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Pocket Change

It’s been over twenty years
Since you passed away
Sadness in my heart
Gladness of memories
Subtle signs you send
Reach me as a mortal
Shows you still care
Quarters left in pathways
I remember how you delighted
When exchanging dollars at the post
For newly minted state quarters
Did you receive the ones we left?
Did you know your life would end at North Carolina?
Quarters left at your gravesite
Like stones left a Jewish markers
Quarters littered in pathways
Butterflies a popular symbol of loved ones breaking through Heaven
I find you throughout the bluebonnet flowers
I remember the daffodils you fondly passed along
In brown bottles wrapped in a spring poem
Sweet peas trailing on the shed
A touch of Heaven with
Pennies in pathways
Dimes the angels place Heaven sent
Fond memories of soil mingled with cedar
Reminds me of the work you did
Even in the heat of summer
Dimes in the doorways
A reminder my love of writing
Came throughout the generations through you
You seeded my fertile mind with yellowed issues
Of writer’s chronicles
Yellow pads scratched by pens
Containing spills from the confines
Of your mind
A mortal life
Eras of hardwork to overcome strife
Courage and chance
You provided me a lifestyle beyond
Circumstance
Liberal ideas to debate
College you encouraged
You moved me in lieu of my parents
Mountain laurel scent
Flower petals floating through air
That dead of winter
On top of the dormitory hill
December semester visits
Shaking the hand of my future husband
A smile and a silence acquiescence
You transferred me without resistance
A quarter found many Mother’s days
To show you know my daughter
Even without a mortal glance
Pennies in pathways that David pockets
Admonishing society of the waste
A penny richer
Quarters in pathways
Bluebonnets break through soil
Random pocket change year after year
Oh why?
Why?
Did you have to die?

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Dear Aunt Jean,

That spring morning in April, your granddaughter held the phone

to your ear when I called, you on your deathbed, me standing

alone at the back slider. I cried as your gravelly voice came over

the wire, systems shutting down at age 98. I knew how badly

you wanted to make it to 100. I wept so hard I couldn’t say what

was in my heart. Then a hummingbird came to the feeder hanging

outside the window. It was the first visit in a long time. I watched

the tiny bird sip nectar as you mumbled softly, words I could no longer

understand. But I knew your heart, and that you were saying, “I love you,

hon.” I wanted to ask you to say hello to my father, Virgil. But I knew you

would anyway. I remembered a friend’s words, Never say goodbye.

So, I said, I’ll see you again soon, Aunt Jean. And then you were gone.

Love,

Your niece, Nancy

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Psychopaths Are Unaffected By Punishment

Dear Dad

Now that you are dead

I thought it time to have a chat

That chat

You know, the one that ends with

you owning up

 

Dear Dad

Your words of apology

I dreamt last night or some other week

Are refused

It’s too easy to say them

You’re not forgiven

 

Dear Dad

The trauma you delivered like a postman

Far outweighed the life I had

When I escaped the brunt of your torment

It was sublimely peaceful

Once you’d gone

 

Dear Dad

In Australia the colours are green and red and black

It’s the gum trees and the kookaburras

Only natives

which flourish, which truly belong

and live well here

 

Dear Dad

I’m hoping that purgatory is for left footers

Who fall off the rails

Claiming atheism doesn’t count

Once you’ve been baptised a catholic

Hopefully, there’s no escape

 

Dear Dad

Now that you are dead

the words of apology and

the trauma you delivered like a postman

removed me from belonging anywhere

So I changed my scenery, got me a new landscape

 

Dear Dad

In your absence, I took up Taoism,

got me a new passport,

rented a post box and started recording

every conversation I have.

Thanks

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Revolution Freestyle, Hour 4

Almost 20 years ago, got my first taste of tear gas
Never thought it would be so intoxicating
Back then so idealistic, thought the war wouldn’t last
Knew it was revolution we were inoculating

A few years later got a face full of pepper spray
Running in black bloc on the streets of New York City
Watched comrade’s head baton-cracked with a sound I still hear today
And realized revolution ain’t that pretty

When Occupy hit I picked up the burden yet again
Cautiously optimistic we could really make a change
Facilitating GA’s as a grizzled veteran
While the nature of oppression remained the same

Systems of control updated and modified
The chess game evolving ever more complex and intricate
The concept of revolution slowly getting commodified
The collective attention too distracted to give a shit

Standing Rock, Ferguson, exposing more brutality
Trevon Martin, Philando Castile, so many undocumented calamities
Can we ever overcome, or is this really Armageddon
There’s gotta be some escape from this insanity

Because now they’re shooting bullets, whether real or rubber coated
And these pandering semantics don’t do shit, it’s pathetic
Flash bang soundtrack on a backdrop of COVID
The change we really need has to be systemic.

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Embrace the truth

They tell you how to look,

The necessity to put on make-up,

What size you should be,

How should you breathe

 

They tell you what to think,

Command you what to speak,

Don’t go far away,

Just do not seek the reality.

 

The masks they tell you to wear,

Even if inside you scream,

Not aloud to show your grief.

 

They want you to be defined,

To fit in their little boxes,

Do not seek the truth,

Or you will be free.

 

Free from the lies,

The fake promises they make,

The images will be shattered,

The standards may break.

 

Do not let them hold you again,

Don’t let the pictures fool you,

You in yourself are enough,

It’s time to embrace the truth.

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Poem 3 – Hour 3 – Aymen Zaheer

I want to be educated!

I am not a coward at all
To get education in school
Or just to stick with a mat
Outdoor. I am not born to die
to do useful things are not a lie
That’s why take me to school, don’t let me cry!

Some people are biased
They take everything for granted
Boys are not only supreme creature in world.
Gender inequality is rising a whirl
If the girls will not attend the school
How could they cope up everything
Generations after generations bear the same thing
That’s why take me to school, don’t let me cry

Social norms are not mere cause
Mentality of ours is an actual pause
I have suffered and still suffering a lot
Am I tool to fulfillment? Or domestic art
I want to live so many lives
That’s why take me to school, don’t let me cry

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A LETTER TO BOB

Hour 4  (Epistolary Poem Marathon Prompt: writing a letter/poem to a deceased person)

My dear brother Bob:

Calling you dear most likely has you giving me a heavenly eye roll…..I would expect nothing less from you my dear, dear brother!

Your photo on my desk is a reminder of our youth, of your life and of your final earthly journey and how it has impacted my life today.

I feel your presence often, though I have not seen the big prehistoric bird on Robison road lately.  You know the one, the one that looks like a shoebill stork, the one that won’t let me get its picture.  It’s you, isn’t it?

Some people get cardinals and I get a 4’ tall bird native to Africa.

Do you know that every time I eat cheesecake, and currently that is quite often as dad is having it daily, I think of you?  I am reminded of one of the last times we were together, and we made your famous cheesecake and even a diet version that I must admit, I have not made since.

I think of your last days in the hospital at OSU.  We were there for you, with you every day.  We witnessed the love and respect your OSU family had for you, and how those young students held you in the highest regard.

I remember the tear that rolled down your jaundiced face, making it appear yellow.  I wrote a poem about it on my phone.  It seemed so poetic and so very sad.

I remember you finally asking the question, “Am I going to die?”  I guess I realize now why you hadn’t asked the question earlier; you knew the answer.  There was so much second guessing during your final journey and not telling you that “there is always hope” bothers me to this day.  I hope you know that it bothers me. I hope you realize my heart hurts just to think about that day, that comment.

We toast you on your birthday, which is probably so incredibly ironic and morose, but it is what it is.  “It’s a Bob thing!”

I go fishing around the date of your passing and that brings me peace.

I was not anticipating writing this today but it is part of a poetry marathon prompt and it felt fitting to talk to you today.  You always supported me, well not when we were chasing each other as kids and I threw the ashtray at your head, but you know, as adults.

I love you brother and miss your laughter, your candor, your inquisitiveness, your heart.

Until the next time!

 

 

 

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Prompt 2 (Poetry Marathon)

“How to make you love me”

Ingredients

1. Love

2. Honesty

3. Humor

4. Communication

5. Fate

 

Love is the key to make this work,

And so add it up in a big bowl.

Add up honesty and a spice of humor

These are a must to add a few flavor.

Mix it all with communication,

One of the best ingredients to have a soft

texture.

As we set a side them, add up fate in a

separate bowl and let it flow together with the rest.

And always remember that God will do the

rest.

Spoon to taste if its all good.

Just add up few communication base on

your prefer food.

 

 

(C) M. E. Flores

#Prompt2

# PoetryMarathon

 

 

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