Love is a cheap commodity
a form of stock exchange
a currency value
a way to determine a worth.

Hatred is expensive
it raises the waves
it calls for the howling wind
the tremulous quakes
and the shattering glasses.

one, two, three, four
four couples walked down the aisle
the holy shrine shines
the crowd claps in glee, amusement
and some in cynicism

five, six, seven, eight
the claps became slower and slower
the smiles on the faces froze like marble statues
the pregnant women wept
the men groaned in annoyance
the children were the only one laughing

the sky became dark
the birds stopped chirping
the owls hooted in the dark dark night
the gowns have turned to a shade of midnight blue
the bells have stopped ringing

The eight brides stood there and said "I do."

You're older now, soldier.
Your wars aren't the same.

Dust and the blinds they collect,
days that feel red, almost enviable
in their passion.

Shaky hands again, dry mouth
again, sirens singing low in
the black water day after day.

Death should mean something.
Encore for the epitaph!

It isn't real, but it is. It's replaying
in your head. It isn't real, but

it happened.

The poverty I am saddest about
( his shoutings about politics )

…..he read that online
mine poetry about this poverty
the stupidity started scolding me
declared instantly me-moi as its enemy
its words, so absurds
a lunatic so terrific

not its area nor its section
I oft write in Dutch and this is mine declaration

I do now one step lower
From “it” I step a bit lower down to “his”
his profession does not read poetry
but he thought he could read
poetry poesy and poems

true very pity
not his art nor his profession
he meddles in everything
mine poetic wings, not his thing
(contin.on Part 2)

© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected

I became aware of **** culture when I was in eighth grade
I heard it every day
As if **** was a word to describe attraction to someone
It became a joke as it fell from the lips of 13 year old girls
Like undigested food and lip gloss
They became accustomed to the saying
“It’s not **** if you yell surprise”

I was a freshman in high school
When a boy sent my friend a text message that read
“you’re so cute, I wanna **** you”
And she took it as a compliment
I was a sophomore when my health teacher said if you are ever about to be ***** yell fire
As if **** isn’t serious enough for people to care

We live in a world that punishes women before rapists
Because the first thing the police will ask is what you were wearing
Girls are taught to cover up every inch of flesh
To shame their bodies
Because showing too much skin could provoke someone to **** them
As if it is their fault For someone else’s lack of control

Because we teach girls how not to get *****
Instead of teaching boys not to ****
I’m afraid to even walk to my car alone
And I hear that word fall from the mouths of middle schoolers like a joke they’ve just heard
I cringe and look away
Because we aren’t laughing.

I'm in my place.
A tiny space I've claimed for myself.

Though I share this spot,
right now it's mine.

With the door latched shut,
I leave the disorderly world,
just an arm-span away.

In my makeshift asylum,
I still hear calls from the outside.
Beckoning and inviting me into
the unrelenting foray...
Pointless skirmishes,
and mistimed altercations.

When all I want is...
To be alone; be empty
and devoid of unruly thoughts in my husk.
Because in the rare silence,
I desperately seek peace.

Peace with my past.
Peace with myself.
So I don't eat myself whole.
Because my world still needs me.

I collected your clothes
                                   still damp,
my heart was washed away with you

Now I'm drowning within myself,
                             my heart floating
into the flash flood of denial...

do you think
cloaks of normalcy

societal smiles
wash away reality -

that screens pulled close
pious veils drawn

means all is well -

that children next door
from 'respectable' homes

aren't used like so much spoil
displayed with polish

to the highest bidder -

what tales do you keep
to sleep at night

in perfumed air -

'it's far away
some hapless child

not where I drive
with tinted glass

they're lower class
don't know the Lord

mere runts down town
where father drinks

can't pay their rent
make decent wage

so sell the kid
for sordid nights -

- n - o -
it happens

to tender buds
in wealthy
suites

and poorer shacks
in any
place

and every age
from dot to
grown

they stay unseen
stare at their
sums

are ***** this night
sob off to
sleep

as mother too
walks right on
by

deaf to the screams
he wants his
due

so he will take
her brother
too

'now be a man'
says worm to
prince

he lies to all
most to his
face

and no one sees
and no one
hears

the silent screams
with veil drawn
close

they look askance
and walk on
by