Forced into an adult world

so early, pushed to soon.

When will he ever be a kid?

Not have to run away from the flashes to have some privacy?

And thus we come to the important question.

Even though this is his dream,

should he wait before giving up his whole life to the cameras?


No longer is it a question.

Ready of not he will be forever pushed up onto the stage.

I was told I was being mean
For writing what I do not understand
I understand more than you think
Hmmm If I have offended you in anyway
I do apologies
But yeah
I was beyond caring what anyone thought at one stage
How many times did I try to kill myself?
Rape is one thing a person wants to forget
Don’t care how
You just want to get rid of all the memories
Then putting myself in stupid situations where I opened myself up to more....rapes
Getting drunk...waking up in strange rooms...gang rapes...it goes on
Not knowing where I was or what happened
Then remembering everything
Forever being a victim
I got sick of it
I was doing it to myself simple because I wanted to forget
Drinking...drugs...it won’t help you forget it’s just there
You have to live with it
I’m a 50 year old mother with an 18 year old boy
Because of what happened to me
I was protective of my boy
Even his father was raped
So its possible males can get raped too
When I looked in to my boy’s eyes as he was growing up
They were innocent
As a victim you can see the signs
Thank God he didn’t have any signs of being raped
You don’t see that innocence in a victim’s eye
A lot of my poems are about rape
From the victims point of view
Yeah I am being mean
I suppose in way
But then if I am
It’s because many times in my life yes I have wanted to die
I have wanted to take my life
But I suppose I was too chicken too
I’d rather live and be alive
Even though I still remember every single detail of being
Raped...humiliated....degradation…kicked around and beaten
So if that’s not knowing anything, then I don’t know what is
Once again I would like to apologies to you if I have offended you in anyway
It was not my intention
But I stand by what I say
You get past all of that...pain.... anger.... hatred
Feeling like no one cares
Or ever will
But you can never forget the horror of what did happened to you
It lives with you forever...
It becomes a part of your life..
Still get flash’s
That’s the worst part of all this
Remembering what happened.
And one more thing
If I refer to anyone as a fool when in pain
Then I must be the biggest fool in the world
©Kaila George 2013

this just in from the white house
positive positive positive
the right moves in this enviro
you got what you want
bush milked it for 7 years
they got away with torture
we Americans are stone immune
to killings, so kill people
add purpose to a culture of death
big lies small lies scared shitless lies
witnesses die at an alarming rate
the first impressions, the spin of tragedy
set the stage for popular opinion
but not for this guy
there is some advantages of being a poet :
the government kills people
and directs incidences of war and terror
to insure world order that benefits
the devil himself

The squeak of rubber soles on the tiled red and black floor. The tripping over ourselves. The track. And you Regina. Making our heads spin slowly. Or Broadway at midnight, Pandora. Dancing, ignoring Mateo next door. After all he is louder than us. Maybe. The July, August, then September sun fading slowly. The gentle kisses of rain on our cheeks and lips. The wet hair, flinging back and forth. Ikea. Rocks. Sexist boys. Thunder. Hipsters. Hips. Chests. Smiles. Laughter. Singing. Dancing. Wet. Perfect. Stage. Dark. These make up our times together. The train. This houses some of them. Ice, cold and hot, slipping over our skin. Water makes us up. We make up our minds. Emails. Bye the time summer comes, we shall be gone. Taking our chemistry and voices away. Apart we are nothing. Together we are a chorus. Songs. They make up most of what we are. Emotions. They are us.

Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
          stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
          a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
         of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
         taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
         the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
         piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
         mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
         like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.  
         We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.

J. Sandy

Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
          stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
          a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
         of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
         taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
         the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
         piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
         mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
         like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.  
         We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.

J. Sandy

Sorry I posted this twice accidentally!

Hymn!

Watching his playtime,
His fun's hot,
On fire,
Blazing,
Voracious, hungry,
Slides silk tongue into hearts while dancing,
Prancing on screens monopoly,
Only stage on which he plays,
Dancing in mind as he spins his yarn,
Distinguished,
Feeds fire with fire,
Fire on which the ladies dance,
Struts on stiletto heels,
Sharp and rapid,
Maybe rabid!
Toxic treats mistreated,
He has an honours' degree!
In misdemeanour's fun,
In trussing hearts embalmed!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I. (The Gone).
They have gone.
Why does it bother me so?
A truth,
only a handful of gems
stay bright,
all others
faded
like pencil on paper
until a faint mark remains,
what was, what now is.
Names in conversation,
a drive down the alphabet
then and now,
clotted recollections
breaking apart
each time, stalled
in silent traffic.
A few, needles I suppose,
a shot in the arm
again, again,
I cannot believe
how many times
their voices
painted everything,
but long gone,
no abrasion or impact
to consider, to revise.
On occasion,
a stretch into fog,
icy melancholies
but not always
a echo,
moments to inform
me they can return
if they wish.

II. (The Bare Feet).
So, it is night.
Whorls of cream
came through the door,
sleepyhead next to me,
ragged, tired,
out of juice.
I can only say
‘I knew you would.’
This is not your home
but we’re not far away.
Lipstick less rosy,
sound of drums
still throbs in our ears
but it was worth it,
for confetti,
flecks of gold
whirling around
you, the crowd.
Peachy lights
spray across
your face,
piano black eyes,
warm bare feet.
It is not real
but we can touch,
we can speak.
On our knees,
we look at each other,
I hold you,
the minutes
stutter past
and for a moment
only silence,
silence is all
we need for our words
are used too much.

III. (The Next.)
It took
over a year
but we saw
each other again.
Since the end
of a grey June day,
two years
elsewhere,
forty miles the difference.
He quit,
the right choice
he tells me
as we reminisce,
that’s what it is
these days,
now he looks
for the next stage
and soon
it will be me
who must fully
step into adulthood,
like a foot plunged
into a bath,
too hot, too cold.
Did we expect this?
If we could see
next year
would we smile
or scowl?
Tell ourselves
it’s just the way
things go,
on, on, on.
Now, as I look
out my window,
the faintest tinge
of orange
descending,
I know, he knows
we don’t know
what comes next.

first surveying
then throat feathers
ruffle a song..
small so loud
distant response
or solo stage..?
beak to sharpen
red says finch
now departure..
perhaps...