knowing (part four)

you jumped

skipped, hopped over

eight years gone missing

the quiet of forest -misleading

as the twisted twigs show

the contortion of thought

peeled slowly…

you had every reason to believe

the smile, wink and nod of moonlit glow

was your savior unknown.

*my photo

More than ordinary

all this blue-sits indoors-meaning to hide-the brighter doors…lift your eyes-another soul resides-smiles, says hi.

Norm’s Doors 2.0

Silently whispering

I have been hard pressed- trying to be my best. And in the process, lost all rest. 

Broken, storms erect a wall. Weak, utterly confused. Silent. The drums ever louder, marching to the beats, painful echoes I repeat. What is heard?

Look up! vultures. Masses circle, tease desires. Grotesque in cue. Addressed invitations to the vile.

Quiet! Please be still, my heart. Stop and play with me?

No, sings the chorus. Feeling satisfaction, cloaked with power.  Cuts deep. Power turns me on my head. Destroys what life remains, up ahead. Drains the blood.

Dead.

The world drives me insane. I attempt to love it back. Erect it, place it back in orbit. Black. Not one person hears. Silently whispering. We fade.

Monhegan

Remember, yesterday, I opened and read:

“I like the intimacy

with a patch of ground

the closeness and the drawing in,

the sibilance,

the swish the grass makes

with the scissored snap of stems,”

From her poem Cutting the grass with Scissors

well, i wrote in the margins of her book, much like my living, existing in the periphery, a few words…

digging

two worn, bent at the wrist

we share -a small token of fervent hope

though nothing stays for long

my dandelion wishes stray

easterly, past our thoughts.

Staying on the island, even for the shortness of time enjoyed, was an awakening to how harried life can become. Oh! How I pine for the evergreen of Monhegan life.

Monhegan Island May 2016

Slow

Life on Monhegan

just a taste … brought us, me, back to life.

The cold breath

of wintering hearts. Over.

I miss Monhegan Island. If I could fly, sewn feathers -tightly worn…

Instead, I sit

Dream -a

still…small…crawl.

I did not meet Judith Pontura. Her book, stacked on a store shelf. The lady, behind the register, well, I asked her, had Judith signed any books? She had. A signature tucked away, book behind the counter. I bought it. I like to see the handwriting on the wall.

I opened the pages -again this morning. And an address, a P.O. Box with 04852 zip code. A name attached. Judith. Now Weber. Was this her? Had the cash-register lady given me her address? How, days pass. We forget the impact, never notice an island sprawled all over the desk. Mapped out-meticulously.

You remind me. Smell.

Monhegan May 2016

Six word story

There is no excuse for abuse. 

Six words to say it all.  It is intimidating to stand before others and fight for beliefs, even though it is justice served to stand up for others.  The adage actions speak louder than words rings true still someone needs to speak up for the voiceless.  We can come up with a million excuses while the following happens in America yearly…

Nearly 700,000 children are abused in the U.S annually. An estimated 683,000 children (unique incidents) were victims of abuse and neglect in 2015, the most recent year for which there is national data.

CPS protects more than 3 million children. Approximately 3.4 million children received an investigation or alternative response from child protective services agencies. 2.3 million children received prevention services.

The youngest children were most vulnerable to maltreatment. Children in the first year of their life had the highest rate of victimization of 24.2 per 1,000 children in the national population of the same age.

Neglect is the most common form of maltreatment. Of the children who experienced maltreatment or abuse, three-quarters suffered neglect; 17.2% suffered physical abuse; and 8.4% suffered sexual abuse. (Some children are polyvictimized—they have suffered more than one form of maltreatment.)

About four out of five abusers are the victims’ parents. A parent of the child victim was the perpetrator in 78.1% of substantiated cases of child maltreatment.

Source: http://nationalchildrensalliance.org/media-room/media-kit/national-statistics-child-abuse

These are the children known about.  Who else is out there silently crying in the corner?

Personally I hide behind the written word to let others know how I feel about atrocities against the vulnerable but to be seen and heard is another thing.  I guess I am use to being voiceless.  Shot down by those who want to steal my being.  I once felt I was no one and often return to past behaviors.  It is hard to believe when trust is broken.  I question those who say they love me.  “Do they really?” an inner voice asks.  “Do they?”  Is that maltreatment not enough to be there for others facing neglect and emotional abuse?  It is even more heart-wrenching to know others face physical and sexual abuse.

I recall a few years back, tutoring at a women’s homeless shelter, a sixth grade boy came in for help.  He sat down and could not make eye contact.  For a half hour I waited and in time he turned towards me.  During our conversation he told me of the bullying by fellow classmates who stole his backpack and ridiculed him for wanting to get an education.  Mind you this is in the inner city where gangs, drugs and distaste for others is the way of life.  The behaviors are learned and passed down through generations stemming from neglect by society at large.

There is blame to pass around but to point fingers does not solve the situation.  Instead we need to roll up our sleeves and get to work.  Whether it is hands-on, one-on-one, or directed to groups at-large, everyone must pick up the torch and move forward.  Let no one be subjected to demeaning and shame for being.  Humanity needs healing.  We are a fallen people hanging on by a thread.

Haiku

Winter Garden 12/9/2017

Act V: lie torpid

a winter of discontent

laying on of hands

I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen. John Steinbeck “The Winter of our Discontent”

12/9/2017 It is snowing this hour. I rushed outside to take notice. Imagined the designs of power. A white covering made of water that melts with love and embraces the cold-hearted.

skate park teens
a bit edgy

The Lady -Guadalupe
shining in the midday
Santa Fe sun

she takes higher ground
i remember the reckless

ominous clouds
begin to surround
“Forget you bitch!”

(This is based on an actual incident. It has sat in my drafts for two years. I was hesitant to publish for reasons I cannot fully know. It seems appropriate to publish today, for similar unknown reasons. And actually it was “Fuck you bitch!. Perhaps I will change it.)