So many unpleasant faces
ruin a beautiful view.
Angry reds instead of cool blues,
Too many bruises
scream to be free
of skin and blood.
Tribute to the Muses,
pleasing balm of misery,
that I be allowed
their resplendent disgrace.
child in crumpled corner silently sings
to hold tears, tongue, repent, appease.
Songs of laughing eyes a’float in kindness —
happy fantasy to pretend to reminisce.
Where does it start?
A life, a mind, a set of states of being?
Innocence, vulnerability, not having
practice of precepts that frame awareness.
Why she yells, unmasks her ugly face;
why he shakes and strikes and blubbers.
Contorted eyes, cheeks, mouth
loud to invoke terror.
Violation, violent broken boundaries;
because grotesque beyond comfort.
we call it myth, delusion.
Iconic target for hatred.
A twisted face to pin on evil tales, to
spit out sobbing poisons, paint in shades
lies that harden into revelations,
legends, the stuff of nightmares
and deflected shame.
Memory’s child, forced to hopeless obliviation long before
a chance for clarity, sense of agency,
for a self to determine.
A child wants the safety of hearth and tribe,
of happy fairytales, everyone well fed and
tucked to bed, caressed in love that hugs away
the slavering beast.
A child wants, a busy mother wants,
a charming serpent, cowering servant, honest merchant
wants. Voice of sympathy, soothing harmony,
No room to complain.
You enjoy when offered reasonably clean and unspoiled
food to fill that screaming hole of hunger.
Irregular shelter where maybe you can sleep, escape
all the pain and wailing indignity.
Sing for your supper; patrons toss coins to amuse,
rapacious, their cultured appetites.
A darkened Church (candles saved for opulent ritual
— none may steal this God’s fire), blood bond, sacrifice.
Taste of copper and iron.
We are of the Earth, Her mighty Sun, of
tides and moonbeams and molten seas.
Not love —
chemistry, explosions, immortal fire.
I have wandered, blundered forth as a leaf in the wind,
as a pebble scoured by erratic waves, as
a child of Man loosened from mortality.
If there are stories I could tell my mind
to feel safety in dreaming, to feel
a possibility of home,
I have yet to find them.
Still, I listen for a voice to believe, for a song
that might feel like hope,
Shell-shocked from this war of all against all.
Live where you belong: right here; right now.
Here’s to the weary.
Here’s to the fun.
Here’s to the berry that makes us all young.
Here’s to the rulers.
Here’s to the fools.
Here’s to the toilers and tellers of truths.
Here’s to the end of another decline.
Here’s to the best of our time.