Planes fly into the towers
Planes fly from out the craters in the towers

Black plumes of smoke choke the sky
Windowless planes flying into the towers
And now another, now another
The towers rattle
Planes take-off from in the fire
And go off into the city, into the stars
into our minds.
Planes like laser-lights, jetting off,
imprinting themselves
into our minds.

Over and over and over and over
and over and over and over
There were as many as 1,000 planes
or more.

Desks, glass-shards, people 
High-heels, telephones, people
Falling, smashing down from the towers
A Warholian dream 
Dying icons on every TV set, 24 hour access
On every channel 
For months on end
On end

Headlines recoiled by an antichrist 
Rumors he was in Pakistan
In Switzerland, at the mall
In your mind.

The towers burn forever
The towers burn forever
Frozen in pixels online
In our minds.

Zoom in to the human  few who view the world in rose-tinted shades,
graze upon their perspective and be at ease with the world.
We all look up at the same sky, we all walk the same planet,
but we do not drink the same water, we do not think of death
before we name our sons or daughters.
Smaller scale; we do not live in the same estate,
the same country or state, we do not care for the same debates.

ASBO's or petrol prices?
Knife crime or mortgages?
Employment crisis,
divisions divided,
some benefit in this state,
some need state benefits.

Standing separate...
we are not the same and when we are
we are still different to the desperate, the desolate.
We are not the same, we all look up at the same sky,
but not for the same reasons, we may seek lost relatives,
we do not pray for rain.
We all look up at the same sky but does it hurt you to know helpless people need not die?

A poem for my beloved grandmother, Omi

A beautiful heart brought across on the gliders,
Forced away by Red pride, the awful black spiders.
She cried cross oceans in Grandpa’s camo embrace,
Safely gone from the 30’s, and end to the chase,

“Zese mountains vere safe, Deutschland re-pborn.
Ve vere ‘ere vhen this town bekan, Cyril.”

Omi’s voice pauses, marred by our Western smog,
Christmas we sit at her feet and her eyes again fog.
This story we hear, we’ve heard, but it is not cheap,
Our roots are revealed and we cringe as Omi weeps,

“I vont drive, no and I can not vote,
Pbut this landt is safe, Cyril ve are free!”

As her amber eyes ripple, it’s now time, we know,
This country she loves, yet it’s pain the more so.
The airs tightens thickly as we wait the remark,
The blame she gives freely makes this land so dark,

“Bobby diedt and Monica followedt.
Cyril, I bpuried my childt and ‘ushband here”*

It wasn’t the Cancer or Smoke in their lungs,

This country she blames and it’s pitch-forked tongues.
So we hug to apologize for ‘ol Uncle Sam,
Not ****** but Freedom she says poisons this land.

Jumping over the dark mahogany railroad ties that my father laid down as a barrier, I entered my favorite place. Bare toes and rough feet of my 9 year old self burrowed with joy into the wood chips that cushioned my kingdom.

The entire area smelt of damp, rich wood, always freshened by the honeysuckles sweet scent from their lazy seats on their wooden fence in the background.

My castle was wooden as well, 6 carefully and lovingly sanded steps up onto the throne where I could watch all I reigned: my dog, the four railroad ties barricading the wood shavings from spilling into the soft green grass, I could see my family inside, my house not but a quick dash away.

As the sun set, down the wooden slid and back onto the damp ground I would return inside. Smelling of bark, honey, and innocence.

First day of class, her nerves are crunching inside while she tries to maintain a cool surface. The nervous foot tapping and magnetically crossed legs I see giver her away. On top she is collected: calm, serene shirt color, long hair tied back in a ponytail and a smile as the teacher talks and jokes. Her pen is tapping out a nervous jig, but why?

Is she eager to impress or is it nerves too anxious to start her first day of class actually ‘specified for her future.’ Is this class the first stepping stone on her “road to success?” Nervous laughter at all of Dr. Sandlin’s corny jokes, sometimes her laugh rings out a trill and true chime and sometimes it is stale.

She has big plans, big dreams, a big hope. Creative Writing 3400 is her first “official” step, from there a journalism job in London perhaps? Her nervous feet are thirsting to walk the streets of history where Shakespeare, Milton, or maybe for her Dostoyevsky have trodden.

Cold determination, a warm smile, she will succeed.

Visions of Past
when you and I
were ignorant of the worlds troubles.
Intertwining
in days of foolish laughs
and whispering dreams.
Yearning for tomorrow.

Visions of Present
Living in circular motions.
Minding of the things
that were said today.
Filled with the feelings
you whispered to me.
Visions of Future flash
in moments of slumber

Visions of Future
Hurts and regrets of past,
leave scars of wisdom.
There are no more dreams,
they have all came true.
Even dreams I did not dream.