The days have vanished golden years,—
       Years but a doleful mem'ry now;
       I hear the dirge of rough winds howl,
Above his grave to mock my tears.

Remem'ring when his strength was low;
       When hunger failed and ceased his play,
       He trod a frail more painful way;
I trust he's now in Thee made whole.

He is not here but far away,
       The driving rain like heaven's tears
       Show'ring his grave for latter years
From skies to match my spirit grey.

With breaking heart I linger nigh,
       Loathe e'er to leave his gloomy bed;
       I wish it could be me instead
Than one so gentle had to die.

He sleeps beneath the sullen sod,
       Beneath harsh sunlight and bleak rain;
       No more to suffer any pain,
While the pure soul rests with his God.

                    **~Hilda~

a childs cries
as her mother lies
her blood staining the tiles
she hides in the closet
waiting to be found

as hands grab her
she screams and yells
she blacks out
and as she awakes
in the corner of white walls
her screams muffled by silence

a child cries
as he watches blood flow like rivers
his father tells him the highs
of sweet victory obtained
so he runs to the mountains
where he hides in a cave

as hands grab him
he screams and yells
he blacks out
and awakes to a cold floor
with four walls without a door
his screams are muffled by silence

our unheard cries
of help or sorrow
we pretend to hear
we refuse to listen
as children cry
for thier mothers and fathers

the world has turned cold
yet some choose to fold
others stand strong
proving thier might
even without light

we abandoned all hope
when hope seemed lost
we vacated all faith
when faith seemed unreal
when a child cries

still the childrens cries
the first to die when death struck
like lightnings quick flash
echoing like thunder through the ages
forever remaining unheard

I let go too soon, of these three fingers
pinning a white dress to my knees,
such a strut they possess, and psychic
for the waggle I do on my tulip-days:

mama said that the lace came from an
elves’ head, I could not wear it.
I put it in a dresser drawer, as I lost
my appetite for marriage and friends.

She said that father wanted to see it,
I should parade my red, pulsing veins.
A torpedo, it became, cowering until
liftoff  and glory hallelujah first kisses.

Was it not funny when I, poor chap,
kept garbage in my teeth and laughed
when you slithered your tongue inside,
like Friday penetrating the weekend?

You are a Leo; I am far from such, but
I understand why you may be insulted,
as mama garbs turquoise as the sky
and all our daffodils burn like rubber.

Each says it is because they love me,
railing cat-scratches with a stitch –
but I do not want that, see earthquakes
that hammer on  our tulip-days, dear.

DELETE

We have touched so much since December,
steeping teas torrid and arctic ice cubes
a thousand fibers, prince bee his princess
generous blankets papering flu
the drizzle on wedding dawns or departure’s eve
pieces of candy for holiday celebrations
even the ending of a movie –

these are wild fingers that we have
rebellious, juveniles in mind
singing summer stories through knuckles  
bodies long slenderized
and they are more than myself

to them, I have no name
but my brain and I are their mother
a well-mannered woman in command

I feed them lotion,
then play in the sand apathetic
whistles papercuts that sting with
mouths as lions tigers bears sharks leaves
asking which hurts most significantly of all we
have loved –

and then again, what enduring does not belong?

The adolescents scoff at each of their
five circadian baths, and I hear cries
for showers because soap makes them crack

but it is in your best interest, I say;
you touch everything that gets in your way

to move is beauty and transitioning more so:
my hands are dancers, pirouetting
on stage to fall harmoniously with
bashes, revelations, words I care to mean
yes, these are what causes the bleed of
my aging hands, and throughout their years,
rings dying them green.

protect her then
the most innocent must be cared for
protect her O magic stars
protect her O gentle forces
the skies will answer
and she will walk defended
by Their glory

and all of Creation
will smile
for this loved and cherished one
~~
..(C)2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram..circa 1987
~~

On the end table by the bed
A tiny Styrofoam cup
Full of unwrapped candy

In child’s writing
All caps and struggle

HAPPY HALLOWEEN
I AM SORRY
MOM

It is hard to stay angry
When you have an imagination

I picture her at a round table
******* a hospital bracelet

There are other people with her
Some have construction paper
Some have glue
There is glitter
And painted fingertips

I still get homesick
For places I have never been to
Sometimes miss people
I never even knew

There is a city inside my chest
It bustles
Pre pollution
But ***** is still legal

I have made homes there
You have a home here
In a city with
No hospitals
No graveyards
Just a cul-de-sac that starts at my throat
And double loops along my lungs
So many streets
My chest x-rays look like upside-down trees without the leaves

And when you leave
There is a house
Inside the city inside my chest
That stays empty forever

So much left behind
There is no room for anger to stay long

It exits like forgiveness
When you’ve given up all hope
When you can only reimagine so much

Some of these homes are condemned

Though it is hard to stay angry