Poetry

Poetry

Words tell of the tragedy in Darfur, the music of Bourbon Street, the pleasures of flesh and sleep, the bullets of Israel and Palestine, the gentle call of Africa and Barrio talk in America.

My Love 

She felt him.
They lay close, together,
she heard his breath.
Soon sleep fell from her hands
into nights dark watch
where time gathered,
in silence,
ready for sunshine
that comes only
after church bells
fill the crack of dawn.
You will stir, turn, love me again
and with satisfied flesh move to sleep,
and I, will listen,
hear you breathe and keep you.

Shadows are longer at sunset.

Memories of love lie scattered,
bones on desert sands.
Unlike distant hills that color
are brittle, unforgotten,
flag differences,
struggles of separated lovers.
On some bright and sunny day
in a quiet moment
on the plains of the mind,
when least expected,
they hoist themselves,
visible they fight to return.
For one lover a noise,
a story of an angry mob,
screams and shouts.
For another
a tired beaten army in disarray.
Battles lost and colors stolen.
Some unremembered-
only carcasses.

Har-ley

Pressure 34
Black it stroked the road
Held, pawed
That virgin beast that spewed.
Held tight
Wanting more.
Something,
Pressure inside
To fill that space.
To rub against
To feel between thighs.
Ride
Deeper into paradise

Darfur

The single line pathway
moved humans
carrying empty pails of sorrowed hunger
and despair they should never have owned.
Some brought extended bellies
swollen lips and cleaved tongues,
others empty eyes,
faces cracked
and scabbed skin
where tears had dried.
And the dogs
that came on burnt paws,
that pulled tails across stones,
whimpered for those they left to die.
We walked
slowly
into miles,
to the horizon,
to a town.
Some groaned,
stopped and dropped
with voices that gurgled
between cracked lips,
before they died.

For each that crumpled
I bent down.
Besides,
with a prayer,
I pressed eye lids closed.
With whites covered
each rested
in their dark,
our misery unwanted.
By the edge of the town
with thinned ranks
we stood still
to feel the pain,
to let it run away.
to remember friends and family
who like fallen sign posts
now mark our way.
Bodies lying lost upon acarpous soil
tell others
who seek shelter,
‘it doesn’t hurt anymore.’