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 Oct 2015 Beth Ivy
SG Holter
Gravel pathways across a
Graveyard.
Rainbows in
Garden sprinkler droplets.
Church tower swallows.
I know death.

I know its smell, the touch of
Something unalive. I know
Its feeling.
It is sharp, lucid and transparent.
White haze in open eyes,
Dreams and memories now

Forgotten.
Stones leaning like mourning
Heads against one another. Trees
In breeze, one has grown around
The single rusty lamp post.
I have stood in its light.

Stood in its light looking up,
Caught not crying over a tragedy.
I know death. I know its feeling.
Closer every time I think of it;
The opposite of a mirage.
Mine may very well one

Day be the first dead body
Someone has ever seen.
These blue eyes milky blind.
Arms like branches; twig fingers.
Life means surprisingly little with
Your hands upon its absence.

Leave my name on each bullet.
Show me your shadow,
Scythe and all.
Dead as burned trees and great
Grandparents. Rancid rest. Dirt.
I know death.
 Sep 2015 Beth Ivy
RH 78
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Washed up.
Lifeless.
All for a new life too far to reach?

Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Terrorists
Heartless.
What happened to the human rights we all preach?

Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Traffickers.
Gangs.
Displacing people no home and no speech.

Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
A son.
No future.
We hang our heads and weep!
Broken hearted and deeply affected by pictures I saw in the news depicting the lifeless body of a little boy no older than three who was photographed washed up on the shore line of Turkey. The result of further illegal human smuggling, people trafficking promising to get families to Europe on a false promise. All too often, people are put into small boats unable to sustain the weight of all the people put upon it and not fit for purpose. This is yet another shocking event in the wake of atrocities taking place in North Africa where the displacement of millions of innocent people continues. Governments are too busy counting the pennies and quarrelling amongst themselves in addition to wasting precious time as gangs and smugglers take advantage of the situation by sending people to their death profiting from the desperation of families searching for a place to call home. When will this end? RIP to the little boy, his brother and mother who all perished.
 Sep 2015 Beth Ivy
Corset
Labor Day
 Sep 2015 Beth Ivy
Corset
Life's game
pretty lean
trying to hold
against the dark night
born writer,
lover, friend,
breast fed hunger
palms love
as if the last
birthing push
burst into spring
would bring the flowers
back,
last gale clinging to winter
preferring pain to
Passover
or fear of future.
What we need is the
courage of spring
and every breath
between,
a dream in labor.
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