24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Her blood drenched the walls
As her screams filled the air
His hands ’round her throat
She should’ve died, there
*Beeeeep…*
Her mother stood there sobbing
Doctors rushing to and fro
Machines were loudly chiming
When her angels said, “let’s go”
*Beeeeeeeeeeep…*
She firmly told them “no”
She hadn’t written her final cipher
And it was time to tell the world
It’s the Season of Survivor.
*Beep, beep, beep, beep*
*Mandy Kocsis©2020~
SEASON OF THE SILLINESS (for Barbara)
And then there were giggles, and girls giggling until their faces fevered and their hearts beat shiver fast and the whole extravagant blooming world shimmered and blurred, and they were up, up – legs pumping, heads thrown back, chins tilted skyward like some sort of cloud pointers, hands gripping the sturdy thick chains. And they needn’t come back to earth. At least for one long minute – the swings granting them grace. The small city park a hot summer’s refuge.
Buy-fly Die!
Damselfly freely fornicating on the wind,
Your act sustains your beauty for those who see.
With us, the blind define life as evil –
a veil for their own ills.
There exists no pornographic rape
in the world of wingéd creatures.
Lay your eggs, damselfly; you must fly away.
Do you marry in the wingéd world?
Someone must surely know,
for we have all been wingéd
at some moment of broad expanse.
Are there husband-flies whose damsel-wives cringe
at the sound of midnight footsteps?
Some drunken fly stumbling to find fault,
with face glowing rage and reeking lust?
Lay your eggs, damselfly; you must fly away.
It is a lazy coward who seeks to own their own.
Whose idea was it to oppress sacred life?
Some morbidly grotesque Kahn
robed in silk and fine ribbon, bereft of worth?
Torpid aristocrat! Flies above you toil for sustenance
and vie with dance to nurture life.
Lay your eggs, damselfly; you must fly away.
A brother to some, a father to many, Butch never thought his call was too small or uncanny. With him, you never were alone, the comfort he would bring you made you feel right at home, but you had to stand in line For he was always on the phone, willing to do errands, loan money, sing a song or just be a friend. Butch loved life. My "Butchie", I called him dearly when he came into sight, and I would cry for hours when he took flight, because he was the only sibling, out of nine, who could quell my night terrors with a song or a rhyme. We loved him with our hearts on our sleeves, no matter what we went through, he always reminded us: "We our family!" Butch was an unpublished, annotated textbook of accomplishments. he was learned in Computer Science, language, music, arts and crafts, he never entered into any field that would not last, and he loved archeology, the study of our past. He could put a whole car together with just a few tools, and he taught me how to read, before I was in school. Butch would challenge our minds; he was so funny and so cool! My big brother had so many skills, and worked so many careers, that teachers made him an honorary staff member year after year. Amazed at his genius, they didn't care if he had a teacher's Credential, his gifts were unquestionable, and that was essential! About what he was able to accomplish, they had no fears! His castle was where he lay his head, his children his greatest treasure, and no one could size-up Butch. No scale quite measured the person whose very body could not contain this quintessential lover of life, family and friends. Butch fought valiantly against prejudice, and medical institutions false diagnosis, and treatment of black folks, with treatments that many times were hit and miss solutions, unfounded delusions of grandeur. He was never unsure, of his plight and never gave in to the illnesses that were allowed to fester without sound treatment, nor well-tested cure. He too had "the gift" of discernment throughout his life, inherently surmising what was fair, what was equal, what was right. He took the stage and then, dropped the Mike! Cheers to you Butch, my brother, Vernon Elborne Wade, III, many people loved you - many people heard, your plight for young people, your genius with words. You trained pigeons to know you like we did, Flocking around their BFF, like super excited little kids, Just like you took care of our ducks who came to roost in our backyard, you had the wisdom to know finding refuge in this world is not easy - it's hard! But, to Heaven with you, Butch, we always knew you'd get there before we do. You're my National Holiday, royalty, and a King, tried and true, I believe you knew, too!
2020 Hour #7: Fistfight
Outside my window, a flag flies at the top of a building
And it plays a violent game of chicken with the wind.
When a breeze turns down my street
It transforms, shedding its innocence and churning into a reckless teenager
Testing boundaries against all in its midst.
So this flag takes a particular hit;
The wind comes right up to it, gets in its face,
And dares it to back down.
Get out of my f*%$n way
But the flag won’t cower
Instead, against all odds, it fights,
Extending a punch from the edges of its stretched fabric
Winding back, then releasing all its energy in defiance
Right punch, left punch, sometimes felled
A mass of fabric looped around itself sent back to its corner
Then, at the moment of certain defeat
It rises
And unfurls itself with such fury that the wind,
In disbelief and shame
Retreats.
But the flag, flying high from the victory
Remains vigilant
As another wind approaches.
I’ve just unscramble and open the skin of my soul,
and for the way of being you and me and some of it,
not being part of nothing, feeling part of walls,
trapped in between as a chanting of the stones,
new ones build up from wires and mixtures of nails,
trying to forget what was allready inside,
ghost snails slime through the plates,
at the blue buddle, hinding in soapy water.
There’s nopal spikes and chile inside my feelings
I got soulache
Could this be it?
The point in the life of Earth
when debts are reconciled?
For debts there are,
and they will either be settled
or they will tip this planet into oblivion.
How many centuries can it last
that some people get the best
and some get the leavings
on this home of the haves and the have-nots?
The wealthy few always been on top,
but there’s a lot more of Us
than there are of Them.
Knowing this, the Fat Cats planted distrust,
hatred, suspicion of each other
to keep us from realizing the magnitude of our combined power.
Are we savvy enough to stop our petty, contrived disagreements
and see a bigger picture?
That would start The Season of the Reckoning –
the evening out of opportunity, of justice, of power.
Come. Sit, let’s talk.
Oh the seasons of the mind
respond to each situation.
Like the never-ending wave
in total fluctuation.
Sometimes I’m riding so high
then others I hit a low.
I try sometimes to guess
which way my mind will go.
But like summer, winter and fall
and yes the springtime too.
I really don’t know for sure
what my infinite mind will do!
by Del Bates
Betwixt the dark and daylight hours
the raven calls me from my sleep.
His cry a sharp, demanding caw
to raise me from slumber deep.
What is it he is wanting now
that draws him to my windowpane?
Is he a harbinger of doom
that brings him here from his domain?
“Oh, you the coal black messenger
of prophecy and sudden change,
pray tell me what you’ve come to say –
what omen bring you – dire or sage?”
I feel a quickening in my flesh –
what is this sense that I’ve naught known?
“‘Ere I be driven from my mind,
oh, spirit bird, I must be shown.”
The black beast cocks his head aside
and in a tone both sharp and clear,
his dispatch issues so arcane,
“You’re called to now become a seer.”
“A seer?” say I, “That cannot be
I have no mystic gifts to share.”
And yet, within my telltale heart
I know ‘tis now my cross to bear.
I ask, “How can I trust myself
to guide another on their way?”
The Raven looks me in the eye,
“You’ll always know the words to say.”
With that he turns and takes his leave,
his shape a specter as he soars.
I hear his final fervent call,
“And you shall see me nevermore.”
Photo credit: Mel-Poole-@melipoole- sourced from Unsplash
In 27 years I can count on my fingers
The number of times I’ve seen you
Family really wasn’t convenient
Until we matured and began lives alone
You hunt for arguments in my writing
Reminding me that you still are older
Since age is all you have to hold onto
In the wasteland of separation you nourished.