Today,
a somber sunday
the streets flooded with
rain and ***** drainage water.
this town
has seen so many deaths--
men shot in the head,
the hopes and dreams of little
girls concluded far
too soon and the constant buzz
in my head that softly whispers
sad songs on loop.
i have tried
pretending that i don't hear it
just like how women become
temporarily deaf when some excited boy
catcalls them but
it wouldn't stop
so i taught myself how to
laugh and dance to the cheerless
melodies while grabbing death's
clammy hands,
kissing him on the lips
and whispering back,
not today,
*not today

22 | 31 Poems for August 2016

I’ve been looking all over for you, so tell me where have you been?
You can’t seem to remember how you got to loving me the way you do.
I wrote this at around 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning while thinking about you.
You will always be my favourite love poem, written on the sands of time.
Now that I’ve finally found you, I never want to write our breakup poem.
I didn’t know how good love felt until the day you began to love me the way you have.
Sometimes my communication skills are as bad as my handwriting is.
But my kisses are as good as my intentions, so you can go ahead and rub your smile onto my lips.
You have become the poems and stories woven in the veins of my loving heart.
You are the reason why I remained whole while my world was falling apart.
I’ve been looking all over for you and I’m glad that I’ve finally found you.
My hands were writing about love long before I knew what poetry was.
But I didn’t know what love was until the day you began to love me.
I’m banking on you to not withdraw from the love we have both invested in.
Even though the world may read the pages of my heart, my poetry will always belong to you.
Now that I’ve finally found you, promise me that you’ll never let me go.

Neck bent a little far to the right
Impressions of sheets in skin wrapped too tightly around willing wrists
Makeshift bandages for cuts that have closed but still bleed.
You must be out for coffee
Or on a call that couldn't wait
But Sunday's are for rain and dreams you can't quite remember
And secrets tucked in a leg bent at the knee.
I can't tell the difference between lust and love making anymore though I'd like to still believe in the latter.
You return and I lose myself in the corner of your eye and I hang myself there on those lines
Allowing myself to kiss you there just once for fear of becoming too entangled
A sweet suicide that'd be
Gasping for air
Lost in your laughter

i've been
showering on
sunday mornings
at ten thirty

(for my whole
life i've always
showered on
saturday nights)

but it kind of
helps to dim this
morose veil of
rainy silence

(it doesn't
actually
but i convince
myself that it does)

and i'm kind of
hoping that
sunday showers will
bring monday flowers

but i've seen a
saturday storm or two
and i know what a
friday flood looks like

tuesday torrents aren't so bad
after all and a thursday
thunderstorm is about the
same as a wednesday watered-down

but a sunday shower?
i've never seen a
monday flower
come from a hurricane.

the air was thick and heavy
the sun was heating up the sky
And somewhere in the jungle
more men were gonna die

The streets were full of people
Feral dogs were running free
The haze was thick and murky
The sun you couldn't see

It's a Saigon Sunday Morning
Ten more men were going home
To  a flag tri-corner folded
And a marker of white stone

The men were all assembled
To load them up with care
It was a Saigon Sunday Morning
with ten men no longer there

The jungle was a minefield
The trees were blocking out the light
It was ***** trapped like crazy
And it seemed like it was night

A patrol went hunting "Charlie"
But, they were found out first
It only took twelve seconds
And it turned out for the worst

The city never noticed
The 'copters flying overhead
Whether bringing in supplies
Or taking out the dead

It was a Saigon Sunday Morning
It never changed one little bit
The air was always heavy
And the alleys smelled like ****

Back home the news delivered
The families destroyed
They were waiting for their loved ones
A short time were deployed

Ribbons tied around the Oak Tree
to support those coming back
On a Saigon Sunday Morning
With twenty bullets in their back

A transport with the bodies
Drops fifty more to play the game
It's a vicious, endless, circle
The procedure's all the same

It's a Saigon Sunday Morning
Ten more men were going home
To a flag tri-corner folded
And a marker of white stone

Nothing
Has changed.

They're preaching from
The same pulpit
Every Sunday morning
And I'm wearing this same
Pasted on piety like it's not
A grimy dress.

We're all talking and talking
About change.

And I've got a shiny
New haircut, the
Picture of change
Yet I'm still staring out
That same
**** window.

NOTHING HAS
CHANGED.

LITERALLY NOTHING
HAS CHANGED.

I'm pretty...
Pretty what?
Not PRETTY
I'm just
Pretty
******.

NOTHING
Has changed.

So how am I
Not the same?

Thank you for preachers
and Sunday school teachers
for childhood friends
and for youth leaders

for Christian Endeavour
and Boys Brigade
for holiday club
and weekends away

for memory verses,
for hymns and for choruses
Thank you for songs
that set out your stories

Thank you for pastors
showing compassion
Thanks for memories
that still give direction

Thank you for roots
secured in your Word
I rely on them still
to provide daily food.

Thank you Lord Jesus
for building in me
a strong foundation
that helps me stay free.