at least fewer people here were judgmental of an unwed pregnancy.
José shivers, partly from anxiety but mostly from the cold. His meager jacket hardly protects against freezing weather, conditions alien to his previous life. He reaches over and pulls the blanket up around Maria’s shoulders, and she smiles weakly. Maria murmurs to him that in spite of her discomfort and doubts in this time of trouble, she feels a miraculous peace of God, protecting them and promising a better life for their coming son. José glances at her and, for the first time in months, smiles too as he drives toward the lights ahead.
Journey of hopeful
pilgrimage into unknown
possibilities
(First published in Small Town Anthology VIII: Entries from the Eighth Annual Tournament of Writers, Vicksburg Cultural Arts Center, 2022, p. 161. Indeed, Jesus and his family left Bethlehem to become undocumented immigrants in Egypt to escape violence during his earliest years.)
(Image by Tomas Anunziata on Pexels.com.)
Woman in Chains
(What Man Would Abide It?)
Women throughout centuries – the softer sex.
I picture them subservient since what feels like time primordial!
What man would abide
being sold as if mere chattle and being called another’s property?
What man, with a love of learning or of writing,
would acquiesce and be denied
the education and the opportunities he so desired?
What man would dare take second place -
hiding in the background or covering his face
because society or church said things were meant to be that way?
What man would abide having cut off from his body
that part of him from which carnal pleasure is derived?
What man would let his feet be broken as a child,
bound up to resemble hooves to keep him in his place?
What man would abide being burned alive
if the dowry of his spouse were deemed unsuitable?
What man would abide (if not so inclined)
enduring the agonies of giving birth again and again
because his spouse preferred he stay at home?
What man would abide being raped or even killed
as punishment for even being raped?
What man would endure constant beatings for “his own good”
and feel good that his church or state approved this?
What man, if he were able to get pregnant,
would take on all the stress of unwed motherhood
when the one who got him pregnant bailed on him?
What man would abide the stigma and the soiled reputation?
What man would prostitute himself to feed his babies
because a job for one like him would not be given?
What man would abide living enslaved by an abuser,
afraid to run away or be found and killed by his abuser?
Atrocities like these through centuries have too long been endured.
No man would for so long a time endure them.
For reasons of pure biology, the role of the abused
was hoisted primarily on women.
Thank God for those strong women a mere century ago
who stood up, bravely fighting for women’s rights.
Thank God for lonely sister souls in faraway places
who even now stand fighting against inequities -
simply for the fact that they were born the softer sex.
Aug. 31, 2020 for John Hamilton's Woman in Chains Contest
Death orifice my Libidinous command,
I contras life's ecumenical demand!
Now reach down in this thistle grim,
Desolate me with the edged limb.
Grant this voyeur that glimpse of dead,
A comatose where life and I unwed...
As minutes kiss my infidel fawn;
The church's bell will screech at dawn.
-Enthral me now!
Tell me Neith, was all my love in vain?
While blood is surfing in silhouette pain.
Succumb; I've punctured my unfruitful coat,
Birthing wonder if Love she'll emote?
Sable wings retracted like livery spades,
My celestial dream as life slowly fades...
This Dementia spoke to me in a tongue,
But before my babel, my barbed winds gone...
Finally taken from Life's 'Woetopia'
I journey now to Death's utopia!
While my heart still beats through thorn,
Only a few minutes till it's outworn,
Due to Hel I'll never be forlorn,
Alas! as Death I'll be reborn!
When Neith failed this loom of tapestry;
I flee through thick celestial forest atrophy.
The livid scar that put me to rest;
A tourniquet to the sepulcher orb in my chest!
"Due to Life's Ouroboros Limbo Inn,
I couldn't gift a priapic cusp within,
I couldn't caress your silhouette skin,
I couldn't love your sinister kin!"
The revel Dead speak of Summerland,
A masturbation by Death's own hand.
I'll gladly sparkle your path with pearls,
Take you away where meadow depression curls!
For you see- Death is the womb
of our throe forboden, aroused Moon.
On this night tears open the ebon vaults,
A corpse left to indulge all your faults.
The pal laid to my awe desires,
This catafalque God endures weeping choirs.
Psalms sung by Life's clique,
-Part of me might cry and shriek...
-In this storm; An erubescent shower,
released me from my beloved voodoo flower.
There my heart and knife wedded!
Benighted the ground splay blood dreaded.
Through astral Magicks, I decay my flesh,
Too the entangled Moon, that trees enmesh!
... The Summerland
Now I rule as master in this domain,
Finally my swathe depression deplane.
So it can no longer grief and betray,
But I face surplus love sway!
Have you ever heard the cry of the broken hearted?
Whose heart bleeds as it pleads as a result to losing, the one girl, he needs
Humble your heart and mind and access with empathy; well enough to perceive it clearly
I must warn you, it’ll be the worst cry you’ll ever hear, because it’s awfully too near to fear
Like how raindrops can replace your tears’ flowing outwardly from the inside
Falling like thunder-hunted by a lightning spear, shredding your thoughts to wander
As to what reality will be like to a dreamer, who cannot sleep; as he weeps and leaps?
Chasing memories which doesn’t exist coz’ he cannot resist but he persist on insisting, anyway
Whereas his heart plays jaggedly with the cards of sorrow, one bluff-it’s goodbye tomorrow
He bellows… like a rollercoaster ride, knowing, it’ll come again and again, turning boys to men
Turning strong men weak and feeble men weaker-all because he tried again, to seek her
All because he thought he needs her-He truly believes and grieves like thieves
Stealing time that was never his to reminisce inside a kiss only to see it spun onto this
Where his world gets weary as his eyes get teary watching the past unfolds to less than a theory
I digress, hoping that it’ll all be over in one second or less, unless, all, is but a test
I digress from digressing further, because everything’s a blur-like a nightmare slurring
He confuses me, when he talks about me as “I to a he” to a muse as though he too has lost his shoes
My head’s spinning-trying to find the right words to a song; a right place to belong
I’ve gone and reached ahead while the unknown future still trapped in my bed; unwed from reality
Uncoupled from normality where the only exception to the rule was to cry and so I play the fool
He cries as I cry, sending our “goodbyes” to the sky, trusting that one day, I will get to fly
As for now, I’ll embrace the pain with a little bit of salt and let it settle inside my private vault
Where all my promises and wishes and dreams can come true, and while I’m there… I’ll think of you
by: Wilbert Evangelista Dela CRuz
Value
All
Learning
Education
Denies
Ignorance
Construct
Theories
Organize
Read
Insist
Appreciate
Notice
She is a brown eyed girl with soft brown hair
The gown covers her pregnant belly
The tasseled cap is her crown
Nothing can down her determination
Motivation comes from nightmares
Motivation comes from dreams
As she speaks, tears stream
She recalls her defiance, disobedience, deadly deeds
She is overdue but happy to be on that stage
Her rage is different now
He doesn't acknowledge their coming baby
or his fatherhood
He called her nasty names in the neighborhood
Members of his gang brought her pictures of him
at the park with his hands all over another
She was struggling to become a mother
Later the law would send him to jail
for statutory rape of his little sister's friend
The offenses mounted and she
kept going to the Word
On her knees she pleaded
The situation was insane
How would she maintain?
She studied in the bathroom, on breaks
at work, on the bus, late at night, early morn
What could she accomplish? She had to mourn
the death of that other life
and be baptized into the new
Now she knew what to do
On her knees she pleaded
for a place for her and the
baby to stay
A home for unwed girls made
a way
She read, wrote, calculated, devised
Her books became worn as did her eyes
"God help me not to despise"
"Make the bitter better"
She sang verb conjugations
As she washed dishes
Her feet hurt and her back cried
If she failed it would not be
because she had not tried
When she was in the streets
She had partied hard
Now to pass this test
She would do her best
?Y porque no?
Her belly was so big
She sat sideways at the desk
There was a time when she
drank, doped and was rude
Now she was humble, determined
And the reward was now
Wow as they cheered her speech
"It all begins with me
First I must see
I tell you change and successes are
Always in your reach”
Value
All
Learning
Education
Denies
Ignorance
Construct
Theories
Organize
Read
Insist
Appreciate
Notice
The Barretts of Wimpole Street
Imagine you’re a woman, with a mind
as trained, acute and fertile as exists.
Imagine that your erudite, refined
creations top each year’s best-seller lists.
You write in English, French and Portuguese.
Translating ancient classics from the Greek,
(for you, no bigger deal than shelling peas)
you thrill the world, to hear Orestes speak!
But this is eighteen forty. There’s a catch.
You’re middle-aged and single. “On the shelf”.
Your father keeps you housebound, unattached:
he wants you as a frill, not for yourself.
The man’s a monster. You’re not free to act.
He holds you here, unnoticed, bored, unwed.
Your only means of protest at the fact
of kidnap is, you’ve taken to your bed.
Like many women, both before and since,
you’re “delicate”. It’s how you take a stand.
But what of that long-dreamed of, handsome prince,
your rescuer? Don’t worry. He’s at hand!
Elizabeth M. Barrett is your name.
A gentleman comes calling, loves your work.
He’s Robert Browning, of “Sordello” fame,
and suddenly there’s light amid the murk!
He shows up every day at Wimpole Street,
and soon you loosen the paternal tether:
with Mister Browning, you’ve re-found your feet!
You’ll marry him, then run away together!
The banns were read discreetly, days ago:
the journey’s booked. No vacillating now!
The father’s out on business: down below,
in Wimpole Street, a hansom waits: but how
to saunter past the servants? What a fright!
My trusty Morgan – glad I could suborn her:
Well, here we go – I’ll sleep in France tonight!
Brave Robert’s waiting, just around the corner!
The thing was carried off without a hitch.
They wed, they fled. So farewell, Wimpole Street!
And far from wish undone her Dunmow Flitch,
Elizabeth’s contentment was complete.
One’s fate can turn upon a single act.
Two poets lived as one – idyllic bliss!
They now had what they previously had lacked –
each other. Fiction can’t improve on this!
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.