Tuesday, November 14, 2017

A powerful weekend earthquake

injured thousands,
survivors were at home, asleep

others exposed to the night cold
we need everything, they cried

help, aid, water,
in all our three tongues

footage of rescue workers
offered only condolences

dispatched to those waiting
to be treated

shelter, they said,
had been provided

this is anarchy, how the world ends;
a lack of water

a lack of light
chaos on the roads

help,aid, water,
we need everything, they cried

mud brick can crumple
these days

 fault lines are not our own
so let's revert to historic dust

footage of digging people out
rescue workers offer condolences
and the cold eats what remains of the sky.

rose in a garden

a rose in a garden of thorn
bleeds red
among death, you rise too


an impeding storm 

the sound of war 
rings the doorbell

it will find me sleeping 
these days for winter has already begun

it will find me 
in my own peace, dreaming of walks by the shore 

a hum-drum
the sound of war 

breaks down my door
finds me cowering in a corner 

with a book and a flashlight 
like I was twelve again

running from lava
on a speaking mare 

a hum-drum-hum-drum-drum 
the sound of war 

shoots over my head 
takes down the kites I painted all summer 

takes down three trees that stand 
pregnant with fruit 

takes down the quiet, the child, the budding rose, 
the burnt-out books, the land, the hands, 
the music, the days, the nights, the ways 
the times I counted in reverse 

brings me this fear in my bones, 
the sound of the drum never leaves me alone. 

relation to the ard, the land

You work in negation
the sound of tapping your foot to earth
to aches, this is your tie to the land

that becomes not-
yours but then it is enough
yours when you need it to be

with fury and rage
this land, this ard, yours and not yours.

a good green seed

You see the good green seed,
The sun with its burning glory is hiding behind gray clouds 

necks, ropes, hands

Hate is a strong word
to target at those who try to exert power over your space

crowd with doctor-like hands
your throat, your decaying body

the body you are struggling to love
years down the line of being blamed for its genealogy

hate is a strong word
but it gets a stronger grip, over your hand

that tremors to take off
the ropes old lovers and school bullies tied around your neck.

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Territorial, this hunger

Soil on my fingers, earth under my nails
this is how dirt arrives at your city-cleaned hands
territorial, this attachment
that hunger