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LC Apr 10
They reached behind my sternum,
wrapped their hands around my heart,
and attempted to strangle it.
I pried their aching hands away,
and I tore my bleeding heart in half.
One half shaped itself into bread,
and the other half fermented into wine.
My eyelids slowly came together
as I let the holy water wash over me.
My words consecrate the communion,
and I bless it for people to consume
so we remember that we're not alone.
Escapril Day 9! The prompt was "we're not alone," and I thought about communion, which is what Christians consume every week. It is considered the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ.
My family is Christian, and I am questioning the beliefs I have been raised with. Some life events and growth have led me to think differently, and I want to be skeptical in a healthy way. Faith has been on my mind due to these reasons. I also do not intend to mock Christianity; I was inspired by the religion to write this poem.
I believe writing and sharing helps us remember we're not alone. I truly hope my poems help in that way for everyone who reads them 💗
pale sickness
you're white as a sheet

draining illness
your clammy white skin
rots

deathly light
the diseased white sun will bleach your bones
after the doves pick them clean

sickly white
your cracked teeth clatter out of your skull
dominos in a dead white jar


trembling hands the color of spoiling milk
carefully cradle an almost translucent infant
mother and child
both far too weak to feed

the only thing that grows here is decay
white mold thrives on your hoarded white bread
while outside the safety of the white picket fence
there is not a single soul who does not
recognize the white of an unburied skeleton
under a full moon
Revelations 6:8-And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to **** with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.
In the battleground...
He battles to win a bread,
For his loving child'...!
Battleground refers to the struggles of life...
Hussein Dekmak Dec 2021
Everything draws me to you:
The pulse of a new dawn,
The laughter of the sun,
The aroma of baked bread,
The song of a bird,
The fragrance of a flower,
The magnificent beauty of nature,
The miracle of a baby's birth,
The whisper of hope and humanity.

Everywhere I gaze, I see your beautiful face.
Anywhere I go, I feel the touch of your love.
You are the compass of the hearts
And the Infinite light of the whole universe!

Hussein Dekmak
Kassan Jahmal Dec 2021
I imagine the witty hooks
of young ones in love.

He tells her, "aren't you a strawberry
looking like a cherry on top!"


"We're in this jam together,
light of my eye my Sunjam."

And how with a loaf of words,
he'd end with,

"I'll let nothing get in between us;
but be between two slices of bread."

                                              Turning cheeks red and sweet.
Davina E Solomon Sep 2021
The dough is molten at oven spring,
like a prayer to the historicity of things ..

Have we not imagined yesterdays
in the ritual of bread ? While our pasts

lay embezzled, on the tongues of men, the
sentiment of centuries colluded in germ,

echoing through heirloom remembrances
those floury philosophies of change.

While I stretch dough to gaze past
a windowpane, as far back as Khorasan ..

they were other names then, another
elasticity in time. Faith is a memory

of settled people in lands of milk and
honey, where every drought, every flood

spawns a new religion .. and the wheat,
always begs the same old question:

Are we there yet, in the fertile crescent
of opportunity ? The grains haven't changed

in their stolid countenance - long, subtle,
germy, cosseted. In the granaries of kings ..

they are willed by royal decree, never to die
in an eternal future and like humankind,

who score bread in the cuneiform of hearts,
grain is always thirsting to seed the land.
http://davinasolomon.org/2021/09/19/incandescent-bread/
Man May 2021
the big easy
is hard lives,
what gives

this rainy city
so sublime,
it's almost a pity

that streets are lined with ****
pests and rats in the alleyways
how did things get so ******

or have they always been?

overpasses with people
lying underneath

so many homeless
it staggers the mind to think

bread bags and coffees
floating in the wake of the ferries

outnumbering 10 to 1
the loads that they carry

all the old growth
coming down

all the gold of their headpieces
tinfoil hats fashioned from crowns

no jazz or blues can save them
from the fate that waits

an engraving reading,
here lies what once was a haven
The corners singed
Smoke rising
It was on too long
So not surprising
Next time I won't read:
The email, the text, or the
Instagram message.
Tomorrow I'll forget
I'll flick the switch
And my mind will drift
Like a balloon sailing out to sea
And once again burnt toast
Will be waiting for me
©️ 2021 Joshua Reece Wylie. All rights reserved.

I burnt the toast again tonight. Good thing. A poem came of it.
Winnalynn Wood Apr 2021
My dear friend please show me
How to act like I know these

Bumbling facades running this place
They’re all fakes that take up the space

Stuck in a whirling fantasy of power and fame
Tucked in a twirling travesty of towers of blame  

That they could never take for themselves
Lingering at the top takes a lot of help

They have gluttonous accounts, that makes all the headlines  
Without the money around it’d be an endless breadline
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