You don't see many medallion men
I wonder at times
what happened to them?

I watch movies
eat popcorn
scorn *****
and once
off the Horn of Africa
in a force nine, I
was washed overboard,
thought I was toast,
but the coast guard
on the least guarded shore I know
saved me.

That paved the way for God and me to come to an understanding which was
he understood me and I understood nothing
which again I understood having been an understudy
to a life of no study.

it was good he knew that.

Woolworth's went too,
like a paper shop it just blew away

but the high street's a low point on some graph
that the merchants have made for a laugh
it doesn't make sense
you can't spend pounds and pence
when there's nothing to spend them on.

I'd prefer battalions of medallions
and shops by the score
an army of high streets and
two armies more, but even the
Army and Navy can't save me
and they used to be good for me,

God you see
takes precedence
dislikes things like
impediments
experiments
and all things that
debunk his
glorious
magnificence,
likes to be called
his eminence

I
still can't find many shops on the high street though,
it's a miracle that
I don't understand.

All the silence does not mean
You are alone,
It is the world waiting for you
To listen;
And in the darkness you are
Found by the light
Of your hope.

And in the tears of your
Pain you are born,
There you become stronger
And it creates order.

Pick up your flesh as your spirit
Lifts,
And speak your happiness
As if the tip of your tongue
Was the mountain's peak
Speaking at the sky,
The burden is a caged bird
And only the conscious can set
It free.
And sing to yourself so that
You know you are never alone
In your body.

Know that your crazy is beautiful
Because it makes you YOU,
Wear your skin like
Your cozy blanket and cuddle
In the warmth of yourself.
     You are not broken,
But scattered like the night
With pieces like stars shining,
    Open your pain and yourself
To the wound of the world and heal
Whatever you choose.

Not the lone glory of an orange
basking in Depression’s dusk—
its fluted bowl of purple glass

Nor the fall ways of amber
Leaves burned by roadside
curling smoke’s sun-lit sash

Not tree-lined streets
rabid leaves’ raspy voices
whirling giddy in the wind—

...in none of these

But in the moments I filled with fixing
a lamp shade
painting this place
to a stern perfection

...I thought of you
ordering the tyranny of me
the glass of me
the concrete conscience
I must be right!  Mustn’t I?

The religion of our lives
Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring
feeding the ducks
and a roast at noon
Waffles and TV later
Lassie and You Asked For It
Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve

I asked for it, alright

He came and went
to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva

He came and went larger than life and first on the scene
to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races
and of course—THE SHOP!
in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles
Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars

He was terrifying! Wonderful!

We would love at a pained distance

His cabinet in the cellar was always locked
But now, just suppose—

if a kid were to haul on its handles...
supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar
with the thunder of him!

And those late nights
those harsh ****** lights
lidded hundred watt cones
in the spotlight of THERE
where I wasn’t
in the odor of oils too noxious to dare
beyond the girlish shadows—

he cleaned his guns

I waited and watched where everything seemed
to be
What...?
It seems—he just pushed her against a wall!
I step from girlhood
with my two-cents worth
and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!

I take my vows!
I swear I will not scrape wax
from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!

I have waited.  I have watched
the routines of his mornings
He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair
he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat
I can tell you the creak of the stairs
and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house

...the routine of his return at supper
the routine of anger
My routine of being late—
and as good as dead
squeezing behind—
HIS CHAIR
Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud
Praying for the epiphany of his good mood
when the TV and me--

wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation

ten miles into the woods where the retort
would not be heard
he jumped off a bridge
where  none  had stood

he was where he went when it all got to be too
much, his refuge, infirmary
and I guess he saw
it all as too much

finally
but, he left two little ones wondering
was it their fault
and questioning doubts
the rest of their lives

I used to respect him and thought
about him as a gentleman
and how he represented an
upstanding  family man,
I guess I was mistaken

While I am traveling back home
I wanted to write lengthy poem
Just to jot down - I am existed

Life is a unidirectional flow
flows with the massive force
where the power enough to
destroy and uproot yourself
in an unimaginable way if you
disagree - to certain principals

Yet it is funny - the flow diverts you
and showed up the way against
and dare you to go against

If a blink of a thought is the smallest
fracture of the flow what takes us
I will dive deep into the thought
just get to know - whether it has a way
to turn it up towards the freedom
I always seeking

The sad story is keep happening
like the everything else the truth
it also showing only the illusion
and lost me in a position where
I can't find the way back home

Then just like you awaken from
sleep paralysis - I get up and then
I forcefully convince myself - the destination
will be there in minute - so be normal

Now today I am in a position
Where I can't track down myself
In the pane of universe because
neither X nor Y or the so called cross
not helping me at all
Meantime you also diagnosed me
with the overthinking complex

I should not find myself
in the same place I lost myself
but yet can anyone please answer me
with out the  exaggerated bogus
where this all go
after so many exhausted attempts of
breathing

As a foot note I want to say this
truth is also in my perspective
is an illusion where it comes
gives me the glimpse of that
everything is wonderfully
connected

Track me down and let me live
Or take me to the place I belong

© shanikayrs