Slowly succumbing to the burning tranquility,
My mind dreads on these moments without you.
A dark and cold sensation strikes me with agility,
Turning my burning heart ashen, cold, as fast as you…
…ignite it again.
Is this Nirvana? A place avoid of everything but pain and you?
Or do I have monsters inside without which I cannot live?
Without which I cannot be human? What can I do?
Can I only wait and suffer through this calmness and give…
…my scars time to heal?
the way to banish fear of failure
to persevere beyond trial and error
to learn and grow and develop
to become the person you want most
the way is called "practice"
and by perceiving that everything
or attempt to do
you will never fail
and one day you will find
that you have surpassed practice
Bethany G. Blicq
City of hopes
City of dreams,
Where nothing is exactly
The way that it seems.
I don't usually refer to myself
As a "native",
To contrast myself
Who have recently arrived in Denver.
I refer to myself as an "Old Timer",
At 50 years old
As if I was a really a Silver Miner
Up in Leadville,
In the 1880's,
But that's really my way
Of critiquing the agism
In the United States.
The youth are meant to be exploited.
The elderly are meant to be
Denver is a city that is growing so rapidly
That it seems to be on steroids,
Even though a lot of this development
Is really fueled
By the decriminalization of Marijuana,
Which is supposed to
Slow people down.
I used to think of Denver
As a rude place,
But less impersonal
Than those older cities back east,
Denver is cold and harsh.
It's just that almost everything is new
Rather than being decrepit.
I make my peace with my own alienation
By writing and reciting poetry,
I was never really
Part of the establishment anyways.
The Nuclear Arms Race
And the Wars in Central America
In the 1980's.
About Death Squads,
Mowing people down in the Philippines...
Showing up at Native American Demonstrations
To protest a Pipeline
In North Dakota
Things change on the surface,
And the temperatures soar,
On a deeper level,
Humanity is simply
More malicious than ever.
Nothing has really changed.
We are a species
with the ability
We can decide
We can be educated
not anesthetized by media lies.
We can be better
if we choose to be,
when we choose to be.
We can be
a great collective,
a shining light
that spans the stars,
We can be
of humanistic priorities
all of humanity
From the earthy grass,
we're but a blady splice,
a field, a human mass,
forming layers of life.
Worms in Soul's soil caress;
nurtures our initial progress.
From our ancestral core roots,
the nuclear inner layer,
life sprung forth in shoots.
We sprout and grow,
separate but whole
Upon the land,
the dirt and sand,
our earthy layer,
form Soul's human.
Blooming petals take her in flight
on wings of butterfly dreams,
once upon a young moonless night
When her earthly plight
breaks her might,
Soul sets her sight
flying free from mother.
Rough is life's weather,
soaring above the heather,
Soul uplifts human like a feather.
She's in between heaven and earth.
A sage, a lover, a woman of worth.
She reaches the upper mantle,
the golden globe
of life's glorious outer layer.
The upper crust,
Soul's final earthly layer,
one of dying beauty,
decay, and flaky rust.
Before age returns her
in death to dust,
within the grassy
above her nuclear inner,
where her body
the first layer of life,
Thanks for reading! K:)
He stands in a makeshift kitchen,
by the roadside every morning,
Determined, unshaven and shirtless,
dagger in hand,
a tray of onions in front of him.
Paid by numbers by the hour,
hired by someone a wee bit less poor than him,
His knife hitting the chopping board
and adding a beat to the march of progress .
A rhythm to the stride of a herd of people,
dancing towards so-called newer heights,
Driven by the expertise of an elite handful
who make the rules, systematically deciding
who peels the onions and who cleans the loo.
Waiting to be peeled and chopped,
waiting to be counted and weighed,
Peel, peel, chop, chop!
Waiting to be popped into a tray
lost in the crowd of more chopped existences.
Not my real tears, he assures himself,
Thankful to be able to cry
behind the garb of onion-tears,
Having lost the freedom
to even own his pain.
But why does he need to weep at all?
we ask, puzzled,
Aren’t we climbing the grid of development?
Haven’t we honoured him enough?
By bestowing on him,
the coveted title of The Onion Chopper?
I don't miss half full coffee cups.
Everyday you wouldn't finish, and just leave it there.
5 maybe 6,
but it got to the point I'd walk right by them and stare.
I don't miss being forced to ignore my loved ones.
I have to admit your family is really fun,
but I shouldn't have to ignore my family because yours can't let go of someone.
I don't miss petty arguments,
you never doing the dishes,
letting you down feeling like punishment,
or our future being built on wishes.
There are a few things I do miss.
The feeling of a home, coffee on the couch on our days off.
Stupid jokes that didn't make me feel alone, and the memory of forgetting love's cost.
I miss waking up from nightmares feeling your hand on my back,
all the love I had that is for sure.
But what I miss most is something you now lack,
what I miss most is the person I thought you were.
And after the storm the wind scatters
You take stock of how much of yourself you’ve lost
Checking for new scars and bones rattled
Reeling from the shell shock
Picking up the now rearranged thesis of who you are
Dusting off your soul and it’s unrecognizable in the light
So you sit there in silence
Fathoming every reason you’re still alive
You dive a little deeper
Delving secrets from the mind
You can’t describe what you’re seeking
But it feels like paradise
An infinite calm but only out of the corner of your sight
Contact is imminent
But perhaps this isn’t the time
If not now then when?
It’s the same question presented to you at the eye
After you’ve splayed into everything you will see in ice and shadows
But as you are it stands for something out of reach
And then wind picks up again
As every storm is not without meaning
a cool and windy morning
the sun upon a cloud
bring forth in me a wish to see
the forest and the tree
i continue to the forest
no idea of what i'll see
as Nature gives a magic show
within the canopy
the birds provide a concert
sweet music to the ears
squirrels do acrobatics
chasing friends and fun and fears
the Garden gives a bounty
your senses fancy feast
as we finally see the beauty
we never saw within a beast
Nature is a wonder show
so many splendid scenes
entertaining us forever
with every last routine
as a viewer we're responsible
we must give it support
we must take it to the white house
and fight for it in court.
it must be made as law
and forced through the legislature
or else i fear we're bound to see
the final act of Nature