is more fun than Easter,
for me.
I teach at
a Quaker school
and today was warm
and sunny
and perfect
for hiding easter eggs
in the long grass
and behind the benches
in the courtyard
outside the meeting house
where we go for Friday
morning meetings.
This Thursday
was the last day
before spring break
and we met
in the gym, instead.
I finished hiding the eggs
while I sweated
under the sun
on an 82 degree
late morning
in early April.
I was happy
in not taking
a single egg
for myself.
I hid a dozen
in the empty fountain,
two and three
tucked in little corners
of shade and sun,
and I tried to cover
the colorful ones
in the long, growing
grass.
Watching four
and five-year-olds
search desperately
and competitively
for eggs,
filled my heart
with gold, today.
One boy, a smart boy
didn't look for eggs.
He was too busy
finding dandelions
and pointing out
fire berries.
That boy
made my heart sing
today.
One day is longer
Strove and sweated in
Than is that life, unshackled of.
And now forgiving.
Where lies the loneliness of the night?
Its dark shadow stirs beneath the eyes, the mind will float aimlessly in a dreamlike state.
Beyond the window pane hides the truth
Its howls and cries muted, the beast, where mares are formed, escapes its shackled lair.
Tossing and lashing, the nocturnal wanderer lusts after its next prey.
What malevolent force walks the street each night
whilst cotton shrouds the innocence of man.
Hours chime to dawn and with it the sanctuary of morning light.
The twilight preludes the backstory of our fears that manifest to a nocturnal cycle of twists and turns wrapped in a sweated sheet. We are the authors but typecast as the protagonist of the weak, narrating each chapter from our subconscious pool where the last page is torn from the spine and the end never comes.
We rise, battered and bruised, pieces of us lie scattered about the bedroom floor. We try to remember, we try to forget in equal measure the scenes of our play for today. The cast slowly walks away, stage right to dust, and we carry on.
The Man In The Elevator Poetry Contest
Charles Messina
The man in the elevator kept staring at me
His eyes were casting a line into my sea
If only he knew I'd jump into his bucket
And be his Miss Muffet
Where this fairytale needed an open door
Before our elevator reached his floor
My palms sweated like a crying dove
Yet if only he knew I was looking for love
When his floor approached, he reeled in his line
And hot flashes rolled down my spine
Hi, can I ask you out to visit the stars
My voice softened, only if we end up on Mars
I couldn’t live without A/C
Though people all through history
Made do with fans or else before,
They sweated through the clothes they wore.
I’d hate to live without my phone;
Attached to it I’ve somehow grown
Though I’ve survived, let’s not forget,
When it was not invented yet.
I wouldn’t want to live without
The wheels that take me all about,
For without car or bus or train,
I’d feel so stuck I’d just complain.
I’m glad I never had to live
Without appliances that give
The means to keep us clean and fed,
Allowing us to get ahead.
I’m grateful that these things exist
Though we can’t know what we’ll have missed
By living in this current age
Before the future turns the page.
Which words soothe
You know the ones that cool temperatures
And bring that smile to the face of busy days
Overworked and overlooked
They fall out of minds
A jumbled cornucopia that somehow rearranges itself during a blink
The spell checker came later
The ooh and aah came with comfort food
An ear that took its time and stayed the night
Slipping between the REM breaks
Then they slid out of the sheets before dawn
Sentences flicker
A net caught them
But some need throwing back
Their time to dance will come
The milli seconds between thought and voice
Is what really matters
Times are broken when the heart is involved
As pulse throbs each vein in sweated brow
Lips quiver with each word born
Passion knocks on the door first
Its eagerness screams to be heard
Gestures mean nothing
Without the parlance of love
Tone stings
Anger stretches
Calmness pacifies a troubled soul
These are the words in their structure
Their meaning, their deliverance
That moves us
Whether in thought or deed
We must trust each constructed sound
To pay its way
Words are our currency
To a richer life
Spend wisely!
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
The compass whirrs.
North toward rock, south toward sand.
East toward ice, and west toward river.
Like a game of spin the bottle I take a chance on north,
run my hands over stone and pebble,
the spine of life a twisting snakeskin, shedding.
The compass whirrs
as words and winds uproot me to the south. Dust ridden,
arid. Earth sizzles, a roast overdone. My flaking skin
drenched in sweated drought.
The compass whirrs
as those years of crinkling sand dune heat melt
somehow into eastern snow. You don’t understand
how or why or when those summers became leaves that
fall, became sleet upon which you slip, recklessly, helplessly, toward time’s
splash. The final plunge pool.
Now, western waters offer a mirror,
sometimes murky, sometimes crystal,
and still, the compass whirrs, as you realise
that strange land - your body.
The stranger - you.
Am I allowed to touch the blue of the magazine?
When stars otherwise kiss the somberness of the night?
Am I allowed to collect clouds in their ephemeral charm
And restore them their delectable delight to shed pain?
Can I turn orbs of sweet dreams of my own
Into the flavor that I love to color and add
a dash of my-ness into the air I breathe.
If so------
Then I promise I would recite the most exquisite poem.
Elucidate the most enchanting secret.
Write words that never conspired to appear in the most famous minds.
Let me drink my morning brew without exasperation.
and buy Time with my pocket of skills.
I promise I would give you a better garland
Whose fragrance would have designed no mind before.
I promise I’ll give you the piece that would
require no customization, and a tune free of cost.
I would give you the right to justify my wrongs without a grudge
And never turn a deaf ear to your sweated breath.
I would forgive myself for all that I have nurtured in pain
And give myself a Hi5 for having broken my own record.
If only you allow me to be, I’ll give you the gem I am.
I like your new outfit
You look really smart mate
One could almost say
You're a real fashion plate.
Wearing new clothes can give
You real bird pulling power.
Over in Bangladesh they pay
Just forty eight pence an hour.
That's where are a lot of
Our cheap clothes are made,
In a modern variation of
The sweated labour trade.
Its not just the Cheap Shops
In this exploitation game
Some of the Designer Firms
Are involved just the same.
Bangladesh is too far away
For us to really worry
And besides modern life
Moves at such a great hurry.
Wearing cheap clothes
Can feel so very nice
At times we should remember
Somebody pays theprice:
Sometimes in the shop we
Could maybe give a thought
To the true cost of the gear
We’ve just so casually bought
In the last freported factory fire
Over a hundred maimed or dead,
Just ordinary Bangladeshis
Trying to earn their daily bread.
Written: November 28, 2023
_________________________________________
In my last prayer, words and dreams merge,
My concepts have changed as a brittle verge.
Such a rainbow of hues in this growing vision,
My head swirls in whispered tasks and decisions.
Strong in my beliefs, I now question all things,
As if a veil is lifted, I sweated even the little things,
My soul is seeking knowledge and rearrange,
Now awkward by set ideals, I relish the strange.
No beyond blindness or rigidity to act as a slave,
Having altered, I am now freed from any cave,
In my recent musings, I have explored curiosity,
Getting raw insight and seeing awe in diversity.
My comprehension grows as I explore my mind,
Laying buried muse that shines akin to orbs aligned,
Placing the ideas in words is an ideal symphony,
Written words depict my impending destiny.
My route is wider, and I explore the universe,
Seeking wisdom all over, valuing what's diverse,
We ought to value this superb mental shift,
In our recent beliefs, raw prospects are adrift.
A day when nothing happened
It was a harmless morning my old friends had married
When I was at sea, a boiled egg for breakfast
took the bus to the docks, I had a dingy there and tried my luck fishing
Got two fish, wrapped them up in a newspaper to give to the cats in the neighborhood, and went for a shower at the communal bathhouse
Later I had coffee and a Napoleon cake, the waitress was very fat she sweated and was ill at ease, gave her an extra tip.
A slow-moving car, many people walking behind, and since I was going the same way I joined the walkers for a while
At home I switched on the TV to a woman singing and playing guitar badly; luckily the news came on, an accident near the railway station a handcart had opened
and several suitcases damage.
Opened a new book by Axel Sandemose and read his work in the early morning.
I remember long ago
Every year we would go
Northern Mississippi
a piece from Tupelo
Ackers of land
My childhood did know
Children of the daughters
in our grandmothers trust
every summer we spent
from before we could lust
picked peas by the bushell
and loaded hay by the bale
our first taste of work
in the suns regail
Hot we sweated
yet food we were supplied
an abundant table
we were never denighed
I milked the cows
Papa taught us how
Those old ways remembered
but not done now
Never could get the hang
of walking without shoes
one way the country boys
give city boys the blues
Put the jug in the freezer
so it would melt cold in the sun
run and catch the horses
was a way to have fun
When ever they had church
it was church all day
certian of the men
would pray and say
the verse of a song
while others drug
the moan and melody
Night would fall while
we sat on the porch
Wasn't enough television
to really have a choice
Papa never said much
cept mostly on his knees
right beside his bed
Before he'd sleep.
To follow the example
was ment for me
the bible on his lap
even though He couldn't read.
Parents raise their young
In efferent flavor of
The new sunrise.
But as the great star sets,
We become beasts that hunt
For nothing less than
Suppression.
Medallions are too effervescent
For this ridiculous perversion.
I stand center stage un-claiming
A sweated brow now.
To anticipate silver is to
Masturbate an antithesis of meaning.
This proposal disturbs my silence
And I refuse in a tantrum—revocation.
the valley of horror
On my way to the shops in the charming one horse
town called Benafim, I took a shortcut through
a narrow valley like a mensur scar in a high ranking
German officer’s cheek
When down, I regretted my rash idea, airless and still
no birds sang there, and no rabbits crossed the path
sharp floret bushes ominously murmured veiled threats
The trees were pale and long since deceased.
The sun didn’t reach fully here; deep shadows were
dark, murderous spooks waited, the soil was rusty
the blood of those who didn’t find the way out.
I froze and sweated, the track appeared endless and
my dog had disappeared.
Finally, at the exit, I ran the last 50 meters, the dog
waited for me, sensible she had taken the old road.
I was told by the villagers no one walked the there
a massacre from a war forgotten the evil continued.
The road sweepers
Giggled happily
While collecting and carrying rubbish
With a one wheel cart
The construction workers
Sweated heavily
While collecting and carrying bricks
With a one wheel cart
As children
We played secretly
With the one wheel cart
Carrying inside a little girl as a bride
And the cart rolled and rolled
Until it disappeared from our eyes
Together with our child brides
Maybe with only some heartbroken memories left
To this progressive world
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