the process of crocheting an
afghan is about just that
the process

you make an afghan looking
forward to the nights you will
curl up under it and relishing
the way it fits over your
legs when it's halfway finished

or thinking and hoping
how much someone you love
will love and appreciate
your gift of time and callouses

weaving a container for whatever
emotions you need contained

i realized this that first winter
deep in february when i began
my long nights of scrap yarn
desperately trying to piece
something together out of
the not knowing why
i told myself that this was it
the sum total of my works
the item they would fold up and
place on the table next to the jar
of my ashes come september
and it was done by march

a slow and roundabout way
of pushing myself through
the suicidal smog
smeared through my mind

my friends had blankets wrapped
around them that bright morning
of the anniversary we all cried together
my tears falling on my afghan

i made them each an afghan
plus a few more
always pushing myself
to look forward

lost count of how
much yarn i used
how many stitches
passed through my hands

but by the time the next
march came around i
had made or charted
out five more

to fill the void
clawing at my insides

spent a year making
myself another
in tight ripples of
time and television

and now
my fingers
slow
and stop

seven afghans
in two years
is an accomplishment
that might send the
head of even the
highest caliber of
grandma spinning

i have no more afghans
left in me to make

so instead i crawl
down into bed
two i made
two from friends
and one from
my mother

and lie
head pounding
eyes puffy
void of energy
in the space
between my afghans

Explosions and gunfire wherever you walk,
not knowing your fate as the hands whirl around the clock.
Blood running like a river through the streets of rubble,
body parts scattered around - each one of them has crumbled.

They've declared a war again like many times before,
not caring about the civilians; battle commences more and more.
History is repeating itself time and time again,
it seems as if they cannot from bloodlust abstain.

This is about the innocent lives that'll be inevitably lost,
their precious and innocent souls are the greatest cost.
Their last memories will be that of brutality and threat,
and watching their family die randomly one by one; like a game of Russian Roulette.

Masses of skeletons and piles of bones
will litter the lanes as common as stones,
and their names will always remain unknown,
and as they perish they will do so despondent and alone.

Surely you have seen
that famous photo.
Steve McCurry’s
“Afghan Girl.”
Piercing green eyes hint
of innocence,
yet so much knowledge
of the world.
She is young,
unable to hide that
behind her veil of cloth.
McCurry was able to find her
years later
for another picture.
In this one,
she is weathered.
Hair grows thick on her forehead,
eyebrows give away her age.
The green eyes are beautiful still,
but no longer have the
sweet wonder
of youth.

another cool bullet
to the head

a sudden death of
an American dream

the smart uniform
of a young officer

pressed and squared
sharp as a West Point salute

lay blood stained and crumpled
in a lifeless heap on a hospital room floor

the furious efforts of
heroic triage teams comes to naught

trust, respect and idealism
lie victim to an assassins whim

the dreams of another young patriot
prematurely commended to a cold grave

forevermore his body to moulder
returning to earths royal dust

an assassins work speaks
hard blatant truths

we somehow
refuse to hear

leave Afghanistan
to the Afghans

its time to exit
the ungodly places

that betray our dreams
and ****** our children


Music Selection
Tom Jones
Green Green Grass of Home

Oakland
3/1/12
jbm