Quiet Revolutions

The creeks ran red that year and the trees were leveled.
The endlessly stretching plains seemed even more desolate,
burning under a blackened sky.

Brothers killed brothers, mothers were left to bury their sons.
The winter storms never cease, they just pause for a breath.
The ice crunched beneath boots, decaying spirits wandering.

The creeks ran red with the blood of revolutionaries,
the snow stained with bloody footprints, desolation in the wake,
the earth scarred beyond recognition.

Brother was buried by the creek, a lonesome tree as a marker.
Left that place, but never truly left it, soaked into the ground.
Revolutions are hardly ever quiet.

A New York State of Mind

In New York City the streets are paved with stars because you can't see the sky.

In New York City the lights are so bright you almost need sunglasses.

In New York City there is trash and people smoking weed in dank construction "hallways." There are sewage smells and people begging for change. There are veterans begging for enough to survive and people wearing the latest fashions.

In New York City there are small sections of beauty, delicious food and bits of whimsy. There are tall buildings full of lights that twinkle brighter than the moon and Times Square is the sun at night.

In New York City there are museums full of fragments of our history, fragments of other lives. There is a bitterness of dreams deferred and a sweetness of something being right. There is kindness if you look for it, if you are willing to share it.

In New York City a cop pulls over a taxi driver for running a red light. Someone walks in on another person in the bathroom even though they are screaming "occupied!" There are huge slices of cheese pizza and "Ponzu sliders." There are frightening taxi rides and smiling faces. Bacon Lollipops are on sale next to the black teas in Chinatown bazaars.

New York, New York. Its a hell of a town. A big juicy apple waiting for you to take a bite, just mind the worms. It'll be Marilyn Monroe if you let it, or it'll be a sad commentary on the rush and deconstruction of our everyday lives. Which do you choose?

Either way you go it is simply New York.

Aria of the Whales

The silence of the place was terrifying. The stillness pregnant with hesitations and the ghosts of regret. The buildings were crumbling into the cacophony of merging earth and ocean. The devastation, the detritus of former existence, lay across the land like a tattered dress. Everywhere you looked there was evidence of the destructive loves of mankind.

In the midst of the deterioration arose an aria. It crashed into the silence, careening through the airless space, shattering the stillness. It reverberated through the emptiness, emitted from the throats of the whales.

They flowed through the remains of civilization, the melody rising above the wreckage of humanity's silence. Their skin glowed, the veins of circuitry pulsing just beneath their ivory chassis. The matriarch drifted ahead, the waves dispelled by her bulk destroying another part of the forgotten cities below. Her calves swimming in time with the pulsing waves.

Their song rose higher and higher into the dome of sky; cracking the ceiling of stars with it's intensity. The pod seemed to dance through this Atlantis, this forsaken piece of the modern world. Their chassis glittered in the radioactive moonlight, arcing rainbows across the wasteland.

The tangled jungle of skyscrapers swayed with the tide their passing. They rose and fell in tandem with the invisible waves. The abandoned streets below echoed with each fallen construct. The lullaby of the whales answered from the flotsam below, stretching into the darkness.

With each passing season, the whales made their pilgrimage through the cities. Marring the architecture and obliterating a piece of history with every excursion. The songs and the circuitry slowly decaying with each voyage. The metropolitan casually becoming a cemetery, a monument to ivory chassis and glittering circuits.

They fell slowly, as if gravity could not bear the death. One by one, they collapsed into the abyss of the modern world, broken machines in a broken city. Their songs were ceaseless notes repeating through the haze of the apocalypse. They lingered for years, long after the last of the whales broke down, haunting the abandoned landscape.

In the darkness of the cracked sky, the ghosts of their chorus played on loop in the emptiness of the radioactive city.

Today in Boston

Dear Boston,
Yesterday was a nightmare, a shattering of lives and bodies. Yesterday there was terror and pain and heartache. Yesterday the whole nation stood back and observed with horror.
Today, Boston, today we recognize the loss. We recognize the heroes. We recognize the pain. Today we remember why we are One Nation, indivisible. Today we forget we are Republican or Democrat, Christian or Muslim, young or old, immigrant or native. Today we hold each other's hands. Today we stand together to support the weight of sorrow.
Yesterday in Boston there were people who died, were injured and who escaped without a scratch.
Today in Boston we mourn the losses.
Tomorrow, Boston, we will rise again.

The Ring of Roses

Mama's face is hot and flushed. Her once creamy complexion is now worryingly florid.

Our neighbours stay away and have taken to lighting bundles of twigs around our house to warn others. We all know that it means death is visiting. We are called "roses," my sister and I, and people cross themselves as we walk by. They ring the house, at night, with fire, hoping to cleanse the air of disease. It won't work. It never does.

Mama insists we keep posy petals in our pockets to protect us from what we cannot see. She is delirious oftentimes and can't seem to see that it is too late. Papa died last week and my sister and I dragged him out to be burned with the myriad of other dead.

We had been safe, but then Mama's face, once so clear and bright, became something else. The blisters gathered, like a vulture to carrion, around her beautiful lips and the "roses" bloomed upon her cheeks. My older sister, Mary, tends her while I chop wood for our meager fire.

The ashes. The ashes fall down, they are forever falling, and they leave nothing untouched. There is no respite to this wickedness, this plague. Only the ashes. The fires, the ashes, the stench. It never ends. All of the men in our village, those who have not died, pile the corpses in the ditches and light them. These, once human, torches blaze so brightly that day and night are indistinguishable. And the ashes fall like snow over the trees and the pastures.

Mama collapses and Mary tries to lift her. But they have both become too weak. The roses have bloomed on Mary's cheeks and it is only a matter of time before she succumbs to this terrible curse.

I place her rosary about her neck and begin to plead with the Virgin to spare what is left of my family. My cries fall on deaf ears, for, in the morning, I discover my mother dead.

There is a ring around the roses, a small ring of light to brighten the night as I bury my mother with a pocket full of posies. The ashes, the ever-present ashes, fall into my hair and my eyelashes as I struggle to lay my sister to rest.

It comes for us all, in time. From the strongest of men to the weakest of babes.

We all fall down.

At the Gates of Auschwitz

What is to become of us if no one reads our names or counts the shoes we left behind?
What is to become of us if no one dares remember the torture or the anguish?
What is to become of those who died before us? Those that died with us?
What is to become of us when young women and young men forget the meaning of bravery?
What is to become of us when little girls and little boys grow up not knowing the truth?

I saw her face in the tower of pictures. Her face was almost mine. Few subtle differences and we could've been sisters. A gypsy's face in a sea of faces, all lost to ignorance and blind hatred. All lost in a sea of broken humanity. My fate could've been her's if we were to switch places. And that knowledge is like a punch in the throat. I can't breathe when I look at her. I can't think anything except that she could've been me.

Standing at the gates of Auschwitz, I hesitate. I don't want to feel what I am feeling. This place is full of ghosts. Not the ghosts of stories or movies, the intangible that frighten us with their intangibility. These are real people pressing against me, real faces staring blankly at me. These are real people whose genitals have been sewn shut and whose brains are exposed to high pressure winds. These are real people who are tortured and gassed and tattooed like cattle. These are real children that are starved and mutilated in the name of science, in the name of Aryan science.

These are the faces of the Holocaust. The Jews, the Gypsys, the Homosexuals, the Catholic priests and nuns, the disabled and mentally handicapped. Those who believed differently, those who believed in equality and fought for the lives of others. These are the faces of those who stood up while the whole world held its breath and twiddled its thumbs. These faces could have been mine or yours.

If no one smells the death and the fear, if no one reads the names, if no one stands up when everyone else is sitting down, what becomes of them? What becomes of us? Could we be as brave? Could we face those who were murdered for our silence?

If there is no one left to remember, what becomes of us?

Bleeding Earth, Broken Sky

   As if the angry storm clouds
had been given to man, the black
smoke filled the sky. Two towers,
twins in form and make, cruelly
pierced by terrorist airplanes.
   The people within trying to
escape the carnage that lay
all around. And the whole world
wept as the towers came
crashing down. Dragging
our safe world down with it.

Of the Earth

  We are of the Earth, children of ghosts,
of wind. Buried beneath prejudice and
cruelty. Forgotten by the world, we are
dying out. Our traditions, our people,
fading into the abyss of history.
   Forced to live on reservations, our
freedom, our hope, ripped from our
hearts and souls. Crying out for a
hero, one who will fight for us. One who
will save us from the cruelty and pain.
   Why is every man created equal, but us?
No man is equal in the eyes of this
country. The white man is superior, all
others are dust to be trodden. When will
we be given back our right to live?
   We just want to live, live in harmony
with the Earth around us. Justice for
our people, justice for all the dead.
Justice for all the wrong suffered at the
hands of a cruel government.
   As a storm on the horizon, so we will
come. Fighting oblivion, fight the wrong,
fighting injustice and prejudice. All the
pain we have endured for hundreds of
years won't be in vain.
   I am of the Earth, a child of ghosts, of
wind and thunder. Of the lightning, of the
raging sea, of ceaseless tears and pain. I
am of the night, a daughter of moonbeams and
shadows.
   I am Native American.

Blood of September

*Note, I no longer believe what I wrote in this poem and this was from a younger age. Please take that in stride whilst reading this particular poem.

   My life was changed that day.
Images of safety were shattered and swept away.
   Pillars of smoke and flying bodies.
Planes in field and building.
   Collapsing, with the rest of our lives.
Dust and smoke overtaking those below.
   We prayed it was an awful dream,
but our hearts could hear the terrified scream
of those who were trapped inside and never
came out alive.
   Our hearts bled for families who
were torn apart by evil men.
Did we deserve this?
   A nation that's forsaken God,
we came together to make a simple prayer.
Our hearts still bleed as we cry for
those who are in Iraq and die.
   When America will you turn back
to your heavenly father? Must we
suffer another 9/11 to realize how much
we need God?
   While prayer is banned in school,
my bible I should not read,
"under God" cannot be said and
hearts continue to bleed.
   They continue to bleed and
long for one to save them, but
refuse to let Him in.
   My life was changed that day.
Images of safety were shattered and swept away.

Why Us?

   You're black and I'm white.
They say "us", together, isn't right.
   They threaten us and scream.
Maybe, one day, they'll run out of steam.
   Your eyes are brown, mine are blue.
They don't see what I see in you.
   All they see is your skin and color.
All I see is your love and valor.
   We stand under a lot of abuse.
Sometimes we wonder, what's the use?

The Lynching

   The blood was pouring like rain over the tree. The branches, weighed down by the thick blood, lowered to the ground. They drooped until they brushed the cold snow, no, stained with blood.
   The blood clung to the leafless branches like a disease. Where was the blood coming from? Where did it end? The icy river moved swiftly past, not daring to look at the gruesome sight. The moon covered herself in dark clouds, shielding her eyes.
   The stars stopped dancing and produced a dull shine. The moon peeked out from behind her cloudy covers and silently wept as she watched the blood covered willow. The moon's tears poured out over the land, changing into a soft down.
   The blood ceased flowing and one last drop, formed like a tear, paused and then slipped off the branch. Falling to the cold, wet, ground, leaving only a mark behind to tell the tale of the blood willow.

The Cowboys

   Roping, cutting, leading, riding into history.
   You left behind legends, songs, stories and techniques.
You conquered the west, and the world, even though you
didn't know it.
   You guided the cattle through the plains. You sang your
songs which echoed through the night and into the day. Even
today, you echo through the pages of history. You are rustic
heroes in a technological world.
   Little boys, and girls, try to be like you. They don't understand
what you did. Your legacy lives through the textbooks
and through a few who are doing what you did. You live.
   Even though you aren't around as much, we admire you just
the same.
   One day, I hope to live a legacy just as great as yours. You
are my heroes and your legacy is what I'm living in my
life.
   You are the cowboys.

It happened in Indiana

"I'm a prostitute and proud of it!" scrawled in burning letters across her skin,
bruises forming blue and purple spiders that can't scatter away from the light.
Tied to a filthy bed, naked and dying, she can't even avoid soiling herself.
"You can't ever get married... You can't ever undress in front of others..." the
words filter through the unending pain and the torturous days and nights.

The stench of urine and feces permeates her dreaming, the taste of shit in her
mouth makes her gag. Why do they hate her so? What did she ever do to
deserve this abuse? She is shaking, so hungry for real food, hungry for gentility,
hungry for escape. Could she run? Could she escape? Could she convince
someone to help her? She is terrified, because she hears them coming, like
thousands of venomous snakes tasting her fear, eager for her blood, for her pain.

She is swollen, bruised by the forced violations. She is naked again, their leering
eyes dancing over her skin, over the burns and wounds. They are laughing at her,
laughing as her abuser forces her to push the bottle further up. What will happen
next? More scalding baths? More salt in the wounds that they inflict? Or will it be
another forced tattoo?

Is this to be her fate, to die on this filthy mattress, locked in a cellar, in the dark?
She cries, cries for an imagined baby and a mutilated body, for burns and bruises,
for her sister and for herself. Forced into a tub full of scalding water, salt
viciously rubbed into the burns, skin falling off. Her bones jut out at odd angles,
the result of malnutrition. Welts from the belt rise to the surface, eager to show
themselves for what they are.

A 16 year old girl; tortured, submitted to a sexless sex crime and other horrors,
lies dead on a soiled mattress in the dark. The words "I'm a prostitute and proud
of it!" burned into her stomach, a 3 scarred into her chest. Bruises like blue and
purple spiders scattered across her pale flesh, naked and eyes fixed on oblivion.
Her name? Does she even have one? Or is she just a dead girl from Indiana?

Auschwitz: Feb. 17th, 2008

I have stood, within these prison walls.
People are crying and dying, screaming
and throwing up all around me. I am
clinging to what little bread I have. Praying
to God that the soldiers don't come back.

The tattoo on my wrist is my new name.
the numbers burn me, burning my skin.
It is so cold, so cold that I can't feel my feet.
Huddled in the corner of this terrible place,
I'm so scared.

They call this place Auschwitz, a prisoner
camp. I don't understand, why these
soldiers could hate me so much. What
have I done? This star on my shoulder,
it is more like a scar.

The gas fills the air, it is filling my lungs
like a cloud of white smoke. And I stand
here and I take it all in. I am afraid, and
so cold. Every moment is agony, but soon
it will all be over.

They call this place Auschwitz, my
final resting place. Killed by one man's
hate. I stand, filling with the gas, thrown
into a massive grave, person upon person,
tears upon tears.

Medea

Suffice to say I am vengeful,
crying ceaselessly,
oppressed and hateful.
Righteous indignation,
never peaceful. Scorn.