-A Branch Above-

I fell down in a mad passion,
I wasn't shooting for the stars.
What I was, I forgot,
For I knew
To be free I had to pull apart.

My bittersweet love laid with the grass
And I on a branch above.
'What do we know of the world?'
I asked and asked,
When my love's last smile unfurled.

I fell down into another world,
I never wanted to reach the stars.
I finally let myself crumble in dirt,
Oh the joy!
I couldn't tell you if you asked.

The Box…by Jessie 9/06

I am here but not alert, as I walk in unison with five more
Stiff, ridged, eyes front
Rain drops fall and with each pelt, a ripple of consciousness
In my hand and in their hands, a box
In the box we carry hope and despair, past and present, fear and bravery
The weight is heavy; it is not because of the solidness of what is inside
It’s because of the responsibility and emotional heaviness it represents
Rain and tears blend together
Release the box, heavy still
Slowly lowered, time stands still
Words of little comfort spoken
Shots of startling respect, twenty-one in all
Feral the flag, a handful of dirt, cast into the beckoning hole
A hole in the ground, a hole in the heart
Say goodbye to the brother, the father, the husband and son
Freedom’s a heavy price to pay, paid in blood
Heavy yesterday, heavy tomorrow, heavy today

I am tied to God’s victorious chariot.
He rides into the World as our champion,
and I,
am a bondservant and son.

Some days I am carried along by His horses
and some days I run alongside.
Some days, I just want to stop.
“Oh God, how much longer must we live in this fallen world?”
“Until, ALL have heard of my name.”

So I stand up, brush off the dirt
wipe away the tears
and look ahead to see those who don’t know Him,
and the tears fall again.

i. I call on the wake of winter
to bring forth something fast
I can keep still no longer

ii. I wind my fingers
into the fabric of earth
tearing chunks out
to make a path to
where I need to go

iii. No cold nor dirt
will hold me back
as I make my way
faster than before
slower than I soon will

iv. I plant my feet
wiping soil-stained hands
onto the smooth cloth of my dress
I step forward
pulling my own roots free
I will hold myself back no longer

Deep within the dirt
I claw at the stars above
In need of their warmth
I graze their pulsating light
With cold, oaken fingertips

There is a person
   Who has feelings
      Who is troubled
         Who does not deserve to die

               There is a person
                  Who makes me sad
                      Who makes me mad
                          Who does not deserve to die



There is a person
Who I want to hurt
Who I want to put in the dirt
Who deserves to die

He reminds me of myself
He can never be me

“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the  de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.