For Texas and Louisiana (Live Another Day)

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Warm winds blow

Over dusty lands

Grasses shrink underneath bare rocks

And trees link arms

Sun is afraid to shine

Upon what is to come

They want no part

Waters rise high above us

Oblivious towards what is coming

We humans, so fictiously cunning

Berating mother earth

In danger of becoming

Nothing

Once the waves come

And waters rise above the dams

Damn humanity

Damn our need to be powerful

When we should only seek

To be at peace

Now lives are swept away

By torrents of rain

Too much to drain

Now I see brave men

Drop in from airplanes

Save me please, save me

So I might live another day

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The Darkness Chokes The Sense Of The Homeless

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The darkness chokes the sense

of the homeless

throwing punches of humility

and stealing the cents out of hats

too big to fit the head of a ten year old boy

silence awakens the mind of a soldier

trapped in a traumatized mind

he marches up and down his home to Iraqi time

and swings an AK around his head like a toy

bullets rain down in a cascade of calamity

and with the blindness of humanity

there’s more to this never ending story

of birth, disappointment, and death

medicine buys you an extra breath

but takes away twice the life

adults cheat on each other

teens resort to the knife

and poor babies, they don’t get any rights

there’s more vacant houses on a single block

than the times the gangster will cock his glock

at the very thought of red and blue

shallow crooks like Hillary say they know what it’s like

If only they knew

an eye for an eye, tooth for tooth

here’s some ecstasy and pot

in exchange for our youth

mom’s leave their children

in search of better pay

while feminists overlook the rising level of strokes

and the blood in the streets from where kids lay

nobody to guide them, that’s fine

let Justin Bieber lead the way

but he won’t give them back their time

tired of hearing about gender

while the news makes everything about race

let’s focus instead on treating each other like humans

because we all belong in this place

 

The Woman Who Broke The Glass Ceiling

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She climbed down from the ladder

“Too high for you, eh?” shouted the onlookers

and musing in haughty tones they departed

but to her, their ignorance never mattered

As she became determined to break their will

her soul rose higher every day

a spirit choking on depreciation, sexism

and intolerance had its fill

she marched not with the masses

but sat with the myriads of ink on the shelves

Orion had to tell her to sleep

as slumber overcame her crooked glasses

While the populace ranted and raved

for temporary things like wealth and wages

she remained quiet and composed

understanding her place

Hawthorne in her lap, Bronte by her side

they could not see the power she already had

and eventually would gain all she desired

yes, it was her time

One night, while the men slept

unaware their presumed authority was about to be taken

and the divine order demanding to be shaken

a pair of dashing feet carried a still sleeping body

through the city of her youth

past the doors that slammed shut

unacceptant of female verse

past the home of the priest

who preached acceptance by Jesus yet denied her presence in church

she reached the middle of the town

and ascended the ladder once more

with every step, her hair was tangled

and dress mangled

but defiant to both god and man

she carried her book her heart

a spear in her hand

and blasting through the glass ceiling

she paved the way for others like her

to write their own stories

and set in motion a new beginning

Published On SpillWords!

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Hey everybody. I’ve been feeling down lately and wasn’t in the mood to publish any poetry tonight. I DID get published again on SpillWords. My poem, “Pleadings Against The Preposterous”, got published yesterday and I’d hope you’d take the time to read.

(It’s about teenage suicide)

http://spillwords.com/pleadings-against-the-preposterous/

 

 

 

I Don’t Give A Damn About The New Year

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(Seriously, I don’t. It’s just one more day on this Earth. It’s not nearly as serious as people make it out to be. You should be grateful for everyday. )

Maybe it’s that January cold

but I’m feeling quite bold

not following what I’m told

I’m always breaking the mold

A new year for these Americans

drinking, smoking, and choking down food

is another day in the long life

of Africans, Indians, Asians, and Middle Easterners

dealing with pollution, anarchy, and loss caused by you

America starts these wars

while you riot over criminals

and while your porn turn underage girl into whores

your three dollar donation’s impact is minimal

in world where trading humans

makes multi-billions

your Game of Thrones

is least among the millions

of concerns of the world

where your flip-flops fear to tread

where bombs are hurled

dismembering heads

Call me anti-American

call me a hater

but while you tweet

Chinese workers aren’t getting any paper

Overfed and under-read

Complain about minimum wage

while African mothers don’t see their girls

grow to an old age

Throw a fit over Christmas

throw a fit over Easter

but how many homeless

get to meet her,

the Holy Spirit?

Protect this land,

fair lady

Maybe we’ll worship something outside of ourselves

maybe

 

An Aspergian Poem On Domestic Violence

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I wrote this poem with my blogger and Twitter friend Kendra Lynn (her blog here, https://misslynn1.wordpress.com/) on my mind. Following her incredible work has inspired me to read and become more aware of the plight of so many women (and men, believe it or not), and I felt compelled to write about the subject. Her strength and vigor is in inspiration to me, and I’m grateful to be part of her circle.

He was smart

and he was kind

He’d drop me off at the mall

and pick me up on time

He let me go first

and let me have more

He never said “no”,

even if I’d been to the place before

He’d hold me long,

late into the night

He’d speak slow and softly

taking away my fright

Where I wouldn’t go

he would lead

From teenage fears and anxieties

I was freed

I didn’t think

there was anyone sweeter

I couldn’t think

of a life any better

BUT THAT WAS SIX MONTHS AGO

Now I can’t wake up in the morning

Without him twisting my wrists

And one morning, I found him

on my clothes, he had pissed

If I confront him, he fights me

grabbing my hair, he wrestles me down

and punching me in the head

until I can’t hear a single sound

He shoves me

down the steps

and I try to wipe my face, so bloody

but he only laughs

There’s nothing off limits

I had to hide my dishes

and just when I hope he’s reached his limit

he fights even harder

He punches me like I’m a thief

that’s made him angry

He says I’m the source of his grief

and then he slashes my ankles

I can crawl away

but he follows,

and sinks his gritty fist into my mouth

and blood I swallow

Then he hurls a chair at me

and leaves me alone

to wish I was back

in my father’s home

Everyday it’s the same

no hope, no end

and when I think he’s changed

my fingers he will bend

backwards, until I think

they might break

I scream and wail

but he says my pain is fake

There’s more of me than you’ll ever know

Our story, our plight, you must know

or else, to our graves we will go

with other victims running to woe

Speak later, and withhold our peace

You are accomplices in our fate

Speak now, and give us peace

You run beside us in our race

Closed door, you know no name

Closed door, you hide our shame

Closed door, open wide

Make us new again

#OctPoWriMo Day Twenty Two Prompt: Dangerous Men Only Need A Closed Door

 

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He says he loves you in light of friends

but treats you like shit when the lights are off

You say he isn’t dangerous, but his sins

are written on the body that he used to love

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The Tango is an invented stanzaic form introduced by Chiquita LoJuana Gonzolas Sills.

The Tango is:

  • stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
  • syllabic, 9-10-11-12 syllables per line.
  • rhymed, xaxa xbxb etc. x being unrhymed.

 

This is a brief (I have another, longer piece in the works), but heartfelt call to every woman (one in every three, chew on that ) that is abused by the man/boy that claims to love her. Domestic violence is most commonly physical, because it leaves the most obvious scars, but the deepest scars are the ones that you can’t see. The scars that can’t be seen, that too many women bear everyday, are the ones that destroy lives and hope the fastest. The mind is the driving force of humanity, and once you lose control, you re effectively cut off from all else in this world. So many women are cut down, yet live to see day, after day, after day. That is the greatest tragedy. Having to live with your abuser, having to depend on him, and having to know he will hurt you, with no escape. This was inspired by Nicole Holder, Molly Brown, and every other lesser known but equally important case that I’ve seen.

As a man with a mother, sister, grandmother, and so many other dearly loved females in my life, I’m appalled by men that think of their wives as “slaves” and disposable objects. They aren’t men, they’re punks. Punks with too much authority and too little appreciation for the life they think they’re in control of. You make it hard on the good men, the real men in this world, and you shame us with you disgrace, bestiality, and mistreatment of the very sex that helped bring you into this world.

 

Wilkens Avenue Wishes

17

 

It’s raining

Big deal

You know the story

Dark clouds pouring out tears on window wipers

Slippery tires and sleeping mothers

Hungry hunters of youthful hearts

under the crowded bus stations

But there’s another story,

much less common

that I witness in the rain

“Captured this morning after a shootout with police.”

“Car crash leaves a family slain.”

I look

out the window of my heart

and into the home

of wandering eyes

And as the drops

drip down my shivering hands

I ask it all to stop