I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.

Pete is lying on a beanbag
underneath a cover white

hears a rumble from below him
wakes up with an awful fright

then a hand comes by and slaps him
grabs his head and holds on tight

poor Pete's always getting beat on
almost every single night!


©2012 Lyn

Formation is delicate.
A ripe cranberry will bounce.
Past times regurgitate:
Swap a gallon for an ounce.
I'm too soft,
Too hard,
White boiling, then cold.
This beanbag will mold
To every shoulder I hold.
Put the black ball away in its drawer.
STOP
BREATH:
Draw, draw.
"STOP!"
"STOP!"
(More?)
I should listen before I pounce.

January 2011

So I guess the world is screaming that we need to end Racism and Offensive words and Labels, but what happens when a piece of writing from someone who is seeing the whole world screaming about one thing, but yet acting normal just after a few weeks of it hitting the social media and media outlets.

So I decided to write this including all the Racial and offensive terms that I could research and put them in a list, If we are to discuss and try and make things better, then why should we be scared to be called racist or evil for pin pointing stupidity out because everyone else whether upset, angry or hateful towards someone or a community, even a group and let see how many people lie about not using any offensive or racist term online or in person, even if you thought it and not even said it.

Cause thinking the offensive or racist term/word also makes you just as bad of a person that speaks the words.

"

A Fair amount of Research when into this, and it a good way of explaining,
How we all see each other and every single person on this planet.
This was written to prove that everything is offensive,
that no one is every in a situation that is similar, but in a situation where histories are different,
But yet, if you are offended by this, trust me, I bet you even use some offensive, racial terms and labels to describe someone you hate or don't like,
So what makes you different from me or the next person who is classed as offensive.

Labels, Stop,
Labels, Go ahead,
Labels, all the others,
Go ahead and write them,
Fabric, paper and on skin,
Just let the labels sink in.


All Races and Enthics Racial Terms that are Labels, Not only Blacks and White's.
You're Racist,
You're a Ngger,
You're a ******,
You're 8 Mile.
You're a Albino,
You're a Bean Dipper,
You're a Beach Ngger,
You're a Baijo.
You're a *****,
You're a Guati,
You're a Beanbag,
You're a Border N*gger,
Border Hopper,
You're a FOB,
You're an Curry Muncher,
You're a Desi,
You're a Dot/Dot Head,
Here Dotti,
We are at war with the Crunchies,
The Whacky jinglies,
You're an Irish Cat Licker,
Are you actually an F.B.I,
You're religious, you ***** Mackerel Snapper,
Look at all these Irish Indian Narrow Backs,

All Other Labels,
You're a puff,
You're a *****,
You're a ***,
You're a *****,
You're so Ratchet,
You're an illegal Alien,
Hey we both gay, but that no ****,
*****, **, ****,
You're Bisexual - that just straight privilege,
You're a ******,
He, She, Never mind you just look like cousin IT,
You're a ****, ****, Never mind I can see you're a *****,
You're stupid, thick, dumb,
Just a fat *** that just chubby and overweight,
******* hell, you're crazy, lost the plot,
You are ******* disturbed, bat **** crazy, Psychotic *******,
You're a bible thumper, that explains the homophobic ****,
You're a Fundie, God botherer,
Bible Basher, you know God is a child thrasher,
You're a *****,
You're small are you a ******,
You look like you're apart of DC/Marvel a ******* Mutant,
Eww what is wrong with your face are you a Mongol,
That just hysterical so you must be *******,
everyone is a ******* Imbecile.

For my Grandfather

Whenever I start to feel sad about the passing of my grandfather, I remind myself about how the ancient Egyptians had a beautiful belief about death.  When their souls got to the entrance to heaven, the guards asked two questions.  Their answers determined whether they were able to enter or not.  ‘Have you found joy in your life?’  'Has your life brought joy to others?’”

When I think of my grandfather, his life and how he affected everyone around him, I am consoled, because I know that he is in a better place now.

He was always a healthy man, and no one would have seen him falling sick and passing so quickly. It came as a shock to my family, because I don’t think we had enough time to tell him how much he meant in our lives. I have yet to grow up and do what a filial granddaughter should have done. But I guess, we were meant to lose people we love. Because how else would we know how important they are to us?

There are some things that I’ll really miss, those nights where he would come into my room, sit on the beanbag beside me and watch television shows with me.

The times where I am on my way home, and I see him riding his old and rusty bicycle and going to get the paper for my grandmother.

Or the times where we would have dinner together and he would always ask me about how my day was, and even how my friends were doing. Because that was the kind of man he was.

As I look back on the life of my grandfather, he was someone I looked up to. In his times, earning a living was difficult, but he managed to grow out of poverty, to provide an education for my father. It was not easy, but he never gave up. His love for my grandmother was unconditional, and they were married till his last day. Sometimes I would hear their petty squabbles, but my grandfather would always let her win. It was a beautiful thing to know that they have grown old together and lived a full life.

This is why I am sure that he went to heaven. He had so much love in his heart, and he shared it with everyone around him. My biggest regret is that, I loved him very much but I don’t ever remember telling him that.

In the end, it is the small things that you remember of people you love, and even when you lose someone you love, they never really leave you. They just move into a special place in your heart.

my voice is a window
that opens to my throat leading
behind my rubber band lungs
and into my humming, drumming,
beanbag heart

my voice is excitable
ringing out into my space
struggling to embrace the eardrums of my companions
and be heard for truth

my voice is a shapeshifter
that wants to make you laugh with it
not at it
and will go great lengths to
elicit that sound from the depths of you

my voice will step on your toes
and then apologize profusely
because my voice wants to be known
but also wants to know you back

my voice will hold your hand in the dark
cushion your heavy thoughts like a pillow
and sooth your worries like shea butter
on a cracked left palm

my voice is loud
like and 8 year old on a playground
explaining the rules of tag
to their rowdy best friends

my voice will make music with you
it will hesitate and it will overcompensate
but if you catch it on a note that isn't self aware
my voice will harmonize

my voice is mine
and it lives just outside of me
in the open
where I am no longer just electric thoughts
but where I am sounding

I can't stop thinking about him. I'm on a plane, 9,682 meters above the world, literally thousands of kilometers away from him, and I can't stop thinking about him. the funny noises he makes, and the way he hugs me tighter like he isn't going to let go, and the way when he sleeps, he pulls his hood over his eyes so the whole world is kept at bay. "*******," he said, waking up in the middle of the night. the melatonin stopped working because "my brain was like ******* and I woke up." "mm. why did it do that?" "cause you're here."
I miss the way he sticks his tongue out and his laugh and the way he says he's doing fantastic like it's his favorite word. I miss his hair and his tiny kisses and his nose and mouth against the back of my ear and his chest, so soft it should be a sin and that curve above his left shoulder, where I fit perfectly, he puts his arms around me and I feel like that's it, I'm home.
the others, see, the others were fire. they were exciting and a little dangerous and always a risk. a small flirtation with tiny deaths, a dance to draw in and push out, keeping me always on my guard and dancing, dancing. I came out of those bruised and exhilarated, high on something drugs can't buy, exhausted and hungering. they kept me red.
and he
he is my blue self. he's earth, a blanket, a warm bed. safe whimsy, when I've danced over the line to danger so often, a place to rest on the sidelines. instead of a burning fascination, he's a sudden, knowing wish.
I never saw those working out. when your fascination is fulfilled, where do you go? they were nice possibilities that got me through tough realities, but fire dies down and every dancer must tire. I can imagine it, though, this future, and I'm so much more cliché than I ever thought because oh man
I'm terrified
see, I'd only ever thought about him in passing, before two days ago. what if, my mind whispered. when I told him I'm not good enough for these things, I was softening my thoughts, the ones that always came after. I'm not- I can't stop thinking this, can't stop it from saddening me because I know- good enough for you. but I don't tell him this because he would tell me I'm wrong. no, he would say, this proves that you are. I almost said it, I whispered the softer version into his neck that night, half happier than I'd been in so long and half so heavy I was surprised I didn't sink through the beanbag into the floor, anchored in his arms. he wants me, and I? I want him and know he deserves more, deserves better and I'm having such a hard time convincing myself not to be selfish and go for it, grab his hand and run so far away there is no one else. or better yet, wrap myself in a fortress made of his arms and let him hold me to sleep.
how did I get into this? how did I let this happen? how did I not know, not notice I love (****. ****. what have I done?) love him until only two days ago?
those three hours between when I realized and when he told me he wants it, too, were the hardest thing I've done in so long. exquisite pain, lying there next to him, terrified out of my mind of loving yet another friend to ruin. I'm still scared.
but god, I would give so much, up here on this airplane, I would give up hours and days, I would give up minutes and memories, I would give up wokenness and sleep, again, just to be back in his arms.

Gazing out the window, it’s beautiful outside, letting my mind wandering into the distance daydreaming about the endless possibilities. Then someone slams a ruler on my desk that caught me by surprised I nearly jump out of my chair startled. It was the teacher glaring down at me spitefully.
“Eyes up here, Grace! You need to pay attention!” said the teacher. “Didn’t you hear me? Open your text book to page 300 and keep up!” My classmates started to giggle then the teacher walked back to the front of the classroom, chalk in hand and began to write on the chalkboard, letters that I couldn’t quite make out. The teachers words start to muffle as I try and locate my binder and pencil for notes but then I hear the teacher call my name “Grace” and I look up with fear in my eye hoping she did not just call on me to answer her question.
“Grace could you please come to the front and spell the word ‘BECAUSE’ on the board?” I knew this word but I don’t remember how to spell it. I really hate going to the front of the class because I always make a mistake. I slowly get up from my desk, my hands start to sweat, and the room goes silent as I walked, with my shoes squeaking on the tile floor louder than usual, up to the teacher. I take the chalk from the teacher’s hand. As I begin to write I freeze.
Paralyzed with fear I ask the teacher “I’m sorry, can you repeat the word that you wants me to spell?”
The teacher scoffed at me and even louder said, “The word is, ‘BECAUSE’!” I nodded my head trying to remember but my mind was blank, I remember using my markers to trace out the letters of each word but this one was particularly hard to remember. I started to write B…E…K…then I’m stuck, I start to panic and I write the remaining letters that sounded right A…Z. then I immediately place the chalk down on the teacher’s desk and walk as fast as I could back to my desk. The students all start to roar in laughter, as they know I made a mistake. I look on the board and it reads ‘BEKAZ’ I know its wrong but I don’t have the answer to change it.
The teacher, unamused by the students stares at the chalk board then turns and looks straight at me as says “Grace, you will not go outside for recess instead, you will sit in the beanbag and read, if I see you slacking off, you will be tracing out your letters for the spelling test that is this Friday.” After her remark the bell rang and it was time for lunch.

The after effect
of those deep inhalations
was as if time stopped.
I stepped out
from the lava lamp light
& into the brilliance of the kitchen
to fix myself a chicken salad sandwich.

I had never noticed the green tile in there before,
it accentuated the granite countertop,
brought out the grain on the door,
made the place look tranquil.

When I got back
to my beanbag chair,
I was sandwich-less
& wondered if I had actually
eaten one or had just
dreamt about it.

Then I noticed the lava lamp
was in full eruption,
it made my skin
look like the surface of the sun,
the walls look like hellfire,
and my sweetheart
a hot goddess.

When I awoke the next morning,
I knew I must of had some fun,
my stash was gone,
the *** bottle was empty
& my babe was asleep
buck naked,
wrapped up tight
right next to me,
which no joke,
meant I had toked up a storm, probably got drunk
& said **** Don Juan things.

Well you see,
she doesn't smoke or drink,
why else would
she have stayed with me?!

the odd sockery
do but mock me
as the lego bits
grind the bones
of my heels
faintly i smell
old orange peel

toys, stuffed pell mell
into ye old treasure chest
the piece of three weeks old pizza
you ain't ever gonna unring that bell

favorite teddy at rest on window sill
looking far from his best
and in his snake-arium, lies bill
the blue tongued lizard lazy and still
on the shelf beside, the books
of the boy wizard,
the one with the glasses

the bed barely passes
the status of made
and in the nooks
his father created
all sorts of findings
and keepings and
thingamabobs are laid

bless, in the corner a beanbag, sags
with the weight of my world
and his book bag, all snuggled up
with the tuxedo cat, whose motor purrs
like a harley cruising on by

the room a catastrophe,  in it's early stages
but  at the sight of them my ire disengages
and i stop still and thank the stars in heaven
that these two are mine, that they are happy
and safe and incredibly fine

sunday afternoon in the burbs
somewhat, wonderfully sublime

sometimes a memory
will envelop me
a memory
i forgot existed

like laying on a beanbag
as you stroked the hairs
that escaped my braid
while monsters inc played
in the background

and as the world
passes outside the window
my heart recalls that feeling
that feeling of falling in love

when your smile fades my
heart drops just as your cheek bones do
and everyone's enthusiasm does
when your eyes sadden
my euphoria hides just as your
eagerness to welcome me does
just as an afraid bear cub does to a wrath swallowing winter  
when your smile fades
i cry in the corner and whip my self as if indiana jones did
shatter my crystal skull
granulize the pieces like the extinguishment of a burnt cigarette
my scars never fade
when your tears run
i run towards you to comfort you as beanbag chairs do
to channel flipping tv junkies
when your smile fades i will always love you
when your smile fades a part of me vaporizes
when your smile fades a part of mine grows
when your smile fades
i hope you know what it's like to be tortured
hurt and whipped
my scars upon my face just as the joker entertains
ensures my
smile never
fades
my darling *****

has had me up these past few nights
tossing like a beanbag thrown into the numbered holes
putting on the lights, wetting my face
with a cold washcloth, scratching my hives
making pockmarks
as the liquor wears off
worrying and excited about seeing you
frightful as when I look in the mirror
after this dreaded night is through
having nightmares of black creatures and
the old homestead up in flames again
restless as a meatball that can’t stay on the plate
cooked up short and half-baked

two floors below me
someone's turning seven

to the sounds of beanbag slaps,
updates on cousins,
spanish singalongs,
and a dog stealing cake.

i freeze myself in flyby squealing.

i cough into my elbow.
my coffee grows cold,
afraid that if i'm here too much
it may just float away.