Funny how
when cut and dried
that place outside
looks greener

I've seen a
life quite different from my own
happy
caring
people
going home

and all I do is sit and moan,
it isn't fair
I should be happy, caring
it could be me
I should be there.

I think,
if change is easy
why is it so hard?

One day they'll build a monument to all the men
who
with good intent
set out to change the World in which we live
they'll take collections,
will you give?

I build a pyre
but it's them will burn me in the fire

they don't like me being so outspoken
and would much prefer me as a token gesture, the gesture being
salute the masters,
******* all the lot of them,

funny when
you start to write and the words don't match your mind.
I find the ink brings
its own opinions.

Heart racing
Feet pacing
Mind going a mile a minute
Trying to make sense of this thing I feel
Staring at my telephone
Everytime it goes off I want it to be you
So cold and so hot
I love you
Even though you love me not



-Jennifer DeAngelo
Copyrighted 2016

there are two dollar bills
soaking in saltwater
unsure if their worth is still warranted

a conundrum which parallels my own
work which slips away like an old love
into the passage of fire
unable to see through the smoke

this smoke makes friends with uncertainty
clouding judgmental overtones
or hiding the weeping truth
of dangerous discoveries in my life
where open change closes the doors
leaving cracks to see all
I couldn't complete

where days being single
become years
and all that was planned
falls into alcoholic waste
savoring the love I could share
for no one should claim it
when it sits in the smoke
coated in insecure skin
questioning every second it exists

There is light climbing up on the horizon where the day puts another disguise on and I have the kettle on.

The bells haven't started to ring yet but a debt I must pay is on the way,

Sunday and the faithful are beaming.

The older I become the more salt I throw over my shoulder,
protection is nine tenths of my religion.
It's a join the queue and take a pew the sermon begins about ten and then we'll be healed for next week when we're sealed
back into the city again.

An accordion player smokes a long cigarette sat on the seat where he's slept with his feet on the ground
I've seen him before in East Ham, a short rather fat man who carries his tunes rather well and sells people a song for the price of a tea,
he doesn't see me.

A refugee?
an immigrant?
back bent with the weight of his cross.

I toss another egg in the pan and wonder who's loss and what kind of man can stand and ignore what shouts in your face outside the door.

No one goes somewhere to get nowhere.

We travel on with the scarecrow,
the one that puts straw in our ears.

Dark is the night, by the light of day

Harsh are the words, which some people say

Grievous the malaise, which we often feel

Deep are the wounds, of a hurt that won’t heal

Lasting the wrong, to whom it is done

Fleeting the moment, when praises are won

Tragic the loss, of someone we love

Empty the feeling, when they are thought of
WIZDUMBs BY JA 619

sometimes when i'm asleep i hear whispers.

ghosts of all the men i let decimate my sanctuary

thinking they came to worship.

the men who came with flowers,

fragrances and exquisite offerings

who left with my sobriety.

many pieces of me are

somewhere in the world

being given as bounty to other women

expecting to be loved as i did.