PriestlyPriestly
14 hours ago

you say fifty people
I SAY FIFTY GAY PEOPLE
you say nightclub
I SAY GAY NIGHTCLUB
you say the shooter was mentally ill
I SAY HOW DARE YOU PERPETUATE THE STIGMA
THAT MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE ARE SOMEHOW DANGEROUS
WHEN THERE HAVE BEEN COUNTLESS NEUROTYPICALS
THAT HAVE DONE HORRIBLE THINGS OF THEIR OWN VOLITION
you say this was isis
I SAY HOW DARE YOU CONTINUE TO SUPPORT THIS ISLAMOPHOBIA
THIS WAS THE WORK OF ONE MAN
ONE MAN WITH A GUN
AND NOW FIFTY OF MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS ARE DEAD  
SO I SAY HOW DARE YOU
TRY TO MAKE THIS ANYTHING ELSE THAN WHAT IS OBVIOUSLY IS
THIS WAS A HATE CRIME
AND THE WORST SLAUGHTER
-BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT IT WAS-
IN HUNDREDS OF YEARS
AND IT WAS A HATE CRIME AGAINST THE LGBTQ+ COMMUNITY
SO HOW DARE YOU TRY TO DOWNPLAY THIS
TO A MENTAL ILLNESS AND AN AFFILIATION WITH ISIS
BECAUSE MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS ARE DEAD
AND YOU SAYING well this happens to other people all the time
ERASES THE FACT THAT YES I KNOW THIS HAPPENS TO OTHER PEOPLE
BUT THIS HAPPENED TO GAY PEOPLE
AT A GAY NIGHTCLUB
AND NOW A PLACE THAT SHOULD BE SAFE
FOR MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS
AND FOR ME
IS NO LONGER SAFE
BECAUSE A MAN WITH A GUN DECIDED THAT
SINCE WE ARE DIFFERENT THAN HE IS
WE SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO LIVE

an eye on this space
just all you need to know about
my art in poetry

When my daughter is sad
she makes  cupcakes
the series of taste tests add up to twelve
and she is diligent.
I don't mind,
all the necessary food groups
are there for her
and the crumbs will do fine for me.

The west wind blows
white with snow
pushing the new mom
with her new babe
in a new pram
I looked over
and all I could see
was a blue hat
and a blue blankie
with a pink nose
in the middle
snorkeling up

woof spirit of wolf
tails wags not sign of amity
choker chain needed

this easter sunday
our family brunch together
pay with dad's blue card

Adam and Eve lived here
before she went vegan
and chomped the wrong apple
dropping them both into deep schtuck
with a difficult learning curve
before they got up to speed
as our progenitors
and began begetting.

With only two to start with
there had to have been a lot of ******
with begats here and begats there
and still, the gene pool stayed clean
without fits and starts
so there must have been a Divine Profiler
in the sky keeping the books straight
with our future at stake.

But there is a question?
In the beginning there were only two
so was Adam the midwife
and if so
where did he learn the skills
the whole midwifery bit
the gentle initial slap
to get the first wail ever on this earth

Interesting theological
and philosophical thoughts
not even thinking
about baby clothes
and the like
I suppose breastfeeding
was a must before Baby Formula

Deep thoughts for Easter

I read about the how and the why
and the where and the when
of love
and rarely see plain words
that show the range of reaction
of love made manifest
giddy night time
singing to the moon
babbling inanities
to all the friends
who make time to listen,
scribbled words
as blind offerings never posted,
damp misery
crying to a nighttime pillow
salt tears falling
into your morning coffee
and nighttime soup
and the worst
looking up at the window
where the lover lives
deaf and blind to you below
and yet I know
all those
who have been out on that limb
and have come back
are rarely defeated
and quickly set out
to once again gamble
in the crapshoot called love

my happy niece clare
back in london and clothesless
suitcase lost in Detroit

I thought of love today
All those words in my mind’s eye
Imploring me to feel sad
Being had is bad too
Our cries
Our sighs
Tears falling on silky thighs
Her dancing lightly as a fawn
Unto a grim dawn
The princess bright
Enlivening our sight
Crossing the Bridge of Thorns
******* on a Golden unicorn
Until despondent
penitent
Heart rent
Life spent
And out of words
The birds take me
Forwards to heaven

"







"

Zika mosquito
the gift that keeps on giving
Rio welcomes you

Write down!
I am an Arab
And my identity card number is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth will come after a summer
Will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks.
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew

My father descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!

Write down!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks...
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Therefore!
Write down on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware...
Beware...
Of my hunger
And my anger!

bushido ruling
I offer up my haiku
wakizashi kills

And so it came to pass that I was offered a floor in a room in the elevator winding mechanism shack which was on a corner of the roof of the Edicifio Ganem. This was an elegant nine story tower that had been built in 1948 in the middle of the old city in Cartagena de Indias in Colombia. The rent was a dollar a day and I was entirely responsible for me and mine. The elevator worked sometimes; if it did not it was a long slog around and around and up and up the interior staircase till one got to the top.
The views from the roof were superb in all directions. The sunsets were shared with God.  When the trade winds blew it was “cool” meaning the breeze evaporated your sweat. It was never less than 90 degrees whatever season of the year. In the rainy season it rained and for those people from more temperate countries the rain was a wonder.  On one occasion I was caught out in it and survived only by steepling my fingers over my mouth so that I could breathe. But it cleaned the streets wonderfully and even washed the cucurachas away in the drains for a while until they returned no doubt well refreshed after their swim.
There were drawbacks of course, chief amongst these were these same cucurachas which are the insect kingdom’s equivalent of ninja warriors. These four inch invincibles could sprint, walk up walls and across ceilings, swim and fly. They were also difficult to **** since their carapaces were thick and shoe resistant. I found in the end a delicate touch with a mallet was best. If one hit too hard the body would burst and a mess would ensue; not hard enough and the nuisance would scuttle away.  Once killed the body would be kicked aside and the night staff cleaner ants would move in and eat the husk clean.
Again being entirely responsible for me and mine meant that I had to buy my own bedstead. Iron of course with iron legs and metal springs and a mattress all brand new and all hopefully bedbug free. The iron legs would each stand in a can of kerosene which was the ant and cucuracha moat. I was late to this concept of insect defense and only adapted it when I woke up one night with a cucaracha in my mouth having a drink.  I sought advice from my “landlord and ”landlady” and was told to go to a man in the mercado - market -  who sold empty cans; I had always wondered about this obviously niche trade and was very happy to go there and be advised on the right width and depth to create the necessary defence. Four cans and a litre of kerosene and I could sleep free from attack.

on a night time beach
jamaican dreads share a chalice
this white guy bongs out

When is the game over?
When the man dies?
When the first born is a girl?
At the end of the first meal without salt?
When the woman dies?
At sunset?
At the late time of night when the spirit ebbs?
When his one good joke is repeated too often?
When his son is killed by friendly fire?
When the potatoes are blighted?
At the end of high school football stardom?
When rejected by a prom date?
When destituted by frivolous litigation
Destituted by insufficient health insurance?

When caught cheating?
At cards?
In adultery?
In a resume?
By the IRS

When caught?
In a sting?
Ten most wanted?
Interpol?

When I finish my drink?
When I empty my wallet?

My local songwriter
the blackbird
is up on his pole
again.
Most evenings
when the sun is downing
to the west
he comes and gives us
a concert,
he has no score
just opens his beak
and  trills.
There is repetition
with variance
and pause.
Sometimes he is so eloquent
that people in the street
stop and listen
and smile at each other
content for a moment
to listen to a genius
granting us solace

a short short short skirt
not even handkerchief size
cabin crew aghast

hello poetry
the ***** daily is here
plagiarism

The wind blows
in the birch tree
Why do I think
of widows at a funeral,
faded and tired.
The leaves too.
soon they will fall
another summer
another year nearly over
I cannot but help feeling
as the leaves fall.
I am a year older

I will give poems a rest for a while
give myself a break and others too

just lie on my bed and propped high
with my big red day pillow

look at the tree close outside
where yesterday

a blackbird sang and sang and sang
I was enraptured

and wrote a poem about how
no one heard

all the deaf are  listening
to their own plugged in music

while all around the earth is
heaving with new life

the winter blanket thrown aside
so that spring air and spring sun

can midwife bear new leaves
snowdrops and jonquils

no church bells ring so they
come  in modest silence

harbingers in all colors
to say a new year is here

and warm enough that
our skins can feel it too

last night a blackbird
singing his heart out for Spring
none paused to listen

His mum was ever so pleased
he took care to be born
at half past seven,
after her last shift
on Friday.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
that he refused her breast
and took to Auntie
and mum went to work
on Monday.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he walked to his school
the by-himself boy
and mum went to work
as usual.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he left her life
the now-married man
and mum went to work
to live her life.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he left this life
to talk to his god
and mum went to work
for now and for ever.
At the sweet factory

The nurses are always brisk and purposeful.

"*** in this'
she said,
writing my name on the small plastic container

"I'll be back soon"
and out she went
leaving me alone to ponder on my ability
to fulfill this function.

"Now what"
I say to myself
"Unbuckle or unzip or both?"
How best to relax.
do what I gotta do
standing or sitting?

Will there be enough?
and what if it spills?
Could I get it off the floor?
and if not,
where could I get more?

Carefully, carefully, the job done
I put the precious liquid aside
and carefully, carefully
I pick up and ***** on the lid.

Zip.
Buckle.
Preen.

What tales will this ichor tell?

It is the last of the night
and the first light of the day
brings wake-up time
to the birds in the bushes;
their songs,
tentative at first
the notes quiet and seeking
take form,
one with the other,
questing and melding,
point and counterpoint
till the moment,
when strong in will
and together in purpose,
the chorus swells
the light brightens
and together they bring
the dawn to a full day

Narcissus weeps tears
old day dies new day reborn
two pools at midnight

walking down the alley
midday walk with my dog
Hey he says
nice day isn't it
he's a chicago native obviously
it's forty degrees
and he's in shorts, a T shirt
and flipflops
yes I say
wearing my gilet and heavy coat
it's nice with the sun out,
summer soon he says
and it'll be
too damm hot again

sharp green spikes stick up
telling us to be patient
spring is coming soon

Once when I was a manchild
a blind broken piece of finework
cut from the loom
and thinking myself whole
and the gleam of light in a dim world
I ventured forth in my majestic ignorance
and was upset
when the unfinished piece I was
unravelled at the first stress
and into a  hospital bed
where tender mercies made me whole
and ready for Monday

condescension
imbues him from head to toe
he demands respect

tints of irony
shade the illuminescence
of the doge's death

Two white balloons fly
the fast west wind blows them where?
over the roofs goodbye

the purest form of sycophantic flattery
and kiss my *** ed ness
plagiarism is it?
now they tell me,
oh well,
I will grab some while I can.
"Fab write - congrats on the daily **"
Feels good to me
Enough postings in this mode
doesn't have to rhyme
or be an ode;
Why stop
Gets me to the top
My name in lite prose,
Sufficient unto the day,
Or something like that.
And
"Wow well done on the daily my friend - stunning write **"
How to describe this gem
A sound bite for all of them
The gift that keeps on giving
(just cut and paste)
This way nothing ever goes to waste

Now this bit below,
A gift for all time
In the blue corner and by the one and only…………….
The Englishman
Weighing in today just for one short piece
Will i am Sha ke  es peare .......................

“That strain again
It had a dying fall:
O, it came over my earlike the sweet sound
That breaths upon a bank of violets
Stealing and giving odour!  Enough; no more
‘Tis not so sweet as was before” **

Gosh he’s good

gives me time to copy some stuff
Well that should be enough
I’ll rest on other’s laurels
only the kisses, not the quarrels
Why not? and God wot
Post it quickly, who’s to know
A Daily Poem I’ll be all aglow

No matinee today
from my blackbird,
the robin too, is off sick
and the rain is so insistent,
that the shoosh of the wind
in the birch tree is just a whisper.

On days like this,
lonely people in lonely lives
give over and give up;
here in this gun free country
the gas oven, the dressing gown cord
and stored up sleeping pills,
are enough and enable the tired
to leave without saying goodbye.

The dead do not read obituaries,
are not here to unravel confusions,
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?

Now there is one less setting at table
a bedroom door stays shut and
in the bathroom
the toothbrush goes dry in the mug.
The clean shirts at the dry cleaners
are picked up and  on their hangers
with the new heeled shoes in their bag
are fresh goods for the charity shop.

And in this big city village
no one cares
no one really cares

The sky is very tired
rain weeps down the dusty trees
night will comfort all

boughs blow in the wind
practice for pollen exchange
life cycle once again

look in the mirror
balding dome still a temple
each hair a heritage

I sit at my desk
and look around at my walls
and see eight pieces of art,
all bar two from artists I knew
who were friends in my early days in manhattan,
the city where we were all poor
and came from different places,
miguel from buenos aires in argentina who spoke only spanish
a political refugee who feared being disappeared
and now had a tiny bed in a tiny loft and painted on canvas
I have two of his works
a cactus plant with beautiful plum sized multicolored flowers
and the other entitled the thirsty horse that looks like a demented snarling dog with slanted eyes and teeth to spare but benign enough to be loved by my daughter when aged three,
horsy horsy was her good friend.
katsu from osaka in japan who waited table in a sushi bar
and painted his vision on board,
the desert with flowering saguaro cacti with three tiny men in three tiny cars driving anywhere and nowhere
with three stuck-on labels -
namely: the baby of kangaroo - levi 501 - pronunciation
all significant to him no doubt and guiding us through his vision of pale blue wash with applique.
john from Cleveland, his work the prodigal son with father limned in profile, dull white, dull ochre and matt black
with a mid ground horizontal bar of pinky red for reference,
strongly emotive without shouting.
next is jennifer now in arizona, her work a **** with a weird perspective very red embouchure lips and red ******* and a red scarf with a walled city behind. I love it and can’t say why;
behind an abstract my parents bought at my pleading from a hungry american now mine to ponder and wonder if it is a crucifixion california style,
maybe jesus on acid, I never did find out exactly.
in front a huge print the laughing frogs by karel appel, I bought it from a friend dying of aids, it had no future in his life  and I liked it a lot especially when oncoming death priced it down
and here the odd one out, a big silkscreen print with colour
at my right hand, eye line high and bought in paris france with teenager money, all I had,
a very old woman dressed to the nines, hat with flowers and a little veil,
fox stole, big jet earrings and a steady gaze eyes front, sitting in a café with her right hand near her glass of dark red framboise, enigmatic smile forever; I have never been able to read the signature.
and the last from andrew of chicago a big bold watercolor entitled dusk nyc, company art sold when the company went bankrupt and I was happy to buy it, a painting of the canyon streets of manhattan with cars and cabs and people all like chess knights jumping for position with no check in sight.
These are all my long time favorites,
my go-to works when I am tired and need solace. they never fail to please.

The shout travels up the narrow valley
furthered faintly by the sheer rock face
to the ear of the man stacking shooks
he heaves the last sheaf into place
and walks to the shade tree
for the lunch brought by his wife

“It’ll be a fine harvest if it stays dry”
“Happen”

North I go
to deeper cold and longer night,
once I was certain but I lost hope.

East is better?
The dawn in my eyes does blind me,
who now knows the way?

South to Patagonia
sheep and trees riled by the wind,
then to rocks crouched in the cold sea.

West where the sun rules the late hours
and we on tiptoe stretch high
to postpone the losing of the light.

vegetarians
don't eat meat of any kind
tofu for you

the loon sings
his songs,
the night wind
wafts his plaints
over the black water to us,
sitting on the dock
in the silence
of a Maine Summer night.

Let me write of and sympathize with
men
strong and typical
women
strong and lyrical
and children
an ode to joy forever
mostly all boxed in
twentyfour/seven/twelve
home, school,
different grades, more school
job(s) on the cusp, second job
home at night late
and yes, there is a tomorrow
mow the square  of grass
in front of the house
over and over again
years line up ahead
the same dispiriting grind
but you have a team!  Yes your team !
every season beginning  anew
playing well, job coffee breaks joys for a minute
then fading and fading and fading
out of it  till next year, for sure it will be better
and Yes, Remember to Vote for Change
then the same old the same old unchanged
and now you’re the empty nester
the silence is suddenly very loud
and there are fewer options now
where did it all go

The notes of the
oud and piano
meet and meld
each bringing to the other
strength and direction
they take
separate paths and
come back to
reflect against each other
in such a way
never rejoicing
but constant and melancholy
insistent vespers
to mark
the beginning of the end of our day

In summer in the country
the married buzzards wheel and flow
on languid wings,
surveilling every inch of the earth below
for unwary prey.

The sun tracks dawn to night
over heat scorched land,
ripening the grains and drying the hay,
whilst in dense city living,
the park tree-leaves rustle
in summer symphony and
sandlot infants scream and play,
their mothers watching every move,
no suntime siesta now and here.

And in dense packed city blocks
mi casa es non su casa,
open windows leak sound,
and the smell of someone’s mother’s cooking
is treif at another table.
In grander houses the front lawns
now water-lack died-back brown,
evidence of greener days gone past,
wait for the fall's forgiving.

And yet and still
in the mellow evenings
neighbors talk to neighbors
friendly asides,
jokes,
politesses,
the leavenings
that let us live together
till the cool comes
and the windows and the doors shut.
We too hibernate till spring.

The family rarely gets together
oceans apart
email and skype are there
but touch and embrace
are not
the family meal
remembrance and folly
and joy and bitterness
at new partings to come
gelled over, smoothed with wine
the mother asserts her role
the desert a trifle
memories of tastes past
remembered again
before the door opens and shuts
another goodbye and for how long
the question hangs
the answers now are too late for tomorrow
and so to bed

She was always
always so cute.
She never stopped smiling,
she never stopped eating,
and she never,
ever was mute

She liked her baths cold
not to say frigid,
an ice cube or two was nice,
banana was good, strawberry was better,
but what really inspired her was rice.

Fascinated couples would look
from wherever they were,
as into her meal she would start,
a benison here, a benison there
for her moving rice was an art.

And so I leave you
a short tale of a child,
who took up a lot of our space.
She never was meek and
she never was mild,
A gift of a girl by God’s grace.

one drop of water
an advance warning maybe
look up for rainclouds

two eyes four paws tail
puppy wiggles end to end
happy to see you