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Through poetry we can learn practicing mindfulness towards all around us and more importantly, towards ourselves. Now, you can find my book on Amazon , …
I have hurricanes in my windpipes.
England, UK
The sun touches you in ways that I cannot and I have never been more jealous of anything than I am that goddamn fucking sun.
Poems
kiryuen
Sep 2015
little little carmen
so immodest without a care
dancing with that red dress on
and singing awful songs
little little carmen
flitting back and forth
so girlish in the midst of boys
so manly among girls
little little carmen
you're so quick to fill your head
with nasty jokes and ***** thoughts
I wish you'd show a little shame
little little carmen
don't say a single word
they'll tell you you have issues
and to "keep those ****** legs closed"
little little carmen
you are the best-est of them all
I loved you for how crude you were
how you brought me ungodly thrills
little little carmen
tell me what it is you want
you are the best, yes I adore
my blood red, snow white *****
little little carmen
all wrapped up in her head
got them wrapped around her finger
but she had never felt more dread
little little carmen
you're so full of life and worldly light
I never knew why you reeked of death
while you made love to the devil every night
lovely lovely carmen
never spoke of light at the end of the tunnel
you were always hovering there
I'll throw your ashes into the air
lovely lovely carmen
I learned this dance from you
your ashes look like blackened snow
as sullied as you were
lovely lovely carmen
I've memorized your song
I'll sing this tune as loud as you
they whisper *carmen never dies
so immodest without a care
dancing with that red dress on
and singing awful songs
little little carmen
flitting back and forth
so girlish in the midst of boys
so manly among girls
little little carmen
you're so quick to fill your head
with nasty jokes and ***** thoughts
I wish you'd show a little shame
little little carmen
don't say a single word
they'll tell you you have issues
and to "keep those ****** legs closed"
little little carmen
you are the best-est of them all
I loved you for how crude you were
how you brought me ungodly thrills
little little carmen
tell me what it is you want
you are the best, yes I adore
my blood red, snow white *****
little little carmen
all wrapped up in her head
got them wrapped around her finger
but she had never felt more dread
little little carmen
you're so full of life and worldly light
I never knew why you reeked of death
while you made love to the devil every night
lovely lovely carmen
never spoke of light at the end of the tunnel
you were always hovering there
I'll throw your ashes into the air
lovely lovely carmen
I learned this dance from you
your ashes look like blackened snow
as sullied as you were
lovely lovely carmen
I've memorized your song
I'll sing this tune as loud as you
they whisper *carmen never dies
Waverly
Jun 2012
Carmen's legs
are pixilated cerulean.
Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.
Her computer is on.
She rests crossed legs
on its desk.
There's something sticky about her skin.
Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.
The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.
Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.
Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.
It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.
She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.
Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.
Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.
He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.
Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.
Puts her hands on her lap.
Licks her lips.
She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.
She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******.
"Bored, much?"
Carmen asks sardonically.
He took it literally.
He jumped at attention.
"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."
"How do these things work?"
"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."
And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.
She had the cards in her hands,
finally.
Carmen's legs are pixilated high cerulean.
Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-****** sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.
are pixilated cerulean.
Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.
Her computer is on.
She rests crossed legs
on its desk.
There's something sticky about her skin.
Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.
The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.
Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.
Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.
It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.
She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.
Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.
Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.
He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.
Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.
Puts her hands on her lap.
Licks her lips.
She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.
She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******.
"Bored, much?"
Carmen asks sardonically.
He took it literally.
He jumped at attention.
"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."
"How do these things work?"
"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."
And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.
She had the cards in her hands,
finally.
Carmen's legs are pixilated high cerulean.
Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-****** sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.
James Bradley McCallum
Oct 2013
“I’m not sure if night is ending or day is beginning. What time is it?” She asked as she opened the door.
“Its about 2:30” I answered.
She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.
“We're sorry to disturb you beloved. We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”
“I don’t want to be put away” she said. “I have to be outside.”
“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help.”
"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.
She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.
She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.
She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.
"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."
Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.
"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."
"What time is it?"
"Its about 2:30."
She earnestly wants to know what time it is.
"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."
Her papers were scattered on the floor.
She had one shoe on and one shoe off. A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening. The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.
White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.
A woolen hat circled her head. Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.
She looked to be in her 50’s. She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice. Her eyes were clear. Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.
She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame. Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt. The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback. The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat. The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders. She resembled a small granite headstone.
"Whats your name?" I asked. She was reluctant to tell us. “I don’t like my name”.
We gently coaxed her.
“Carmen” she whispered.
“That's a beautiful name. Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”
“I know. I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered. “I never liked it.”
Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.
We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat. Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food. She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.
I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.
“You are not forgotten beloved. You are deeply loved. Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.
“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.
“What time is it?”
As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.
Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera
Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings
Paterson
1/30/13
jbm
“Its about 2:30” I answered.
She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.
“We're sorry to disturb you beloved. We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”
“I don’t want to be put away” she said. “I have to be outside.”
“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help.”
"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.
She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.
She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.
She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.
"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."
Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.
"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."
"What time is it?"
"Its about 2:30."
She earnestly wants to know what time it is.
"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."
Her papers were scattered on the floor.
She had one shoe on and one shoe off. A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening. The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.
White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.
A woolen hat circled her head. Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.
She looked to be in her 50’s. She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice. Her eyes were clear. Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.
She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame. Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt. The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback. The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat. The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders. She resembled a small granite headstone.
"Whats your name?" I asked. She was reluctant to tell us. “I don’t like my name”.
We gently coaxed her.
“Carmen” she whispered.
“That's a beautiful name. Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”
“I know. I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered. “I never liked it.”
Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.
We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat. Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food. She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.
I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.
“You are not forgotten beloved. You are deeply loved. Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.
“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.
“What time is it?”
As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.
Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera
Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings
Paterson
1/30/13
jbm
Part 8 of extended poem Silk City PIT. PIT is an acronym for Point In Time. PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population. Carmen was a person we found and counted during the census. Silk City is a nick name of Paterson NJ.