PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The stars' silent light

winking through the night

Fireflies moving stars

Soundless is their light

as are the best teachers

whose auras without words

grant gifts of insight

don’t understand me
no numeral of quantity
preacher lady looking
at accusations in a book
saying infinity is proof
of a mathematical sacrifice
that saved humanity
if only we could get back
to three and then zero
says quantum physics
is why we have clocks
and space shuttles
slipping through cracks
in the fabrics of blankets
claims blankets are white
masses, says I’m mass
the tree is mass, birds
are mass and a mass
is a spot that breaks
into a speck so small
my car is invisible to god
claims i don’t pray right
because i do it with my
hands and my speech
is imperfect, can’t talk
to god with a slur or slang
says i need to be prized
and perfect like a precious
moment figurine, demands
i stop calling him home boy
he’s not your boy, throws
a piece paper at me with
nothing on it but a squiggle
in the middle of a circle,
claims it represent life
and who i used to be
when i had a brain
and understood counting
was invented for more
than money, need to crunch
the numbers to understand
my sister is the same as me
though she died in a hospital,
tells me i’m better than nobody
but I act like a stranger hiding
my divinity code under a hat

As fast as the sun seems to come up, and go down,
Integument lost, now bones becoming exposed,
Heart slows down, sniffing dust and dirt up your nose,
Tears have dried, and life fading fast,
A drink of warm water might help you get past
This execution delivered by thoughtless tradition.

We cry your tears for you child,
But we bow to our own submission,
The price love is asking,
Seems won't come to fruition.

Sweet, sweet baby your prison cell you found,
Mama's at work, Daddy's nowhere to be found,
We know you were starving for love when you lost your mind,
We never meant this for you...to be left behind,
Everyone's making their own stories about you,
How you shot up the school, and left only a few,
This other hunger goes unnoticed when a belly is full,
The love that you needed, we see now, had grown dull.

We cry your tears for you child,
But we bow to our own submission,
The price love is asking,
Seems won't come to fruition.

We're starving the children,
We're starving ourselves,
All along on this road, have we paved this pathway to hell?
How do we change it? A penny at a time?
Is the tithe not enough? Perhaps we've created this crime?
Where did we falter along the righteous way?
Can we ever correct our mistakes? Can we say?

We cry your tears for you child,
But we bow to our own submission,
The price love is asking,
Seems won't come to fruition.

Beautiful minds frought with beautiful dreams,
Beautiful failures that tear at the seams,
In the midst of discoveries, this age of lament,
Maybe it's time we see clear, and repent?
Maybe if we all looked on the inside,
We could turn this around and not run, fight, or hide?
Some lack nutrition so long that it's foreign to their eyes,
Others lack understanding...and when it's given, do not even recognise,
One child bears a smile from a small morsel of food,
The other can't smile, unless he's being rude.

Sweet little babies, made from heaven above,
Perhaps the step missing

When we climbed 'Maslow's Scale' is... love.

10:07 PM 4/20/2013 ©

Mister Teacher cultivates our shivers

Creating craved and necessary marks

He's a devil

His world's in peril

And I'm his precious little rock

Grass Stains

Prison chains

Bright sunshine

Hazel stares turn water to wine

Ink scratches  stain paper and skin

Scrawled and torn until my hands bleed

He's infuriating

He's manipulating

And I'm everything he needs

Dirty knees

Apostrophes

A generous heart

But he's cursed with a skull of glass.

I launch myself across the lawn

and I don't want to see where I'm going

My mind's infected

My rage's resurrected

He shakes. He sees his ruby child glowing.

Whispered names

Secret candy canes

Doodles in my book

To decorate the wisdom he took.

So, my English teacher called me a cynical bastard.
She doesn't recall the night I was at her house, completely plastered.
In the bedroom, it made no difference that I had no dad.
All she knew was that it was her time to hop on, and that she'd been bad.
Everyday, I sit in her class; I put up with her shit.
She's really pissed off because I made her swallow when she pleaded for spit.
Revenge will take its place once I spread the word around the class;
That I spread our teacher's legs and pounded her tiny ass.
And as it nears the end of the week,
I'll call that bitch back up and get her under the sheets.
Why must we lie and make up false pretexts?
When you're receiving a willing male, for a month of sex. <3

Do you know what stupid looks like? I know. Stupid are the red tights with a hole in the knee and the brown mary-janes scuffed at the toe. Stupid is a red, green and blue plaid skirt with a white shirt and a red sweater. Stupid is mousey ginger hair, cut short like a boy’s and stupid is the name at the top of my paper...especially the name at the top of my paper.

 I sat my desk, wishing I were home, while my teacher standing next to me, circled the letter a’s on my page. My name had two red circles in it now. Stupid.

“How many times do I have to tell you that a lowercase "a" has a straight stick? A straight stick! It does not have a tail on it. This whole page is wrong. Correct it.”

 I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and again wished for home.  Not the home in the apartment building where my 2 year old brother and I played outside. Not where my mother reminded me to stay by my brother. Not where Mrs. MacDonald shouted from her window on the third floor that she would tell my mother when I picked flowers or turned on the outside tap to put water in my bucket of dirt.

 Instead, I wished to be in a distant home, a memory fading fast. I tried to hold onto that memory, but it grew more faded and was hard to conjure up. But I remembered it that day, sitting at my desk, palms sweaty and my paper a mess from my eraser trying to rub out the tails on my lowercase a’s. This is what Stupid looks like.

 “Now, look at the mess of your paper.”  She picked it up.  Rip. Neatly in two, as if she had years of practice doing such things. Here’s a new page, start over.”

 My name first.  The S, neat, well rounded, Silent, Stubborn and trying to look Smart.  But ah, the lowercase "a" appears and with it that determined, little tail- only to bring on the full blown fury of the teacher. Wrenched out of my seat by the tip of my ear between her thumb and fore finger and there I am standing before the entire class at the blackboard. Chalk in hand, I am now to print a row of lowercase a's for all to see. This is what Stupid looks like.

 My memory, where is it? It’s all I have. Her hands always smelled like lavender, her voice soft, with well rounded vowels and most definitely there was a tail on her a’s.  I could see my Grandma, in her garden, clipping roses, laughing and saying my name differently. “Sandra” then sounded “Saundra.” It sounded Smart, not Stupid. She was thousands of miles away in England and I was away from her.

All eyes were snickering when the teacher nearly blew another gasket. I looked at the board, there in the middle of my row of neat little a’s, made all with sticks, I had made a tail. I looked at the offending tail on the a, smiled to myself and turned towards the teacher, solemn eyed.

“That’s how my Grandma writes her a’s in her letters she sends me. I like them that way.”

“Well, your grandmother is wrong. You’ll write out a sheet of a’s for homework tonight.”

 Stupid, I thought. My teacher is stupid…