Tag Archives: Fight

Speechless

Some days silence is all I have to write with
my soul paper upon which to scribe
and my heart the only witness

…but even this is loud.

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Carving Board

I am not

your carving board

I. am. not. your carving board!

I am not the place to hold your

hatred when it’s dull edge

needs to feel souls bleed!

no

I am not your carving board!

I am not

your punching bag

I. am. not. your punching bag!

I am not skin holding your

worthlessness when i’s frayed image

needs to feel like it has knuckled teeth

no

I am NOT your punching bag!

I am not

your garbage bin

I. am. not. your GARBAGE BIN!

I am not the bone structure waiting

for the deragatory spit you spew

when language has your fill

no

I am NOT your garbage bin

I am not your sale

I am not your deal

I am not your break up

slide down

lay back and un-feel

while you thrill

I am not your undo

your untrue

your reason to forget

I am not your sin

your stick up fed up

get luck – y dirty

clothes pin

holding up the laundry

you refues to hang out

to dry

neither am I your

false pride

I am not your shadow lying

your peeping eye prying

your dogma flaunting

hatred signing

standing on the corner

mocking mourners

I am not your breaking

nor your entering

nor your black and blue

swinging

no.  nO. NO!

I AM courage

though you strike me

I AM bravery

though you cut

I AM authentic

though you disparage

I AM me

though you think I’m not

.

.

.

so no

I am not your cutting board

Here it goes again

((have a melody, but not sure this is ready – wanted to post for your thoughts anyway))

.

Here it goes again

your voice echoes down the hall

lingering out of reach

and beyond the light of it all

.

I scream but no words

make a sound

scattering on the floor

like broken glass on the ground

.

my hand brushes shadow

like a ghost in the mist

smoke filtering

from between your lips

.

I can’t stand this

.

I must be invisible

I must be unseeable

I must be invisible

a ghost in the heart

of your world

.

So

I write your name in the stars

I tether the wind where you are

I gather tears to make it rain

I build castles out of daisy chins

but I am invisible

.

(aside)

This side

this side is difficult

this side is difficult to embrace

This side

This side is hard

this side is harder to chase

when all the things I dreamed

are less than what they seemed

still I  try…

But

Here it goes again…

We will Stand

{{this is for the girls in Texas and every other person who has faced hatred- some have lost some have survived.  My heart is heavy but so are my words}}

We will Stand

They will come at you with fire and steel

with sharp edged teeth and claw

with suffocating hate filled smoke

broken glass taped words

to lash out in every manner of fear

they will come

they will come at you with stone and rod

breathing fire and brimstone words

with fingers twisted fist in fall

batter seeking lacerating law

filled with devastation

deviation of truths

stifle, riffle, ruffle and loot

every notion of dream

they will come pitchforked words

in halls of laws and carry their

continence of gods in and effort

to bend our knees

kiss our heads to the ground

BUT

we will stand

WE WILL STAND!

we will meet them with held hands

words edged with pride for who

we are and backs backed

a hundred fold of spirited

heart and girded souls

we will NOT go quietly

we will NOT perish without

our voices being heard

without one more

one more

another more

going down

We will stand

and when one more

is going down

we will step forward

we WILL step forward

and should all of we

turn in to me

I will meet them

all the same.

Salt in the wound

I grow furious
with the perpetuation
of the negation
of my gender,
through handmedown
stories created to
subject
neglect
find defect
in everything

I am

by hands
un-bled by the moon
nor birthed memory from womb
but have painted every ”
good thing done
in the shadowed
story
of babel’s fruit.

I am

neither weak
nor the cause
of your ill fortune

We, neither male nor female
neither old nor young
rich nor poor
straight nor gay
creed or none,
are the masters of our souls.

Master peace and find peace.  Master self and others will see your truth.

Master hatred and find only hate.

Cold Floor…

Cold floor

bitter dream

I sit

lingering frustration of

words remaining sealed

in cages

mounts fierce echoes in

silence.

Hands long to move

like old ink across new paper

to the ticking of thought

and fascination of favor

but for days

the sun and moon have greeted

a blank slated mind

unable to untangle

and bring forth even a prayer

to honor the blessing of breath,

no only

silence.

Eyes scanned the testament of nature

searched blade and throng of

fowl floating in storm billowed cloud,

approached and reproached

the edges of nothing for a glimpse of

Gods

a muse

a spark given

if even out of pity

deafening silence within.

but I have come back with

silence.

and languish

here in this

space

the canvas

blank

the

lined horizon of possibilities

clean

and the audience of

futures beyond me

remain

silent.

Who is Wesley?

Part 2 to Wesley’s Words

The face was circled
to near perfection
in faded red
on black and white
with the words
‘what is a life’
written pain
stak
ing
ly
small along the white
edge
neither mingling
meandering nor merging
with the photo paper’s
story
but filling Mason’s head
driving his hands
veined with hours
of plays, throws
and connections
to waver over glass
trace the words
to perfection
and wonder
what is a life…
…what is a life?

The circled
young boy
stared out from
hundreds
other faces
eyes seeing places
and dreams of
the future
so obvious
was the obliviousness
of this
young man
as if his dreams
were so far out
there was no
light
no future
reflecting back.
then the words
what is a life…
…what is a life?
came slamming back

Coach was old
his words made no sense
nonsense
figure it out
figure what out?!
why, how
when?
This is ridiculous!
Mason didn’t need
this…

What is a life?

The picture hastily
shoved to precariously
to haphazardly
tossed to the
edge
to the edge…
crashing smashing
tumbling down
from the bedside
to the ground
in pieces
frame and bits
lay more than just
a photo graph
a softer edge
lay unearthed
from tomb of wood
and glass.

LOCAL BOY
DEAD.
Five teens where
questioned in the
death of a local boy
this evening.
A call tipped off police
to patrol the area
off of 5th and Grand.
A scream
A scuffle
A muffled
brawl? perhaps.
The line went dead.
the operator said
The line went dead.
The five men
remain in custody.
Names withheld
due to the sensi-
tivity
of crime
and time
but sources suspect…
a sixth.

Mason skipped the rest.
Local boy, dead.
his age
ripped from a page
of yesterday
lived on the other
side of tracks
with
a nobody no letter no jacket
no money no future
no life
no life cuz
he’s dead.
Found with a pink barrette
clutched in his hand
and F@66%7
scrawled on his back
in indelible ink
to obviously sink more meaning
as his attackers
tattooed their
judgement into
his black and
blue
skin.

what is a life?

An article 30 days later
stapled
and worn
confirmed a sinking
suspicion
The 5 were part of the
Local High 6.
but no proof
no
ev-i-dence
no recollection
or defection
of witnesses
no sense of right
or wrong
no candle light vigil
no memento or
mournful sigil to mark
the young life passing
by.
Even this passage
was relegated in
subterranean
cache
just above the lottery
numbers
page 8
where this hate
ful incident
and
obstruction of
a justice-less life
for
Wesley
was left
to be forgotten
as if it would be
forgotten
and
it was…
save by one.

and
Mason kept on
tracing the words
in his head

What is a life?
What is a life… 
worth.

911 TRANSCRIPT – May 7th, 1969
Police Operator 2472
What’s your emergency?

{{Whispers}}

5th and Grand
a scuffle, fight, a boy down.

What is the location?

5th and GRAND!

{{typing}}

5th and G.R.A.N.D?

YES!

{{TYPING}}

What’s your name?

My name? I.. um… Mar…
Damnit man
You have to send
someone?
like now!

{{typing}}

Can I have you name son?

{{more typing}}

Sir,  Let me get your …
Sir are you there?……………
sir…….
hello?……

Wesley’s Words

His days are numbered

cumbered and layerd

with vice

well whithered hours

mix with sour

moments believed

to be lost

and he wonders

if the price was

worth the cost.

His hands lay bare

tattered and worn

from gageing to

wiring, saddles

and thorn

as they cast

credit on framed

fame

ages gone

his was the life to be

grand

now he sits in empty stands

waiting for the field

to blossom with fierce

beasts

claw, talon, and shields

but sometimes he wonders

why he is here.

His, wife is beautifuly

aging, she works in

the office

mingles the

papers

His children are grown

some forgot

some known

all are proudly his and

most would say

he’s everyone’s trust

But he wonders

has it

been enough.

Most days he

lectures morning

tradition of wood, shop

and farthing

lingers in hallways

leather on paved

doorways

After the noon

he picks up the skin

and teaches

what it takes to win

but what are they winning

when the timer is up

when the moment of luck

wears out and

all they have

is looking at them selves.

As fading features

fade farther under glass

pondering

will he say enough.

Will he

say

enough.

 

Coach….  Coach… 

we’re ready….

 

Stumble, tumble,

meander and maze

he takes a breath in

as words work on

the way

out of his mind into

the air, held for a

second on tongue

cheek and hair

before diving

in.

 

“We

suffer this field

day in

day out

we bleed for the ‘Mater

the glory and crowd.

We tramble those

who dare to engage

we revel in

glory

or languish when

halls of great men

call others to their side.

We wear colors and letters

with pride

but…”

His conjuntion lending

silence a nod

as he looks to

the glowing board for

council and pause

as almost men

wait

they… wait

 

“but what is worth a life

if that life does not find

life worthy?

You are not just warriors

you are leaders and

take care

those you trample should

ONLY be out HERE!

The halls and ways

of the walls of our

days hold our

souls they are the

same, different

scuffle, shadows

of forgotten shoes

they are less and more

rich and poor

they are

you

they are your charges

not stones to be kicked

not boards for bantering

your bitting wit

Not the conquest of your

smaller mind

not the details found

on cheaper wine

they are your concern

care and court

they give weight to

your sport

for if they did not

exist

your worthy game

would not be

worth

playing…

am I making sense?

Treat that place

as what you protect

not what you pillage

because what you pillage

may come to haunt

you…. when time

clock and luck

run out.”

 

He tosses the ‘back

the worn out frame

one face circled

in the crowd of

hundreds.

And inquisitive faces

return nothing

as coach’s

back

fading.

 

“Figure it out

see you at

practice

on Tuesday.”

Charlie’s smile

He mumbles

when he talks

the

wound of his voice

barely reaches the floor

as he searches for

escapes out

on his way down the hall

in too high jeans

and a belt

anchoring him to self

so he doesn’t slip

out of

place.

His hands grip books

covers and shields

deflecting the

pushes, punches

and wielded words

sharper than edges

of the door way

he often finds

himself greeting

every Monday

and Wednesday

at 8:05.

He is brilliant

in his mental

meanderings

of geometry

calculus

and science

his

mind sees puzzles like

diamonds to be

polished

clear and bright

as the bruises he

hides from the

inevitable trip

to the bathroom

trip

to the bathroom

trip in the bathroom

he just tripped

and

he doesn’t complain

he keeps up appearances

as the soles of his feet

keep account of

the days till

he can stand

straighter

be handsome…er

be

important

because

his mother says

he will be

and right now he

still believes her

even as the waves

of every suck the wind

you don’t get in today

you must be gay

because no girl

would want you

lingers at the gate

of his educational

hell

the bell

is

ringing

in his ears on the way

home and if

he walks a little faster

if he

catches the right

canter, carry and case

the Thursday Crew

won’t give chase

the

Thursday crew won’t

chase

wont

chase…

He just tripped in

the bathroom…

And His eyes are blue

like the ocean

in berm-u-da

so

his mother says

as she asks

him each morning

to keep his

head up

and smile,

the world will smile

back

but…

she doesn’t

know…

today is Monday.

It’s Monday…

and

He”ll just trip

in the bathroom.

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I want to shed a poetic light on abuse, in-equality, and bullying.  It is one thing I can do in my every day life to help make a difference.  You can too, by sharing a piece here that speaks to you to someone that may need to hear it.  Or if nothing else, visit one of the organizations I support like Over My Shoulder FoundationThe L-ProjectDiversity Role Models, Trevor Project, and Give a Damn Campaign.

Reach out today and make a difference in the life of someone who can’t. You will find the weight of love, the burden of friendship, and the plight of forgiveness is more joyful than the lightness of forget, the sweetness of popular, or the treasure of perfection.