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 May 2017 Mary Winslow
Mary-Eliz
her morning walk seems
a spiritual experience
head held high
hair coiled on top
silver wisps floating defiantly

she keeps her routine
in enduring manner

some think her air aloof
indifferent

they do not look
into the shimmering eyes
or
notice the serene smile
they do not see
inside her head

where she dances
where the music plays

they only see her lively step
as one to keep pace
with the petite fawn terrier
seeing him
as her only dance partner

they are wrong
she has many partners

she dances with the breeze
she dances with the birds
with the clouds
with the sun
and
with the moon

on these crowded city streets
locked in her memory
duplicated
and
played back
in complete detail

she dances
with the foaming, crashing ocean
and
the verdant mountains  
mist hovering above
she dances
with giant oaks of the forests
and
meadows filled with scarlet, gold,
white, and amethyst wildflowers


many think her lonely


they are wrong
 May 2017 Mary Winslow
Mary-Eliz
I spent months
setting them up

those emotional "dominoes"

black rectangles on end
balanced just so
white spots spelling out

ego
    emotions
                soul

just a sharp stroke
of a tongue
on one corner
and
they fall...
   and fall...
      and fall...

they lay
      scattered
                  and
                     chaotic

on their backs
          like beetles
unable to turn

their undersides exposed
                             and vulnerable

how many times
            can they be realigned

how many times
              before the spots erode

how many times
               before it's empty inside

like dead beetles'
                       dry, brittle shells?
An older poem I came across.
 May 2017 Mary Winslow
Mary-Eliz
I recognize
the place
that place
inside
loathsome
& suffocating
I see the lost
look in your eyes
watery red glassy
I watch the feigned
joviality and sense
the aching loneliness
it tries to disguise... I
know the self-hatred
brings a death sentence
  lingering tortuous death
with conviction that it is
all that is deserved...you
place yourself on death
row and wait inside
the bottle
...
 May 2017 Mary Winslow
Mary-Eliz
Your pain is mine
and yet
it isn't

I know
and yet
I can't know

in your soul
like a fragile snowflake
each memory
crystallizes
creating a space
a space to hold the pain

each remembrance
echoes
another note
in the melody
that plays
in a minor chord

every  anguished face
rends your heart anew

your pain is mine
and yet
it isn't

I know
and yet
I can't know

the spaces in your soul
are different shapes

you alone hear
the haunting strain

the gaping wound
in your heart
is uniquely
yours

your tears
are knowing
tears

I can only cry
for
not knowing
#grief #sharing #pain #remembrance #tears
 May 2017 Mary Winslow
Mary-Eliz
You've cut ff your feet
to spite your head
Is there nothing left
in between?
is your whole life
blackened
and squandered
rotted and
gnarled
by gangrene?

Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.


How can you sit
there
with blood on your face
and not feel
it dry to a crust?
How can you sit
there
with gore on your hands
knowing you shiver
from lust?

Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead.
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.
You, too, must feel torment
and torture.
You, too, must be plagued
without cure.


Where are you going?
to hell and not back?
Did you buy your ticket
to ride?
or
will you walk
into
the bottomless pit
draped with your badges

flesh putrefied?

Heads on lapels like
an Easter corsage
dead lilies like
those on a grave,

a grave that you dug
then
stepped in to forage
to eat as a worm of the flesh.

Flesh young and tender
that flamed with desire
till your curse
extinguished
the fire.

*Join me, come in.
Come into my fire.
Join me, come in.
We'll wade through
the mire
with blood
in our mouths
and our eyes.

Taste of the pain,
the glorious pain.
Like a gift
I give it to you,
offered again and again,
a philanthropist
swollen with bounty,
who bestows what
he has
like a prize.
After seeing "Silence of the Lambs"...and wishing I hadn't!
 May 2017 Mary Winslow
Mary-Eliz
In an empty city lot
scattered
with
jagged glass
and
discarded condoms,
life dried up
and  
stepped on

you exchange dollars
for a glimpse
into
Nirvana

Compost lies quiet
and steaming
holding onto secrets

a fog rises from the pile
and
the stench of life
grows

indulging your bloated appetite,
you usher it
to somewhere unknown
somewhere behind
the yellow door
that closes you off
your mind
a frozen
empty
crypt

to a place where grubs feast
on flesh
and
spirit
eat away till silence
fills the air,

inflates your lungs
lifting you
like a zeppelin
above
the misery
and the muck
floating
your frozen mind
melts
your body tingles
in the warm
flow

through a blinding light
you see
everything at once

all the colors of the rainbow
eternity inside
a raindrop
the blessed numbness
of Nirvana
within your reach

Then I rise
from the steam
I open the yellow door
and fling myself
to
the other side
grabbing
you
by the throat
holding
tight
breathing into your face
hot breath
filled with cobalt smoke
I laugh
maniacally
you are mine
I cram you into a box
jab needles
in your arms
stuff your nostrils
with caustic powder
and
you plunge

I drop you
on your head
into
the middle
of the steaming pile
that opens like jaws
***** you into the colors
that were reflected
in the rainbow
reflected through your tears

up close they are
orange, yellow, and crimson fire
and
smoky blue death
I sneer
you whimper
and we wait
till next time

wait till next time
Man on the cross

save us from walls

against hungry souls

raised by pedantic cons

to push Your words

from pulpits of arrogance


Barterers of crux for coins

lords over Scriptures

life, land, and heavens

offering rapture

as if a mop to wash

parlors of decadence


Is nothing holy

to bias and cruel hearts

architects of churches

that glorify wrong to divide

from pews that claim

You as their candy man


Staring at the cross

blood from thorns

did your mother weep

for hammerers of nails

or promise burning

those who reject lies


Is there resurrection

for throwers of spears

users of Your name

as a nine-ball

in pockets of greed

made-to-order redemption


Will self-proclaimed sages

accept your color of origin

not in a suit but rags

or claim you are Satan

to condemn and justify


Feel stones cry
by Marta C Weeks, raised 4/16/2017
Drums of war
converse about rights
claim blessings from their God
to profess justice against injustice

A child asks:
is killing right for who wins?
can neighbors **** to clean up
their neighborhoods?
What if they **** us?

No, that's different
you simplify too much
the bad must be destroyed
the color of blood is not red

In cheer and pomp drums beat
as self-proclaimed judges decide
when is killing patriotic
in the harbor of safety
conversing about rights
edited 4/18/2017
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