The nuns take us down
to the beach
from the nursing home.

Anne is in her wheelchair
looking at the other kids
paddling or playing ball
or sitting gazing out to sea.

I stand beside her,
watching the gulls
fly overhead.

Aren't you going
in to swim?
She asks me.

No, I don't swim.

I used to swim,
until they took off my leg.

Can't you swim
with one leg?

Not easy,
but I guess
I haven't tried.

Sister Bridget throws a ball
to the boys;
another nun
lifts her habit
and tiptoes
into the sea
with some girls.

Do you your parents
let you swim?

Don't want to talk
about them.

I look at her
with her stern gaze
and dark hair.

Why not?

Because I don't;
talk about
something else, Kid.

Do nuns marry?

She turns and looks at me.

Of course not;
they take vows
of celibacy.

What’s that?

She sighs.

Means they don't
have ***
don't have kids
and so on.

I frown.

Not ever?

Better not
or they're
for the high jump.

High jump?

In trouble, Kid, trouble.

What's having *** mean?

She raises her highbrows,
looks at me pityingly.

Where do you live, Kid?
Hasn't your old man
told you about
the birds and bees?

No, he doesn't talk
about nature at all;
he talks about films
and the theatre
and actors and such,
but not nature
study things.

She looks out to sea;
gulls fly overhead noisily;
I stare at her one leg
sticking out
of her short red skirt.

There are males and females
and to make babies
they have to get together
and do certain things.

What certain things?

Well kissing is one thing
and after that,
things kind of
lead onto other things.

I frown;
I recall a girl in school
kissing me,
but I don't recall
any other things
happening,
but I don't tell Anne that.

I see,
I say.

Go swim, Kid,
go swim.

I wander down
to the edge of the beach
and peer out to sea,
hoping no other girl
tries to kiss me.

You know in the late afternoon when the light turns gold and bronze? And it seeps into windows in striking shafts that look like oil paint? And thousands of little points of light flutter and dance in it like tiny angels? Yeah... That... That is how you make me feel.

The room was clouded with wisps of smoke, the smell of cheep tobacco mixing with the foul fetter of Budweiser's.

Heavy boots crowded the compact living room, some pacing on the floor, others resting on stools, and one certain pair standing on the couch. As the evening waned, their owners smoked and drank and composed.

The fan droned on above the huddle of men, attempting to counter-act the thick, humid air and suffocating clouds of smoke.

Likewise, the window hung open, a slight breeze entering in, attempting to remind the men that outside there was spring. However, not even the sweet smell of growing grass and greening pine trees could awaken the thinking mass of musicians.

Under the soft whirring of the fan hummed a gentle strum of acoustic guitars, two were in sync, one was free to do what he pleased.

At first the song was melancholy, an almost sickening minor protruding through the chords.

However, the two guitars which played this mournful tune were soon over-ruled by the lone guitar, this guitar introducing an almost ****** tune, sweet with lively colors, walks in the park; moody with aromatic evenings spent in wild-flower fields and peaceful nights sitting by the river, fishing and playing Texas Hold'em for pennies.

This strum of chords soon awakened the other musicians and as their ears perked up to the sound their eyes fell upon the man, the man with the boots that stood on the couch.

As the groups' gaze circled onto the man, he finished with a lulling C sharp minor and pulled the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, cocking his head towards the men and smirking ever so slightly as he proclaimed in his proud, deep, southern accent, an eyebrow raising to mark their heedfulness, "And there, gentlemen, is true music."

Yes I remember
that night
in midwinter,
the one
that we burned
on the hill,
and the moon
and the stars
and the
somersault sparks
and wanting
it all
to stay still,
and yes I remember
the warmth
of the embers
and daring
the future
with hope
at the
very same time
your fingers
touched mine
as softly as if
they were smoke.

~~
new born coconut leaves
standing on the head of the tree
a mild north chill breeze blowing
raising sunlight reflects between the leaves

the falling light playing on the meadows
the growing day in to the fog's shadows

the new moody breeze growing a little
the cowboys wandering with the cattle
the boy is very crazy with his flying kite,
the birds are too busy within the day's light

I am wondering through the shadows
and finding my hopes within the meadows
when thousands of kites flying in the sky
there love growing on her gloomy eyes

where there a few of dreams coming
as the light falling between the leaves
where there thousands of whirling
hopes uttering in to the breeze  
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

Anne rubbed the stump
of her amputated leg.

She sat in her wheelchair.

I sat opposite
wondering what
it must be like
to have one leg.

Pull your skirt down,
the nursing nun said,
it's indecent
to show off
your leg like that.

Anne stared at the nun.

My leg hurts,
she said,
rubbing it,
helps it.

Where does it hurt?
the nun asked.

Everywhere
even the toes hurt,
Anne said grumpily.

The leg
has been amputated,
so how can it hurt?
the nun said,
now pull the skirt
over the stump,
Benedict doesn't
want to see
your stump.

I didn't mind,
but I said nothing;
I looked at the nun's
black habit,
her thin features,
her pointed nose,
thin lips.

Anne pulled the skirt
over her stump slowly.

It's my stump,
I should be able
to show it
to whom ever I want,
anyway, Benny likes
gawking at my stump,
he does it
all the **** time.

The nun gazed
at Anne in silence;
then at me.

Your manners
need to be brought
into line, young lady,
if you
were at my old school,
you would learn manners
or else.

Anne sat back
in her wheelchair.

But I’m not
at your old school,
I’m in a nursing home
after the butcher’s job
the doctors did
on my leg,
she said.

The nun's features stiffened.

I looked at Anne
and her tilted head
and the hidden stump.

There are many
complaints about you,
the nun said,
from other children
and the other
sister nuns;
we will report you
to the nursing home
authorities,
the nun said.

Anne said nothing,
but looked
at the swings
where other children
played.

I sat looking
at the nun,
her hands hidden
in the pockets
of her habit.

She walked off stiffly
across the green grass.

How about her,
Kid, huh?  

I gazed
at the walking off nun.

Guess she was
a bit annoyed,  
I said.

So what, Kid,
who gives a cat's ***
what they think or say?

I shrugged.

Push me to the beach,
she said,
get me away
from these penguins, Kid,
off to the sea.

So I pushed
the wheelchair down
the avenue of trees,
anything for Anne,
anything to please.

A tree is never worthless
Even if it is fruitless
Like how God made his child
You should never count
how much you cried
For you have flowers on your insides
You have watered them with every fight
Now you glow with warm light
Like trees your hands are free
Waving to the skies
You are bound for bliss all eternity



-Weep No More, Margaret Austin Go

As the wind whistles
through the remaining leaves of the trees
Her eyes gazed in with a yearning

The biting chills creep into her sleeves
Her cheeks' veins tinged with green and blue
Instantly, they lose their rosy hue
Coiling her toes underneath her ragged shoes
She felt safer as she pulls her legs tighter to her feeble body

Too early, even for the rooster's songs in the morning
Hurriedly, she rushes into the pavements
Stumbling empty trash bins in the snowy covered cement
And along the streets, she awaits for the gents
Not the ladies, for they are miffed just by her presence

In her pocket, her trusted friends
A shoe wax, a brush and a small towel
Far from the ladies cloak of vanity and jewels
She took her brush and greets them
Giving all her might in every stroke,
she mimics a healthy bloke
With her fragile arms she delighted and amused the folks

They gave her a penny
All the angels wishes she has plenty
All those shoes, although they are leather,
with the glint of the sun, they shine like feathers
But in her eyes, they glimmer like rainbows
She was lost in the colors

Suddenly, she was struck by a heavy blow
Awakened by her terror
In a dark veiled room,
with lustful eyes
Three men with merciless arms
She felt the cold cement on her back
and how these hands creep into her sack
They covered her mouth with a towel
Frantic tears flowed to her cheeks
As they stroke her hair with her shoe brush
She tasted the lump in her throat
She closed her eyes and swallowed her crushed soul

And only the winter wind hears,
the laments of these restless child
With a yearning
As it smothers the barren trees
of her lost dreams



-Shiny Shoes, Margaret Austin Go

When I dream
I dream of many things.
But most often,
I dream I have wings.

Wings that will take me
Far from their faces.
Wings that will break me out
Of these worthless places.