Cuernavaca
There’s a deep murmur unravelled,
the air is a song of feather,
a soft babble of grass.
There’s a memory of heaven revived,
hum of life and plea.
There’s this need, like a baby’s, to be loved.
–Aline Patterson
Author: A. Long
Inside
It hurts, the things of old,
attachment to the things of old.
Let go of them,
let them go as they are,
from afar comes the sound of
the scissors of the rag-picker.
–Kim Chiha
They Call Her
In the dead of night, when mischief meets the crux of infamy, she attempts to break into her own house. Brown, cat-like. Jag lives on the second floor of a brownstone down the street from a festering middle school and project development. She was never allowed to visit. Her mom, has inconveniently forgotten the keys again. No matter.
I am warrior, superman scaling the steps in a single bound, and carefully hopping over the railing, to dangle off the side of the building. Maybe, Spider’s better. Spider’s building, doors, and windows have reinforced iron black bars, except, for the middle window in her apartment missing a few to accommodate the air conditioner. But, in winter, it’s just an opportunity. She loops her paws around Brooklyn bars, swinging to the middle window.
Her mom’s pulse quickens from the ground. Sometimes, she thought, child you astound me. You are all at once brave and dumb. Something and nothing like me. Who will you be?
Spider unlatches the window and slithers in, then bursts from within the gate with a glowing smile of accomplishment. She is eight.
I wish I could freeze them, but it’s not up to me. She needs to make her story, her mom needs to watch her grow. My narration can’t stop the story, can not prevent her losing happiness or the willingness to climb. Can not predict her falling into a man’s bed or visiting the projects with wide eyes. I can’t stop Cat’s stumble or rise. Can not give you answers that language hasn’t solved yet.
I exist in the shade of her existence, documenting. Wishing I had answers for her confusion so she didn’t hurt. God, I hear her bleeding heart needing to be loved, clamoring around in brown skin that doesn’t always fit.
Girl, if you hear me, this is not all there is. It gets better.
Am I
I haven’t penned. even now i miss poetry.
the need, its solace, the release.
Where did it go. is a poet’s pen whose has not known paper still a poet
Am I?
Philly Story #4:Good Lord
Good lord girl
What made you think
that we didn’t know
that you know
that we knew
your weave looked fucked up?
Philly Story #6: People
People don’t always avoid eye contact
They look out
for old neighbors friends
a public reunion on transportation
when a fights breaks out
we all acknowledge each other
stuck in the thick
of the city
together
For You I Will
i will lay here until days become nights becoming days until you smile at me or until cities crumble into seas
America
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.
“Painting Is Silent Poetry”
Happy 4th of July Guys!
Thought of You
This amazing and profoundly poetic display of animated choreography, directed originally by Ryan Woodward, shows a love story between a man and woman.
The Poetry Corner 