A bell tolled
through the fog at dusk
to summon passage
across the roiling waters.

Through the mist
a ferry appeared
but not the same as called -
afoul with death and sorrow.

With dread our forefathers
boarded ship and listened through
that storm filled crossing
to howling wind sung requiems
echoing from distant fields at
Manassus - Shiloh - Gettysburg.

When the gales had spent their fury
they disembarked in a new land
with both far less and more
than they left on the opposite shore.

*March, 2008

The stranger in the lavatory mirror
puts on a public grin, repeats our name
but scrupulously reflects the usual terror.
        -“TALE OF A TUB”, SYLVIA PLATH

But I, incompetent fool of mortality,
have appeared in the mirror as nothing
but stretched skin and pained bones
with diluted features robbed
from ancestors before me. Ah,
the recognition of prior greats; it
strikes me in the soul, knowing
that I will never live to the expectations
held before me, dangled above me
like raw, dripping veal over the unfed
lioness of my heart, plucked away one by one
like grapes being fed to Caesar. Appropriate,
perhaps; the phrase of “Et tu, Brute?”
slips from my disarmed lips far too often.

A world of nothing sacred leaves me
lost in the swirling cyclone of cracked glass,
where fighting only brings deep, jagged
lacerations of mind and body
with struggling glances of withered reflection,
of girl battling demons upon demons
on the brink of crippling surrender.
Bonded to this body of paper and lead,
but filled with notions of ink and poison,
the sight has become an old friend, breaking
through the fogged haze of glorified reality.

Brace me against the past, dear
strength, I ask of you, and allow me
to plunge beyond this frosted pane,
to shatter the veil of uncertainty in a manner
to be immortalized for generations of dust
to see, to believe, to trust more than the
painted smile dancing upon my haunted lips
in the belligerent light of the medicine cabinet’s bulbs.

I try to fit in,
I try to believe,
That maybe someday,
They’ll like me better,
Than I like me.
It’s a constant battle,
A fight I can’t resist,
To put myself down before others,
Oh why do I persist?

I’ve been bullied,
I’ve been shunned,
This I can’t forget.
It hurts deep down inside,
So it is myself that I subject.

Why is it that,
When I want to make friends,
All these memories,
Come flooding back to me again?

I thought after all these years,
After all this time,
I had found,
That bright burning light.
I guess it isn’t so,
But maybe it is,
Confusion engulfs me,
Just as sadness did.

There's that voice,
It's calling out to me again,
Try harder,
Be smarter,
Or you'll wind up just like them.
That voice should sound familiar,
But alas it does not,
I feel like I've lost myself somewhere
Halfway through all these thoughts.
So where does that leave me?
This I'm too scared to ask,
Ignorance is bliss they say,
But sometimes it's just not.

I have won every battle that scarred my soul,
I can now kiss thunder and throw lightning and dance with earthquakes as if its beats I control.

23 | 31 Poems for August

They laughed and criticized at my starry eyes.
But suddenly stopped when I rose like the morning sun.
So now I humbly thank God for all that He has done.
In a world burdened and ravaged by wars that seem to go on for forever.
I try to find peace inside myself and pray to become someone better.  
I’m responsible for my own peace.
But He protects me in the battles I fight on my knees.
The figures of speech I use may often remain unappreciated.
The words I speak may often remain unheard.
The poems I write may often remain unread.
But the beauty of God’s grandeur will never go unnoticed.
You can see it in my starry eyes.

The shoes were red,
and stood at 7 inches high,
perfect to look sophisticated,
and to feel like she was touching the sky.

Everyone criticized her,
because they thought she wore them to get attention,
and co-workers would confront her,
to give her a ***** mention.

Only the people don't understand,
because she feels self conscious of her height,
and the heels are the only opportunity,
to make her feel alright.

              . . .

The shoes were brown,
covered with mud and dirt,
shoe laces tangled in a mess,
and didn't have any way to avert.

People overlooked him,
when he wanted something,
because they thought he didn't care,
but who are they to be judging!

The truth is,
in fact he did care,
but didn't have enough money,
to buy nice shoes to wear.

             . . .

The shoes were neon,
like the color of the sun,
they had bright shoes laces,
that he wears when he runs.

People thought they were ugly,
because they were off brand,
and they lacked the character,
that all the cool shoes had.

But really he was trying,
to just fit in,
but they would reject him,
every time he begins.

              . . .

Be kind,
for everyone is fighting a conflict,
that you know nothing about,
so don't judge nor depict.