uoy ot gnis I
seuh derettahs fo yballul a
htrow dna ytilaudividni fo snoitcarfer

kni gniyrc neeb ev'uoy
em revo lla deraems
ynnuf s'ti, das os gnikool


                           
I sing to you
a lullaby of shattered hues
refractions of individuality and worth

you've been crying ink
smeared all over me
looking so sad, it's funny

'sit scriptor aspiret invicem'

       Should we?
              we already are.
                     Each other we paint;
                                  "blood from thee."

uoy ot gnis I
seuh derettahs fo yballul a
htrow dna ytilaudividni fo snoitcarfer

kni gniyrc neeb ev'uoy
em revo lla deraems
ynnuf s'ti, das os gnikool

mecivni teripsa rotpircs tis

                            ?ew dluohS
                 ;era ydaerla ew
          tniap ew rehto hcaE
eeht morf doolb

The peaceful air is

banged black and blue by the storm –


out of the country.

Do you sense it?
The little men
are mixing up a stew again
They are chopping their children
And grinding all the toys
Breaking the women and
Breaking them on
They will peel colours off the swings
And shred them to debris

Do you sense the moons all hiding
Covering up their silver eyes
And the night is angry
It roars and stomps—
A drunken frenzy; it fights
Its own decayed, black being

Oh, Palestine
You and your fidgeting hands
Fingers fight fingers
And skins are ripped
fingers fight fingers still—
There goes the ballad you never sang
There goes the ballad
You sang all around
There go the plastic dolls
Chaste slingshots, fruits never shot down

Oh, Palestine
You and the lightning
Stumbling through the clouds
You, your tumbling birds—There goes the wind
Mourning a violence unmourned
There goes the silence
There goes the noise
There, all the paintings
Eulogies etched in whispers unfathomed
And there go the stones
Cold and blank

All plunging within the gaping mix
As the *** sits quiet
Upon a fire
Birthed from their own white bones
The little men
are cooking up a stew again
Sprinkled with gold, with ashen stars
It boils and burps
A viscous storm
Never to come
As the *** sits quiet all night long

Oh Palestine,
You, your lovers
Lovers and the rest—
When in the morning
The flames are tired, and bones
Bones no more
The stew will still be stirring
With winds raging on
And no one will be left
No one will be left

With winds raging on
No one will be left

Oh Palestine
Where did the little men go so wrong—

Living demons

I read you
over
and over
and over
again
I read you so violently
.....so vividly
You are viscous
Vile
Venomous

Raging red mist
Clouds my vision
Your viscidity allures my fury

....and I would **** you

....I would not stop

Fingertips of razor blades
Knuckles to the bone
Spitting tears
Mouth foaming
Veins protruding with every single
Stab

.....And I would **** you

......I would not stop

Infiltrated by evil
Life for a life
Death hath no fury for what I will commit
......I'm already dead

......And I would **** you

.......I would not stop

And after....,
I would light up a smoke
And finally breathe from the heart you broke.....

I killed you .....

And I did not stop....

t/w: violence, death

-

dear little miss dreamer
i'm sorry i couldn't write to you sooner
but yesterday night, i've read all three
each and every one of your letters

your mother sounds lovely
a brave woman, from what you've told me
if your brother comes by downtown
tell him, he's welcome to visit me

you have some big dreams
and i hope i can help them come true
i'm sorry i've been so busy
but i would truly love to meet you

you remind me of my wife
of her dreams when she was your age
we grew up together in center city
like you, she was wise beyond her days

i agree, we need to help kensington
and we've begun taking some small steps
i'm pushing for a new bill to pass
but it'll still take some time to prep

i know you mentioned drugs and violence
and yes, i agree, it's completely true
please stay safe and stay inside
it could help protect you

actually, that just reminded me about kensington
my wife had told me some shocking news
a mother chased to her kitchen counter
a little girl, shot, in the same view

i think she was writing a letter, too
but i don't quite remember who exactly to
it was titled, i think, "dear mister life-changer"
wait, it couldn't be— no, God, please, not you—

please note: t/w: violence

-

dear mister life-changer
how have you been?
i know you never answer
but i wanted to try again

introducing myself for the fourth time
i'm a small girl with big dreams
my dad walked out when i was real young
my mum hopes i'll have an easier living

i'm in kensington, philly
it's not a nice place to grow up
with drugs, gangs, and guns
my older brother once even got mugged

i'm writing from my little closet
my mum said it's for me to be safe
but i hate being alone in this place
it's such a small, empty space

a couple of gunshots outside
it's like this every other night
brother's not home right now
but i sure hope that he's alright

there's a clicking noise
it doesn't sound very nice
i hear footsteps down the hall
they're not mum's, they're too light

mister life-changer, i think that might be my brother
he told me you could make things right
but why don't you ever write back to me?
why don't you ever reply?

i want to tell you my dreams
i heard you can make them come true
just give me one chance, sir
it's worth it, i'll show you

i dream of a big wide world
where i can walk outside and not be afraid
a world big enough for every little brown girl
to skip down sidewalks and enjoy the day

i hope to move to the suburbs
buy a big house for mum one day
buy her leather bags and pretty dresses
and not a single cent she'll have to pay

-

dear mister life-changer
i'm sorry there's blood on this paper
mum's bleeding out in the kitchen
someone shot her at the counter

mister life-changer
they told me to wait
i called the life-savers
they said, just wait

i don't know what to do
so now i'm back to writing to you
will you ever make a change?
will you tell me to wait, t—

Sometimes it just strikes you in the gut,
A flash of a face smiling
Then dashed, red, fear –
An intrusive thought, a grief paralysis
At breakfast, in line at the store, waiting for that phone call
When he took just a little too long coming home,
When you send her on the bus,
When they kneel down for one moment of prayer.  

Maybe you never see it you just feel it
Maybe one hundred and fifty times a year,
Maybe twenty-six times a day,
diffuse, like an throb radiating outwards,
like a ghost,
like a seven-year heartache.

Maybe you stopped feeling it, you just see it
In black and white
In colors that you know matter, but you
Choke on your own descriptions (what a privilege!),
And the world chokes on the words that would
Shake you up and wake you.  
When you were given the right to bear something
it wasn't to bear witness to a waking nightmare.
But if you’re sleeping with earplugs
You’re never going to open your eyes.

Crayons and colored pencils,
spilling waxen graphite blood
in collective pigment wars.
The box they fight in,
reaching a point of ruination
from the river shed within.

James E. Roethlein ©2021