Relics

We all die. Relics left behind for others,
once culturally defined, a slurry now
of overcooked vegetables in the melting pot
of what humanity has become;

For better, we are more homogenous,
conferring fewer reasons to hate
that which is and ever was kindred.
Knowing this, do we truly taste the apple
sweetness of experience, or drum up
further excuses to postpone joy?

At worst, we forget our ancestors,
those from whom we inherit genetically,
even behaviorally, perhaps to our peril;
for history, devoid of lessons learned,
proves a hollow saga sucked dry of juice;
a dessicated plum placed primly
alongside a backdrop of ripe peaches,
fruit of our potential
.

What traces will linger
in this adolescent nation whose excesses
are counterpart to senseless severity,
an artistic strangulation where
even the Rubenesque among us
yearn to be thin and dry as wraiths?

A society threatened by hips and thighs
is doomed to infertility of the imagination.

 

Samsara

It’s a tricky thing, ask
for one thing, get another,
just what is needed.

Understood.

Shake hands with fate,
agree to the veiling
not an ending,
rather the beginnings
of a new life,
tabula rasa.

Oh, the beauty! Tastes
and smells and five,
maybe six senses
all vibrating at once,
luring us into nooks
and alleys and pleasure
and pain and lord,
are we hungry, the earth
is our pasture, her treasures
our plunder, perfecting ways
in which to exert dominion
over what the eyes survey;

Hungry ghosts.

 

Sikkim - Land of Discovery
image: Sikkim – Land of Discovery

fmi on the definition of hungry ghosts:
The Hungry Ghost

GYPSY

The old woman clasps worn cards wearily to grizzled chin,

vertical lines set deep as piercing black eyes etched

into an apple doll face.

Sweeping swollen arthritic fingers over lined forehead,

drumming now, listening to the hollow sound

of bony digits echoing against her skull.

 

Tapping, tapping flat cards to thrust of jaw

ever so gently yet persistently knowing,

as she did,

the message contained within the deck’s images

cast long ago from a stranger’s mind onto paper.

 

Fear arises, wells up inside her throat,

recalling faces beyond memory

castigating, infiltrating, immolating,

angry as the fires of hell that she knew

more accurately than themselves

their own path unfolding.

 

What the men wanted and what they got,

whether from her pack or between her sheets,

seldom elicited gratitude;

rather envy and scorn surged

from the recesses of dull minds

expecting picture-book angels,

unready and unwilling to accept

the too-human answer to their prayers.

 

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Prescience

Beauty is indifferent to itself.

 

Largesse of spirit contrasts with strength

of jaws snapping to the indifferent air,

I don’t know what it ees, but every wanna

dese local boys, dey see one white woman

and dey tink she some kine goddess or somet’ing.

 

Grain of salt and all.

 

Until today, cycling by primary grades

out for recess in the unrelenting sun;

chubby brown boy with dimpled smile

joined by both hands

to a tall yellow-haired girl of eight

standing next to a diminutive friend,

gleaming waves of jet cascading clear and full

down her small perfect back.

 

Paper crown colored in crayon

quickly pilfered from the tow-head

to be placed atop the beaming stripling.

Darker girl looks on imploringly,

sparkling eyes inviting his to acknowledge;

her unfolding splendor remaining,

at least to him,

invisible.

 

black-and-white-blonde-boy-cute-girl-Favim.com-435449_thumb

Outcaste

She greets them in alleyways,

meets them indoors;

she’s a mother’s sweet baby,

she’s somebody’s whore.

Her fantasies keep her

from going insane;

her children, her future

bound up in the pain.

 

And for us it is easy,

with lives full and sweet –

moving forward and backward,

eyes avoiding the street.

 

Her gaze sweeps the horizon,

she longs for a clue

how she got here,

where she’s headed

and it’s all up to you.

I know what you’re thinking:

she’s not mine; isn’t yours –

like the homeless and hungry,

despised and abhorred.

 

While the shadows among us

seep under our skin;

they becomes us, they fit

like white lies that unhinge

the most stoic and stolid,

where they come home to roost;

and we have to confront

our own human abuse.

 

~ bj

 

artwork_images_168763_441168_stanko-abadzic

Bridging Cultures

I cannot tell you what a relief it is

sitting amongst those raised with means and ways

foreign to mine as the surface of the moon.

 

Laughter of young children acting out

like I never could;

relaxing into parental anarchy,

rather than worrying about raising them

with some skewed interpretation of rightness.

 

What can I say about those who likely will

never go to college, except to let them be

who they are.

The world needs diversity more than another lawyer;

another veneered politician spinning rhetoric

from a glossy tongue bought by a corporate constituency.

 

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BLOGOSPHERE

Blogging provides a virtual and sometimes therapeutic channel in which to pour one’s thoughts and feelings that, in turn, insinuate themselves into the collective like dye injected into a crystalline ocean. Slowly spreading, the new medium eventually becomes assimilated into the existing one, and a hybrid is born. We are changed and the world changes us.

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