Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I fought for you

With glass shards in the palms of my hands

I destroyed the mirrors

Telling us who we were and who we were not

Only we decide that

I fought for you

With brick dust in my blood covered knuckles

I destroyed the walls

Telling us where we start and where we end

Only we decide that

I always fought for you

Why couldn’t you do the same for me?
 Feb 2018 Tanisha Jackland
eileen
warm milk
slipping through the stars

I've been wandering through the universe
for some time now

hearing dreamy soft sounds

dead rose falling apart
how to fix it
make it live

each breath I breathe
isn't helping me
stay alive

the dust around me
is astral
my lungs are slowly decomposing
from too much toxic

It's you
It was always him
her too
It's everyone

from your point of view
you see the old me
but I've changed
in the million years
floating away
you couldn't tell
how different I became
your little voice
                    Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
     With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
                             or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
                          stars and the Humorous
                                                  moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
                                            over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
          your voice
the emergency broadcast system
is a vital channel w/ the ability
to interrupt anything & everything;
I've been hearing it all my life;
I actually pay attention to it
because I love white noise; the EBS
is like the voice of the goddess
from the void; unchanging u know
it could on forever; yes,
the Emergency Broadcast System
has no words but is undeniably a poem
w/ a female voice;

its message crawling across the screen;
or spoken familiarly by some unknown dude,
maybe the janitor left a note in the middle
of the night, 'test emergency broadcast system'
& he hits a button opening a mic; 'this is a test...';
repeating the message while he lights a cigarette;
I heard a girl do it once; I was thinking
at the time it might be his gf
or a female office worker working late who said
'as long as I'm here' & went ahead & flipped the switch,
grabbing the hot mic & adding quickly, 'This is a test...'

radio stations test the system too
with a variety of sounds some people
find annoying; writing in complaint
to the radio stations but I find
the sound soothing; but as I said
there's more than one: there is the one
that I call the cosmic trumpet;
a single unbroken mechanical tone
high low or in-between it never varies
& would otherwise be silence;
local announcers inform us 'this is a test
of the Emergency Broadcast System';

sometimes the voice is robotic,
which is eerie but not as disturbing as the  
crackling fuzz that stabs the ears
like 1,000 pins; it's not even a machine
it's an open system communicating w/ itself;
if it had been an actual emergency
we are told we would be told to switch to
our local station, other words, to turn away:
'This has only been a test.'
Beautifully irresistible
u draw me towards
ur heat; my wings burst
ablaze, I kamikazi
to u my burning flame
You should be able
To be naked
All of the time.

No sense to this
Eternal cover-up

Give the fruit
Of fig,

You may keep
The leaf
 Jan 2018 Tanisha Jackland
Eriko
like watercolors,
like light leaking
and souls breathing
like scribbling ink
like fragrance of dusk
and friendships caught
in embrace
the dearest, the closest
to heart
crumble like that
of fragile earth
 Jan 2018 Tanisha Jackland
L B
Pulling off my scarf
letting it drape like a resignation
across the back of a chair
The sun is setting
the room is dim
and almost orange –  and is
sometimes lonely
in its loss of day

I think of you now –  

and then

We were walking with our arms around each other

Always...

through the Boston Common
The air drizzled
with late-winter
melts
the cobbles
wet
The sounds of our steps
go on –  

Forever....

I turn to hang my coat

Night replaces you again
__


1-29-18
Remembering a night from the winter if 1970.  I was only 20.
It was only a moment, and perhaps it could only have been a moment, to have so captured eternity.

For Steve K
Something from
a silent mystery;
ragtime jumping
roadhouse jive
& magic lantern
Next page