Those forts of hate
Were all so strong
But I couldn't reach out to her
Or crack her pride
And I cried
And I begged god to bring her back to me
And I died every night she wasn't in the lords hands
Then one faithful morning
I came to her and said
"Either you follow The Lord or I will have to leave you"
And she said "well then leave "
Then I said ".... No"
Then she replied "what?"
Then I said with all my faith unleashed " if you won't follow The Lord then neither will I because I love you..."
And then she said "no I will follow him just don't change yourself for me"
I said " I have to... Because.. I can't lose you again"
And she said with a tearful smile "now you never have to"
And that's how I got my wife to start believing in Christ
I literally put everything on the line
And all my faith broke through
It all broke through her pride
And I thank The Lord everyday
That it did
And I love him for it
Because I knew she was and always has been my wife
The woman, or the character?
Was I born of flesh, and bone,
or merely a figment born of a
lonely writer’s imagination.
Do I not see this woman I appear to be?
Were these eyes, with which I see
created for me within a mother’s womb, or
merely a mirror image of what you wish to see?
When I say the words “ I love you”,
is it my heart speaking, or the
emptiness of pen against paper?
Do I even possess a heart, do we?
When I cease to exist, will you feel my pain?
Kathleen M. Kohl/Levinski
Her skin was made of glitter and sunflower petals.
Her eyes were the oceans, condensed into little orbs that fit perfectly into her sugar-coated skull.
Her flowing hair was pure rays of sunshine that sparkled like sea.
Her fingernails were little stars, who shrunk just for the privilege of living on her sparkly hands.
Her lips were made of fireworks, that remained on narcotics until a lucky boy kissed them.
Her shoes were pure bubblegum and smiles.
Her clothes were lace curtains and pages torn from aging books with tea stains on them.
Her scent was that of green tea and loveliness.
Her love made him truly understand that she was the Earth, the sky, and everything in between.
Her love made him believe in starry nights and dreams come true.
Her love was natural and chaotic and serene and beautiful.
Her love was real.
You tried to shove the words back into my mouth
but they had already slithered into your ears
and coiled around your brain stem,
that carry the taste of blood
on my lips,
the blood I spat out in the shower
carried no metaphors
or remnants of sympathy
no remorse for the simple truth.
honesty without hesitation,
tastes a lot like rusted iron
when the recipient
smells of a blurry night
in a hotel mini bar.
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
All of these Catholic girls
With their attitudes and high heels
They used to wear skirts
But since then, they've grown wheels
Making there way over to me
Smiling white and talking pretty
What is it that they can't see?
I was raised in whatever with a Christmas tree
I was born in a junkyard
Where the dogs come out to play
They were being taught by nuns
While I sidestepped Him in my own way
They don't teach you that Jesus can't save you
In a school where they take you for what you have
You're really sweet with your mouth
And the way you move your lips
I really want a piece of you
To put my hands on your hips
But I've seen the signs, baby
And they point the other way
But if I'm wrong, then maybe
I'll stay because my heart's made of clay
Now if you'd please give me a moment
Just stay there while I think about this
I have to clear my big head again
Because you've filled it with nonsense
So just excuse me, dear, excuse me, honey
Look the other way while I'm down on myself
Raised in a little house, never much money
And now that I'm older, I don't need no help
So please, please just be on your way
I can't help myself when I'm feeling this way
The winter has set in early; monsoon a memory now,
the trees are all dusty by the all-day din.
This morning, the taxis ply early, eager to get the office-goers in.
Tea fumes in the mist.
The lady in the bungalow alights from her car
with her child, early from school.
Vegetables still asleep on the pushcart.
An eighties number mingles with the wind.
A van loaded with kerosene cans parks at the gates:
there is a tenement at the basement.
This is a cubist poem, which I later discovered is much in the style of Pierre Reverdy.