Indian pipes rise ghostly
from ancient compost
of needled tears shed
white bells corpse-silent
shunning Light’s vital touch
sleeping instead in symbiotic beds
of gracious hosts, who in turn
kiss the feet of living Giants
lushly burning gilded rays
to fuel their green economy

I stand before my college class struggling
For the forty-dollar word to replace
The two-dollar one
That inadvertently slipped my lips
You know -
Those words that tell
The skeptical you’ve been there
Done that
Read that and
Know this

Those words have worn smooth
My rugged road from Compton
Words speaking a sub-text of
Silhouetted meanings
The words that bring on the dreaded
Compliment “articulate”
As if I could speak
Any other way

But, it appears I can
I have a way with words plentiful
The two-dollar variety
Like my cheap shoes
Of childhood:
Sometimes embarrassing
Always loyal    

Today, my two-dollar
Words work quietly
In poetic dungeons
Hooded in simplicity
Fooling no one
Laboring, as they do,
Under the
Trappist Creed:
Give up everything
Give up everything

Touch –
An act that’s been corrupted
Even through clothes -
Your 2nd skin  

Yes,
I am
Presumptuous
Crossing a barrier
Erected by
The tyranny
Of a false decorum

We don’t touch that which
We fear, distrust, hate
So I touch you,
Your smooth unscarred arms,
Hug your broad
Sometimes slumping shoulders
As I tell you that
You remind me of my
Niece, the one in Vegas
Who danced
For her supper;
My nephew,
Kind, clever, innocent,
And dead.

Arrest me
For touching
Your face to allay
My fears; nightmare
Dreams of you sprawled
On some ***** 8X8, gas station
Bathroom floor
Searching your dreams
For the money, the needle,
The power to control
Your future

I can only give you
One key
A book
With hopes
That your 3rd grade
Self has not
Been forsaken and
You can read

I can’t teach you
What my fears
Teach me
Everyday

The news rings out
Pictures of lifeless
Black Bodies carried
From the filthy 8X8s
Potential men & women
Who’ve flunked
Their assignments
In search of ease,
Acceptance and
Painlessness

How strong are you?

My fears fall flat
Against the bathroom walls
That have touched your history
A history from which
Only you can
Draw on
That 8X8 cell

Strength
    or
Despair

                      By Gwen Davis-Feldman © 2016

Why'd we stop writing
'bout love? was it the mortgage?
the kid? ambition?

On the playgrounds of the future
Children will laugh and sing
And we’ll cross the bridge to real peace
Where the bells of sanity shall ring

Until then we’ll play the game
Which will all add up to naught
“It’s your fault, no, it’s theirs…”
Why some fail at what is taught.

We’ve been given new books and bosses
Numerous regs to do the job
But money flows to the burbs
Inner-cities fair game to rob

Touching the future may seem easy
From a point too far away
One could assume it’s all just ditto -
Then lunch -  then math - then play

If this is your belief
You could not be further from the fact
That success is measured forward
As we have our students’ back

So forward we will plod
Secretly teaching to the mean
We will test, and test and test
From which all congress shall glean

Information in nice neat form
Of bars and charts sublime
Symbolic of teachers and students
Who have been sentenced to hard time

And the monied districts shall rule
Golden in and out
And the bootstraps will appear
Accusing all who doubt

Good will be the words to spread
And many who will eat them
The failures will be shown the straps
But for pity’s sake, don’t beat them

                                                                             G. Davis-Feldman

It's a plan in itself,
Not an open invitation for suggestions
To go on long walks, or dancing,
Or paint-balling, or take a drive
Down to the beach.

It doesn't mean I am free
To do one of the hundreds of tasks
You decide are more important,
In an attempt to fill my day
With a different kind of meaning.

Today I am doing nothing,
Because I have become lost,
In a world where doing something, anything
Is so expected of ourselves and each other
That simply doing nothing is viewed
As a waste of time.

We so rarely have opportunity
To have the conversations in our heads
That determine who we really are,
As we watch the moments floating past,
Lying under the stars.

Today I am doing nothing,
Please understand that what I desire,
Is silent doorbells, unknocked doors
And that the phone doesn't ring
As I curl up by the fire.

Blessed by Thee, the gift of creation.
Cursed by needs of individualism.

Blessed by Thee, eternal unification.
Cursed by greed, social consumerism.

Blessed by Thee, light the gift of vision.
Cursed by breed, melanin racism

Blessed by Thee, a drop of infinity
Cursed by genes, fates indecision.

Blessed by Thee, the heart of a musician.
Cursed by jealousies rotting prison.

Blessed by Thee, Will of The Magician.
Cursed by bodies physical division.

Blessed by Thee, Love and compassion
Cursed by creed, systematic division.

How would you write about
Feeling exhausted
When it seems more appropriate
To not be writing at all?

A fig tree grows
in a back yard in West Seattle.
The splayed waxy leaves span the air.

A few green unripe figs are developing.
Hard to spot,
but there none the less
If we do have sun,
the fruit will ripen to a dark shoe polish brown.

Let's assume
birds do not pluck at the figs,
saving the crunchy seeds for us
to savor
and worry our tongue
some lazy afternoon.