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She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
A riff taken from the slang name for police vans in certain times and areas, especially featured in The Clash song "Guns of Brixton", and alternate meanings, such as a lady who wore black gowns, a racehorse, a boarding house owner. Really a hodge-podge of meangs with emphasis on civil rights violations. I spelled it "Mariah" so it would not be pronounced "Ma-ree-ah"!
They will fall to the ground...
Blossoms of the cherry tree...
Without you,
being in my womb...
ripening grain,
And the heady scent
of primrose flowers
from the moon...
and his dust...


به روی زمین خواهند ریخت...
شکوفه هايِ درختِ آلبالو...
بی آنکه تو،
در رَحِمَم باشي...
دانه اي،
در حالِ رسیدن...
و عطرِ خوشِ پامچال ها...
از ماه
و خاكِ او....
I see frogs in the sky

Don't ask me why

Clouds that shift and drift crafting amphibian splendor

Or maybe... I'm just on a ******
******* bad gateway, after a year I'm finally back in!!!
She numbly sits in a ragged sleep shirt
Her life in tatters all around her,
Pieces scattered bent and broken
It’s cold and raining in her soul
And she lost her new umbrella.

Celebration banners flap in tatters
From the New Year party deemed long over.
Confetti pools in puddles at the curb
Staining rainbows in the murky water.
The echo of the midnight chime a memory.

Three hundred unfulfilling days await her
Should she stumble to her crippled feet
And stagger to the place that should be home.
But there will be no cocoa by the hearth fire
Or anything that might engage her mind
Except the fact that there will be no rescue.

Sitting numbly in her ragged sleep shirt
She has no thought of any better place
Available to someone with an injury like hers.
An wound that cripples ingenuity
And renders her unwelcome
In the tangled depths of her own mind.
        ljm
Written 1/3/23   I think I saw her on Douglas Street.
Too many bubbles in my life
Too many ding-dings on my phone
Too many engines on my train
Too many cobwebs on my plans.

Too much spinning around like a top
Too much tripping on my own two feet
To much hurry hurry in my day time
Too much worry worry in my night.

How can I expand the hours
How can I cross something out
How can I outrun the tick-tock
How can I survive this way.

So many questions - with no replies
So many efforts - so little gain
So many teardrops shed in vain
So many times I’ve said good-bye.
ljm
Sometimes my life is an exercise in redundancy.
I sat by my morning table grieving
And feeling sorry for myself
When I glanced out the kitchen window
And spied a strikingly beautiful bird
Slowly pacing among all the pebbles
That cover the surface of my back yard.

His  head was iridescent purple and blue
Flashing in the wintertime sun.
He didn’t seem to be in a hurry -
Just taking himself a casual stroll.
Looking around as if on vacation
And seeing the sights in a wonderful place.

I had no idea where he might have came from
Or if there was a name for his breed.
I only knew I found him a pleasure
Who turned a sad and depressing hour
Into something healing and warm
That I will remember for more than a day.
ljm
Approximately 20 quail have set up housekeeping under our front yard hedge. They scurry across the street if we come too close.  Absolutely charming
 Jun 2023 Pagan Paul
Lace
Reminder
 Jun 2023 Pagan Paul
Lace
Bright appearance
Blue eyes
All those little lies

Treating me like nothing
Sometimes there
Acting like you care

Maybe you do
I know you’re not here anymore
And with that let me say
I no longer mourn
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