OCD

 

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Be warned,

there is something

in the woods

unheard of,

guns loaded,

unborn.

 

Ritualistic death

among the

Ayahuasca.

 

I went there

to save you

from burning

and was

buried alive.

 

 

Harm’s Way

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Robert Rauschenberg Collage

They tore into the cities / invading and occupying homes / staked like territorial wounds / to the mass graves / of our ancestors / limitless access / the flames of power / fueled by delusion / take whatever is left / from the wood pile / and burn it / burn the rest /

A dangerous grief / foreshadowed / the ruins / of a shackled war zone / the potential of all that could become / buried beneath / hues of apathy and stone / careful now / with what is found / the weather is about to turn /

I would have kept their secrets / protected them as faithfully / or as often / as gold is stripped /from an original mind / they knew of / possibly saw / the exploitation/  all the blood / yet silent / for years possibly /

I was violated motherfuckers/  we all were / the word / no / was never a part of the equation / those who spoke out / against the crimes / were rumored to be insane / as if insane / was the worst thing to be / loons / some whispered / some whispered it louder than others / so we were never to be believed /

We are human beings / goddamit / people / freely accessed / stalked / to the blackest rooms / of our minds / I remember counting the ridges / on the cellar floor / in and out of consciousness/ mockingbird incantations circling / the barely audible / fire / of my dying mind / Even in my most liberated wastelands / there were never any questions / to refuse./

Find Me

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Promise me

that in your next life,

you’ll find me.

 

When you’re safe,

when you’ve healed,

when you’ve stopped hurting me

and yourself.

And it matters

right now

what we do,

because even if we get

another life,

I may come back as

starlight

seven light years from Earth.

And you may wonder why

this one star,

of all the billions of stars,

holds relics of

something familiar,

something almost painful

that makes you grasp

how far away

seven light years really are.

 

And if the starlight

finds you

in your next life,

remember when we took for granted

the time we shared,

and how many times

we crossed paths,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

That, of all the possibilities,

of all the people or things

we could have been,

of all the eras

we could have lived in,

of all the particles or forms

we could have taken,

we had this life

on this Earth,

and, still,

we disregarded the fate

and the destiny of it all,

never considering that,

just maybe,

space and time

were trying to tell us something.

 

 

(This poems appears in my soon-to-be published book, “Piecing Shards:  Poems on Loss and Redemption,” out in June.)

Pull Me Down

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(for my mother, in loving memory of my grandmother 12/29/29- 1-16-10)

Pull me down
to that place
you don’t allow words.

I have never been
afraid of the dark.

Scatter the fragments, I will
speak on your behalf
against the tidal pain
of your past, I will
fight for the remnants of
who you once were.

You will be heard like the
thunderclap of retribution,
and they will all know
what cannot be undone.

Pull me down
to that place
that made you
who you are.

I will channel your truth
as if it were my own,
harness it during your departure
to calmer waters where
exile moons
will both grieve and heal the
loss upon loss upon loss
that sent you fleeing
to that place
you don’t allow light.

Pull me down
and I will fly you out
on the wings
of your suffering,
waiting to be told.

(Originally written in 2012, this poem will be featured in my future poetry publication, “Exile Moons.” Also, I wanted to end 2014 on a note of compassion, as so many I care for have had quite a difficult year. My heart and words go out to you.

Gathering

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(Exodus by Darko Birsa.  Slovenia, Painting, oil.)

It was the harvest,

yet, we were starving.

Even the baby’s snores

scattered.

A bent mink cloth,

a dilapidated gaze,

gold-plated skin of paint peeling the

splendors of war,

still rattling,

in the secular breeze.

Able,

we had nothing

left except the plain,

non-commital

lux

of blown-out museums and

bereft shopping malls.

I turned to hear the sound

of tortured faces

centering in the town square.

A diaspora had ended

amongst the ruins.

Never,

not ever,

would I forget

the paradox.

This was inspired by The Sunday Whirl as well as this story http:// http://m.motherjones.com/politics/2014/11/syria-war-assad-starvation-hunger I read earlier on Twitter.

Also linked to dVerse Open Link Night, and Poets United.