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Best Poems Written by Mark Mcallister

Below are the all-time best Mark Mcallister poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

My Children Are Mexicans

out in the county and up the highway
anger hangs like lost voodoo over Miami
dances on bumperstickers
floats on airwaves
scars faces with perpetual glares
colors perceptions darkly
alters moods and
drives young men to football coaches
then army recruiters

anger that beats stepchildren
hunts coyotes for pleasure
and hangs corpses on barbed-wire fences
anger that asks
have you seen many Mexicans today?

just my wife and kids so far but it's still early
i hope to see more
he calls me a race traitor
he's to old to hit and i'm to old to hit him
so i suffer a fool
he tells his old wife only a homo would marry a Mexican

middle-aged men in Ford 350's
scatter brown children at bus stops and crosswalks
then pull guns to protect themselves 
from the older brothers of the children they harass
and... hey why did you do that to my little sister?
can get you shot in "self defense"

it gets to me too as anger leads to fear
fear for my Mexican son and daughter
who have records but have committed no crime
but out in the county and up the highway
the police put up roadblocks
issue tickets without cause
and brag, every Mexican in town will have a record

they told my son "what's the big deal everybody gets pulled over
everyone has to pay their share"
even if they
come to a complete stop
obey speed limits
use their blinker
don't tailgate

tell it to the judge, my son and my daughter
the judge who gives out four month sentences
for a third non-offence
or you can pay the
take it off your record fee
we lost your paperwork fee
you live in the wrong neighborhood fee
you drive an old car fee
we don't care if you did it or not fee

then after you pay and pay
re-arrests because the clerk didn't enter the payment
leads to
lost jobs
missed classes
and retracted scholarships
my children are Mexicans

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

Rum Is Sacrament

a vessel of earth and sky
proclaiming to possess
light and deepest depth
clad in the satisfaction
nearest to the wind
but then
dawning cloud like vestments
to walk safely in the seething mass
though by inclination none were needed
but to placate the malevolent
the sibling gods make a place to rest in gut
then rushing in discourse
insert long and narrow tendrils through the blood
before setting fire to the brain
as Asuras sing in praise
rum is sacrament

Inspired by rum and the language of the Rig Veda concerning the Soma ritual.
See Rig 10:136

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

Rumination

i can say 
they are unwelcome
yet secretly
i invite them in
ask them to stay
tell me a story
as if it is not the story of me
the meaning of me

teach me something
new or old
false unreal at best ephemeral
a truth a lie no matter
it dies in the light of reason
returns in the flow of time

leaves me now
returning to that shadow self
the truer self
the wild violent self
they will find me when i need them
the lie that dwells within
is never far away

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Changes

riverward
together the way clear
tread lightly
sensing fragility
perfection subject to disruption
we guardians
reverence in being
in being then
you said you would die
i said i would too
it would take some time
you said you could try that
the guardians are gone and reverence
we're still here
each alone
with each other

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On the Blackmoor

the blackmoor is wide and wet
cold and cruel
windswept

crows speak on the moor
of ancient and sacred
understandings

moorlanders hear warnings
upon the wind and
crows are prophets there

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

Mary of the Street

she slides through space
clad in vestments of intention
washed in moonlight nightly

you have seen her
heard her rave
in dreams 
in passing
telling ancient truth
performing the required rituals
so that
the sun might set
the moon might rise
the wounds might heal
and the old die well 
may they die well

she knows the timeless agony
that forms when wont meets scarcity
and so she weeps
not for herself
but for you and i
for our children
and for the trees
never for her self
for she has sacred work to do
sacred work to do
each day

you have seen her
seen her sleep
in grime
on sidewalks
and once under the sacred trees
now gone
the sheltering trees
the trees that were
the final gifts of departing gods
casualties of war and ignorance and 
unacknowledged fear

why the rituals
why the holy intent
why does she love us
when we have no love for her
she who loves our children
she who prays and cries
and burns each morning on the pyre 
of the rising sun

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

Untitled

steps
one foot in front of the other
the journey is endless and constant
only seeming to cease briefly
before the false promise of termination
to hang in the cold
then as if under the curse of gravity
fall back to the source of all things

endless steps
one way or the other
rising or falling
it dose not matter now
the one same as the other

i have traversed the desert
of life 
of death
the desert that is eternal
seeking an ending
i have returned to the source
where wisdom is folly and reason insufficient
and unwelcome

why then the effort
when no effort might have led me here
and with much less pain
why then the sorrow
when ignorance was my initial state
and as a consequence of my effort find
there was never anything but ignorance
knowledge being just a sad illusion

what have i now
there is no wisdom
no blessed end
and the journey has found me weary
not renewed
not expectant
nor breathless
but weary and aching in mind and body
so that one cannot fully support the other
was it ever otherwise
or is youth itself only illusion
now i have come to think that i was old and worn
even then
and so were you
so were we all
always

i have written lies
still i value truth or say i do
though lies have served me better
lies are beautiful things
they are how we live with ourselves
they are how we kill ourselves
they are how we heal the insatiable longing that
have become tiresome wounds
and how we live with disillusion
lies are
the voice of shadow
the comforting shadow
the cold shadow
the dark voice of dreams
the timeless impulse to know ourselves
as if the only great quest is to know the self
the worthless quest to seek the self

my self is a liar
so my thoughts are lies
my words are lies
my truths are lies
my poems are lies
i have been lied to
and have become the lie
i issued the lie and believed it
for it is the truth of me

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

When We Were Celts

crowblack night
and we remember
fear and flame
we were large then
encompassed all the places
sacred and profane
did not know where we ended or began
still we knew what we were
then i was the crow 
i was the night the dreamwanderer
i knew wind as brother moon as mother
you were the wolf the black and the light
you knew flame as guardian and rain as life
then we were wise
there was no learning then 
only remembering

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

We Searchers

we have searched
and found 
long days filled with longing
searched for small signs 
in sandy wastes
under the cruel orb
seeking all but settling on the crudest need
asking in our poverty

what sustains life?
love
god
water
hope

having only water
we moved on
leaving our history on the holy stone
leaving our brothers ashes in the dry wind

what is true?
mountains father stones
god is in heaven for it is not here
all men want
all will suffer

of one mind we decided
god is not here
and we have far to go
leaving our light extinguished
in the earth
we descend

in that shadowy valley
the windbreath does not blow
thoughts do not ignite
spirits cannot soar

there we found Yama
who is no devil
but a wise man
filled with sorrow
but with hope
all he said was

do your duty
as i must
do not love 
do not hate
do not want
come to me in time
i am the only road
through this wasteland
through this life
you will find me kind

Details | Mark Mcallister Poem

Wind Song

the wind captured me long ago
holds me even now
and always

from wind to birth to breath to consciousness
what impressions i possess of the divine
blew into my mind as wind
fell into in to my my mind as rain
was ignited by lightening
and fed by the streams of life and loss

when i am gone in time and form
i will not be gone in spirit
and you will hear my poems of love and loss
when you listen to the wind