Rain strikes her bare face
She plants both feet in the mud
She faces the storm
I do not place my words before your praise,
nor wait for your clapping hands to grant them worth.
A deeper pulse compels the lines I raise~
a meaning rising darkling into birth.
I write to breathe, to name what trembles near,
to steady what has wavered in the cage,
to free the truths that lingered bound by fear
and give them voice upon an open page.
Denied acclaim is neither wound nor guide;
your daggered slights effect not my moving hand.
Expression is the compass at my side~
the soul’s own weather shaped so it may stand.
So pen your veiled, daggered slights if you must.
My work seeks life beyond my desk, unbowed and just.
How would it feel having no single woe to bear,
In that sooty heart oft stung by ceaseless tear?
Wouldn't the sobs-accustomed soul court pain,
To save those melancholic rhythms in its stain?
It's abnormal for usually teary eyes not to cry,
For that erstwhile crestfallen spirit not to sulk.
Used to endless gall it's sickly to feel brighter,
It's a health disorder to let go of that acid bulk.
And can this be the preponderant reason fair,
Fate gives each mortal breast its itching care?
Could earth's being all-free from fettering cries
Birth taboo alien studs obnoxious to the skies?
I'd wish to pass life's mean hour in gayest glee,
But if Wiser Lot considers it far much saintlier
To lead a gloomy existence by ruings checked,
Thus rightly eschewed by oily mirths let me be.
There's huge heroism in every iron dragon slain;
None in safest paths unmarred by battle's stain.
Anger seethes, it rumbles and roils
Fury thunders, bubbles and boils
I want to scream, I want to shout
I want to hit, to lash out
It’s driving me crazy, messing up my brain
Christ, why has this happened to me again?
I’m not a bad man, truly I’m not
I’m generally satisfied with my lot
Yet every now and then its seems
Something happens to crush my dreams
Not just once, but time and again
It’s enough to drive a man insane.
All I ask for is an even break
Just enough so that I can stake
My future happiness on a positive
So that me and mine can live
In relative peace and harmony,
Just how hard can that dream be?
If my luck’s a gauge, it’s off the scale
It seems that I’m set up to fail
By the Fates that deal out my life’s hand:
By which I’ll either fall or stand
But fickle Fate is the Great Deciever
Making a doubter of a true believer
I take one step forward and two steps back
Somehow always seeming to lack
That extra edge to make it work
God, I feel like such a jerk!
How can life be so crafty and conniving
To one who is only just surviving?
A Sonnet For Bloody But Unbowed Heads
The hands of my children’s raised arms
Have become like released skeets;
Their ebony hued bodies, a circled bull’s eye.
Their blood flows down the guttered streets---
Clotting here and there like a red stained dye;
As justice stands by balancing her scheming charms.
Liberty and equality have become moaning echoes here;
Even death has been denied its amazing democracy.
Respecting God given rights is no longer held dear;
The whore-mongers of injustice revel in their mockery;
Yet with the spirit of our ancestors, we must persevere---
Plodding onward with audacious faith in a greater hierarchy.
To the Courts of injustice, let’s not cower and bow;
Our Lord did not bring us this far to leave us now.
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