"kimberly" poems
Hindi baga nakapagtataka
Ang mga salitang sinambit ni Eba
Nang kainin ni Adan
ang tanda ng kasalanan?
Hindi baga nakapagtataka
Ang mga salitang sinambit ni Adan
Nang una niyang nasilayan
ang ganda ni Eba
Na hinugot mula sa kanyang tadyang?
Hindi baga nakapagtataka
Sa kung paanong sa pag-ikot ng mundo
Ni minsan hindi nagtagpo ang araw at buwan?
Hindi baga nakapagtataka
Na sa dinami-dami ng tao sa mundo
Na sa paglipas ng dapit-hapon
At pagsikat ng araw
Natagpuan kita-
Sa isang araw na hindi inaasahan
Nakita
Nakilala
Nakasama
Hindi baga nakapagtataka
Sa kung papaanong ang bawat kaluluwa
Ay nagkakadaupang-palad
Ay nakakahanap
Ng mga kaluluwang mapagkakanlungan
Sa pag-ikot ng mundo
Sa paglipas ng panahon
Tulad ng atin-
Hindi ikaw yung ordinaryong babae
Sapagkat ang pagsabi sa babae ng ordinaryo
Ay parang pagmura sa isang santo
Sa iyong mga mata nakasillid
Ang isa pang babaeng
Nais kumawala
sa mundong kanyang kinagagalawan
Kimberly-
Pangalan mo’y hindi sayo lamang kumakanlong
Marami kang katulad
Pero ang pinagkaiba
Ikaw ay ikaw-
Sa kung paanong ang pangalan mo
Ay bumalot sa iyong katauhan
Sa kabutihan maging sa kasamaan
Isang babaeng naghahanap ng kasagutan
Sa mundo ng mga tanong
Na tila ba ang mga sagot ay hindi maapuhap
Na tila ba lahat ng ito’y
Nagtatago sa mata ng bawat isa
Na ang pagtitig sa mga ito’y hindi sapat upang matanto
Ang katotohanan na bumabalot sa atin
Sa iyong katauhan ay may nakabalot na sikreto
Isang misteryo na hindi ko kailan man malalaman
Ngunit kahit gaano man kadilim o kaliwanag
Hindi nito madadaig ang misteryo
Sa kung papaanong tayo’y nagkakilala
Sa isang panahon na pangkaraniwan lamang
Dalawang dekada-
Ang buhay mo sa mundo
Sa dalawampung taong paglipas
Maraming taong dumating
At marami ring umaalis
Binalot ng lungkot
Yinakap din ng saya
Ang iyong pagdating
Sa mundo ng kabagabagan
Pasalamat na lamang
Na sa paglipas ng lahat ng ito
Kaluluwa mo’y dagling naapuhap
Na parang liwananag sa kandilang papaupos
Maligayang Kaarawan, Mahal kong Kaibigan
R. L. Alcantara
Enero 28, 2015
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
From 3 p.m. Monday to 3 p.m. Tuesday
<h2>Police calls
<h3>LA CROSSE
3:39 p.m., Hit-and-run, 4400 block of Hwy. 16
4:11 p.m., Theft, 3700 block of Hwy. 16
4:41 p.m., Hit-and-run, 1100 block of State St.
5:37 p.m., Domestic disturbance, 1000 block of Charles St.
5:42 p.m., Theft, 2100 block of Liberty St.
5:59 p.m., Fight, Fourth and King sts.
8:08 p.m., Theft, 2400 block of Rose St.
8:08 p.m., Domestic disturbance, 400 block of Sixth St.
8:37 p.m., Domestic disturbance, 1000 block of Fifth Ave. S.
10:14 p.m., Domestic disturbance, 1600 block of Adams St.
11:32 p.m., Domestic disturbance, 1400 block of Avon St.
2:38 a.m., Domestic disturbance, 900 block of 16th St.
8:25 a.m., Theft, 3300 block of Rosehill Place
8:25 a.m., Theft, 1000 block of Ninth St.
8:26 a.m., Theft, 500 block of Main St.
8:26 a.m., Theft, 1400 block of Johnson St.
8:34 a.m., Theft, 400 block of Seventh St.
9:24 a.m., Entry to dwelling, 1600 block of Caledonia St.
9:51 a.m., Theft, 400 block of Liberty St.
11:01 a.m., Fraud, first block of Copeland Ave.
12:16 p.m., Entry to dwelling, 1000 block of State St.
<h3>ONALASKA
6:06 p.m., Animal bite, 2600 block of Midwest Drive
<h3>WEST SALEM
7:40 a.m., Vandalism, 3400 block of Hwy. 16
12:13 p.m., Theft, 900 block of Hwy. 16
<h3>BANGOR
9:24 a.m., Theft, 1800 block of Commercial St.
<h2>Fire Calls
<h3>LA CROSSE
3:01 p.m., Accident with injury, Fourth and Mississippi sts.
4:11 p.m., Accident with injury, 4500 block of Hwy. 33
4:26 p.m., Accident with injury, Hwy. 16 and 157
5:45 p.m., First responders, 700 block of Oakland St.
6:18 p.m., First responders, 1800 block of Pine St.
6:40 p.m., Accident with injury, Main and Fourth sts.
9:27 p.m., Natural gas odor, 700 block of Ninth St. N.
10:16 p.m., First responders, 1600 block of Adams St.
10:20 p.m., First responders, 900 block of Vine St.
1:54 a.m., First responders, 4100 block of Velmar Court
8:34 a.m., First responders, 400 block of Seventh St.
9:01 a.m., First responders, 400 block of Seventh St.
10:41 a.m., Accident with injury, Ninth and Vine sts.
10:45 a.m., Carbon monoxide report, 1500 block of Main St.
10:46 a.m., First responders, 400 block of Gillette St.
11:04 a.m., Accident with injury, 1300 block of Rose St.
11:10 a.m., First responders, 1500 block of Rose St.
11:14 a.m., First responders, Fourth and King sts.
11:31 a.m., Accident with injury, 16th and Main sts.
12:05 p.m., Accident with injury, 200 block of Pearl St.
1:12 p.m., Accident with injury, Hood and Miller sts.
2:26 p.m., Accident with injury, 21st St. and Park Ave.
<h3>ONALASKA
3:30 p.m., First responders, 1000 block of Westview Circle
5:09 p.m., Accident with injury, 1200 block of Hwy PH
8:02 p.m., First responders, 300 block of 12th Ave.
8:43 p.m., First responders, 300 block of 12th Ave.
8:50 p.m., First responders, 200 block of Oak Forest Drive
9:47 p.m., First responders, 200 block of Carol Lane
6:12 a.m., First responders, 1000 block of Frances Court
10:41 a.m., First responders, 7200 Northshore Lane
11:27 a.m., Accident with injury, Grant St. and Hwy. SN
11:35 a.m., Accident with injury, Commerce and Abbey roads
11:53 a.m., Accident with injury, 300 block of 11th Ave.
12:14 p.m., First responders, 5500 block of Commerce Road
1:08 p.m., First responders, 400 block of Kimberly St.
1:42 p.m., Accident with injury, 600 block of Second Ave.
<h3>HOLMEN
9:59 p.m., First responders, 1500 block of Viking Ave.
10:50 a.m., Accident with injury, Sand Lake Road and Laurel Place
1:32 p.m., Accident with injury, 1400 block of Main St.
<h3>WEST SALEM
8:53 a.m., First responders, 500 block of Elm St.
11:09 a.m., First responders, 300 block of Franklin St.
<h3>MELROSE
1:21 p.m., First responders, 9700 block of Hwy. 108
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
I can never compensate for the poems I have misplaced,
Yet I proceed to shed sincere ink upon an empty canvas,
and revert towards elusive answers.
I once again resort to the preferred instrument,
And stumble into a liberating trance.
However, genuine introspection often
Unearths wretched recurring recollections,
That have served as the creative source
For previous poetry collections,
Some of which cannot be read
Without a deep sense of dread,
Hence I flinch from acknowledgment instead.
How disoriented am I?
As disoriented as 20 year old Kimberly
Her derelict of a son is an embodiment
Of her youth blues memories.
How aimless it must be to venture
Amidst the sanctum of stagnation.
It was not long before even the architect
Began to disdain his own laborious creation.
Why wouldn't he?
He was a fool to build
A foundation out of complacency.
The structure is able to endure
Since it thrives off of a perpetual tragedy
Of self-defeating beliefs, lascivious senses,
And misguided aspirations.
Unfortunately, whoever it houses
Collapses out of utter exasperation.
An inevitable predicament I predict
Will confront me as soon as I deteriorate mentally.
The sanctum itself testifies to an aphorism
I recount hearing during a melancholic plight:
Truthfully, throughout the ages,
Fallibility has always been
Among humanity's playwrights.
6/18/13
(c) 2013 Brandon Antonio Smith
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
The streets are tattooed with potholes and the sidewalks are covered in broken glasses.
Our bodies are demolished and stripped off from all integrity and decency.
The road to having crisp air, diluted wars and unpolluted humanity is foggy. It fights off all good fortune like a new born baby counting his seconds on earth.
We belong to the categorised society, the one that's heart beats with sorrow and skin is impregnated with melanin.
The nation is an equation, divided, torn apart like an old cloth with stains of dried up blood.
It's ******* are dry , wrinkly and contaminated .The painful strokes on our backs are escalating. They walk towards our chests ,ooze in blood and opens themselves up to beg for mercy.
Mothers with squirming innocence on their backs. Their home is built of threats and poverty . It holds on for dear life during the winter and breathes relief during the summer.
The children's appearances are misleading. They are all bony. Their eyes are tucked in deep into their skulls like the home of a porcupine. Turning nothing but a blind eye to the inequality and pain that they hAve to endure.
Fathers partake on a journey to seek for the daily bread. They embark on the beast of Hope. He breathes steam and his skin is coated with the color of the sun set. His feet are inclined to the railway.
It bends and runs to a place of hope. A place where the only purpose a male child lives for in our country.
The tools are weeping and begging for a taste of water.
Their skins are suffocating. And howl for a glimpse of fresh air.
But rest is a luxury that the tools rarely taste.
A luxury men wish for day and night.. under the red acres of the sun and when the skies weeps sympathy for it's fellow brothers.
We are entitled to the misfortune and great grief. Poverty is our clan name. It walks with us daily , under our feet that's embroidered with blisters and broken heels. Cuts as deep as the Kimberly hole .
We are the black endangered mammals with nothing but equality to fight for.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
I remember
when growing up
was desired.
We swung our lungs
upwards,
towards the sky,
so we could steal
the air of the
universe's river.
I'd call you on
my parents' red landline.
You'd call me on
a broken cordless phone.
Your father would yell
and I could hear your mother
knock over things
as she was either
running, hiding, or
fighting back.
You don't exist.
You're a figment of my
imagination.
You're a poem,
but I want you to be
a memory that is real
to substitute the ones
I wish were fake.
You don't exist.
Your name is not
Kimberly or June.
Your ears aren't pierced.
We never played games
or shared deep thoughts.
We never talked about
running the **** away.
We didn't grow up together.
We aren't close.
You were never born.
You are just a phantom
stemmed by an unoriginal
imagination. imagination.
imagination. imagination.
But I want you to be real.
Please exist beyond my mind.
In my head,
you confided in me.
In my head,
I wasn't so ******* alone
from ages 6 to 16.
In my head,
you're a phone call away.
I don't want to write a poem
to communicate to you.
Be born. Be born. Be born.
I have so much
I want to share.
I want you to meet
my girlfriend Rachel.
I want you to hear
about how everything
is going well, for once.
Be born. Be born.
Be born. Be born.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
chalk candies
all printed thereon
different names for the same thing:
a cry for help.
all different colors,
different lies,
but all leave that
disgusting aftertaste you get from candy hearts,
which is precisely why they're not a staple of my diet.
they're good for throwing away in puddles.
there goes one for emily stein.
there goes one for denira queen.
there goes one for jilian quandison.
one by one, letting go of memories.
there goes one for spirit newberry.
there goes one for krystin bullard.
there goes one for tandra wood.
one by one, loosing old ties.
there goes lucy, and grace, and sarah,
long gone.
the box is almost empty.
here's one for kimberly rhodes,
the one i should have held on to.
here's a deformed one for nicole watson,
and a few for the rest of my detritivores.
here's one for anne folderol,
truly folderol,
and a few for the others i could save from low grade lowlifes.
here's one for lisa noble,
two years older.
and at last, one for candice coyle,
out of reach.
i'll keep the box.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
this canvas
watercolor memories
diluted dreams
washed away
with the tears.
careless strokes
of misused brushes
smudged the palette
on the linen
of our history.
old photographs
polaroid moments
stuck in time
where darkness
won't fade to light.
shake us up
but it's way too late.
frozen smiles
of strangers
won't change our fate.
Unpublished work © 2010 Kimberly Rae Albright
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 9:40 AM UTC
.
Kimberly Alynn.
born too late, still
after only one breath too soon
the end of May 31, 1986.
I had been the only one who knew when you stirred
when you felt/heard Beethoven and Vivaldi.
I sensed you yearning for harmony,
our futures uncertain in that maternity home,
but could offer you only me.
The world told me I had nothing to give
not good enough, choose adoption
So I entrusted my treasure to a lifeboat without me.
.
But maybe you were here for us;
because the music of the Heavens pulled you back.
Gone, but not yet born.
The clock stopped,
and the minutes would not relent the suffering.
A time of hope, vanished...
a hope of beauty, soundless
and still, Memorial Day
is would-have-been 5, 16, 27 years old.
Your life I carried, your future was my young life.
now always without you in this incomplete world
where I am your broken heart
and you are my empty arms.
.
I am not allowed to say it wasn't-supposed-to-be-this-way
since I don't know what you knew
and your future was only my dream.
.
This one night returns every year
and this house becomes too small.
I ride my motorcycle just to ride,
leaning through the curves up the mountain,
if I could only keep going
the midnight road pure black.
until hands too cold, I stop.
Silence punctuated by the cooling engine, it gently
tinks
and I breathe in sacred cool air.
.
The Big Dipper spills colorful twinkling gems across the valley below.
The mountain curves away above my shoulder,
her massive peak leaning back fascinated only toward heaven's brilliance,
the infinite distance palpable, tangible.
The Milky Way tipped sideways,
starlight pours down, eternally washing over.
Or am I spinning sideways on this small planet
in vertigo of re-awakened grief.
Galaxies so numerous I count them rise,
sparkling as they appear.
Even the mountain is so tiny, telling me,
see? we are so tiny...
.
pure volcanic rocks, road, and I are bathed in soft light
yet in still perfect cold dark solitude.
Only the road's straight white lines glow.
my road,
yearns up in reflection...
Tonight I give you memory,
all that I have to give.
My baby girl, you are not forgotten.
A small wind finds my hands,
and my cheek, with its one tear.
.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
oh heavy heart
painfilled
I’m drowning
in the emptiness
of my lonely despair.
oh heavy heart
breathless
I’m suffocating
with the sounds
of my mournful sighs.
oh heavy heart
oppressed
I’ve collapsed
under the weight
of my desperate thoughts.
oh heavy heart
my heavy heart
Unpublished work © 2010 Kimberly Rae Albright
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 6:11 AM UTC
Two kids, one dream
a sign in an empty street
imagine sunlight, two girls laughing
a camera on a stand
two kids, embraced
digging through boxes
like old memories wrapped in a cloth of nostalgia
imagine twilight, two girls talking
all the tenses at once
a figure in a bed
two kids, waking up alone
a confused smile
dark and ashamed, a wish
taken for granted
imagine emotion, a frantic outburst
two kids, coldly distant
yet never so close
a strangled reply
filled with hurried thoughts
imagine morning two girls far apart
a position shared
two kids, on a kitchen floor
knees brought up to their chests
one takes hold of a knife
the noticeable difference
imagine desperation, two girls crying
a single tear, a single drop of blood
the start of a long battle
two kids, completely unalike
yet perfectly similar
imagine happiness, a diploma in hand
not a single thought spared
to a desperate struggle to regain what was lost
two kids, not kid anymore
a new beginning, a haunted past
trapped inside a keyhole
imagine silence, nothing will ever be the same
a first love, not quite right
two kids, forever changed
a memory that holds no purpose
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
A gentleman
brought these clothes
in for you Grace
Nurse Kavel says
what clothes?
what gentleman?
I ask
sitting up in the bed
on the ward
new dress and underclothes
and I think he said his name
was Philip Kimberly
Nurse Kavel says
I smell perfume
and disinfect mixed
I hear voices around me
is he here?
I ask
no he brought these
in early this morning
while you were asleep
the nurse says
what colour is the dress?
I ask
red with flowers
and where he got it from
I have no idea
the cost in coupon points
must have been a lot I guess
the nurse says
where is it?
I ask
I hear her nearby
and she places a dress
in my lap
I feel it and touch
the material with my fingers
I can't see the colour
I say
what kind of red?
blood red and white flowers
she says
I put the dress to my cheek
and sense its softness
and feel the quality
is it nice?
I ask
it's beautiful
the nurse says near me
did he say when
he was coming again?
I ask
wondering what Philip
looked like how he dressed
I only knew his voice
and that was all
he will be in later
to arrange when
to take you out
although he wants to speak
with Dr Symonds first
about you and any risks
I sense doubt in her voice
will I be allowed out to dinner?
I ask
we will make sure the stumps
of your legs are well bandaged
and you are presentable
she says
what's he look like?
Mr Kimberly?
yes I've not seen him before
I say
he's handsome
and well dressed
she says softly
she takes the dress
from my hands
I’ll put the dress away
in your cupboard for safety
she says
and I hear her walk away
and lay there
staring into darkness
hearing voices in the ward
wondering where
he will take me for dinner
and how I will cope in public
without legs or sight
like walking into the coldness
of an out there night.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
Thrown aside shattered, broken…
I’m in tiny pieces
A reflection of a half lived existence
of one great big sad lie.
it’s funny what we settle for
in times where we want more.
it’s clever that your words are exactly
what my ears have longed to hear.
it’s sad that all they’ll ever be are meaningless.
promises you made but never meant to keep.
I’m in pieces here
disregarded
you left me on my own.
I’m in pieces here
I gave you all my love
but you don’t want it anymore.
Ego bruised, Heart torn
the melancholy of me blows restless
on these winds of change.
I’m not sure how I can carry on.
it’s crazy the lengths we go to
just to keep from being alone.
it’s maddening how easy
you can walk right out that door.
it’s scary to fall so helpless
into the darkness of what’s no more.
I’m in pieces here
disregarded
you left me on my own.
I’m in pieces here
I gave you all my love
but you don’t want it anymore.
you don’t want me anymore.
Unpublished work © 2010 Kimberly Rae Albright
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 6:39 AM UTC
We had just made love,
then turned on our backs,
and lit up cigarettes,
staring at the ceiling,
where shadows
from the streets lamp
made patterns.
Why must you
join the army, Clive?
There's war coming,
and I want to be there
to push ****** back,
Clive said.
But why you?
Why not someone else?
Grace I cannot sit back
and let others defend us,
he said.
But you're intelligent,
you could work
in the war effort
in other ways,
I said.
I don't want to do
espionage work,
I want to fight,
he said.
We lay there smoking,
and now and then
talking about
the coming war,
and afterwards
about marriage
and family.
Grace, Grace,
a voice calls me,
mind you don't slip
in the bath.
I look to where
the voice comes from.
What?
Don't slip in the bath,
not easy balancing
with just two leg stumps,
the voice said.
I move side to side carefully,
sensing the water
about me;
it's the nurse,
but I cannot see her,
my blind eyes
just stare in her direction.
Must have been daydreaming,
I say.
Your first proper bath
since before you
were bombed out,
she says.
Yes, it is,
I say,
sponging my *******
over with soapy water.
How are the stumps healing?
I say.
Well, they're doing well,
the doctors are happy
with them.
They still hurt,
I say.
They will for a while,
the nurse says.
I'll be an old maid now;
no one will want to marry
a legless blind woman
like me,
I say.
The nurse sighs,
now I don't think
that is true,
that Mr Kimberly
seems struck on you.
What good would I do him?
I'd be a burden,
and I don't want anyone
to marry me out of pity.
The nurse is quiet.
I sit balancing
as I sponge between my legs.
There is pity,
and there is love,
she says.
I don't know what
he looks like,
and how can I ever
bring a child
in the world
blind as I am,
and without legs?
I say.
If you want to
you can, and will,
she says firmly.
She takes the sponge
from my hand
and washes my back
and around my neck.
I think what for?
What the heck.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
The Christmas angel sat sadly on the shelf
She sat there all by herself
She had been sitting there for years
You could tell she had cried many tears
For she was covered in dust, except for the streaks
On her beautifully round cheeks
For there was no tree for her to grace the top
One year it wasn't put up, it just came to a stop
All the children had grown up and left
In them the Christmas spirit had been kept
They had always been the reason
The mother had decorated for the season
The reason the smell of cookies baking would fill the house
Now there is not even a cookie crumb, not even for a mouse
So the angel sat all alone
Watching how the darkness had grown
The mother no longer caring
Her sadness, over bearing
Every year it seemed to get worse
The mother feeling Christmas time was a curse
The angel trying to figure out how her cold heart to traverse
How to chase away the darkness and the pain disperse
Then like magic, one Christmas eve a knock on the door
What the mother saw knocked her to the floor
Her eye's filled with tears of joy
There in the doorway stood a little girl and a little boy
The grandbabies had came
Christmas would never be the same
Those tiny little arms held out to be picked up
Had more than over filled the Christmas spirits cup
With laughter and song
The put up the tree, it didn't take long
And the angel was dusted off
Given a kiss and placed on the top
Although old and slightly tattered
It didn't in the lest bit matter
They plugged in the tree, fingers crossed they hoped it would light
All those gathered round the tree gasped at the sight
That little angel had never shined such a bright brilliant light
A single tear rolled down the mother's cheek, the same time one rolled down the face of the angel
A tear of joy and of hope for the future, then the Grandmother scooped up the grandbabies Kimberly and Abel
Held them up so they could see
Just how beautiful that angel could be
©Pauline Russell
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
I've been washed,
and dried, now
the nurse says, do
you want to try the
dress on Mr Kimberly
bought you, Grace?
I look to where her
voice comes from,
my blind eyes searching
through blackness.
What colour is it? I ask.
It's red and beautiful,
she says, don't know where
he bought it, but it must
have cost quite a number
of coupons in this day
and age, with a war on,
and such. Will it fit me?
I ask, wondering how
Philip had managed to
find out my size. Best
way to find out is to try
it on, the nurse says excitedly,
as if the dress was for her
to wear. Now, you mean?
I haven't worn a dress since
the night my house was
bombed by the Germans,
I say. All my belongings
went up, and were lost in
the explosion, including
my eyesight, and my legs.
I'll help you of course,
she says, I'll pull the curtains
around to give you privacy.
I am uncertain, I feel as if
I will always be stuck in a
night dress without underwear,
two leg stumps bandaged forever.
I hear her pull the curtains
around us. Lift your arms,
Grace, let's get the nightie off,
then we can try on the dress,
the nurse says. I lift my arms,
she lifts the nightdress off of
me, and I feel quite naked,
and exposed. I put my arms
over my ******* like a young girl.
There's only me here, Grace,
the nurse says, no need to feel
bashful, now raise your arms
again so I can put the dress over
your head, and get your arms
through the holes. I lift my arms
up again, and sense her put
my hands through the arm holes
of the dress, then over my
head; she pulls it down over
my body, then she says, lie down
while I pull it over your bottom,
and down over your stumps. I lie
down, and let my head rest on
the pillow as she pulls the dress
over my bottom, and down over
the stumps of my legs. There, it
fits fine, she says, smoothing it
down with her hands, pushing
out creases or whatever. I feel
dressed for the first time in ages.
Have I underwear? I ask. Yes,
Mr Kimberly bought those as well,
the nurse says laughing softly.
How did he know my size? I ask.
He asked us nurses a few weeks
ago, when he said about taking
you out to dinner, the nurse says.
I see, I say, wondering what else
he asked, and why, and not really
caring, but curious nonetheless.
You look a picture of beauty,
Grace, she says. But where is he,
I need him here now, face to face.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
I am pushed in a wheelchair
along a corridor
in the hospital
by one of the nurses.
Where are we going?
I ask, seemingly rushing
through blackness,
like a tunnel
with no ending.
Dr Symonds needs to see you,
a voice says from behind me,
soft breathy voice,
passing with me
through the dark spaces
of my blindness.
There are smells and sounds
around me,
voices bodiless
as if floating in air,
like ghosts not seen,
but there.
I am pushed into a room,
warm and cosy,
the voices go,
the pressure of the air changes,
and a voices says
out of the blackness,
Hello Grace,
how are you?
I stare towards the voice,
a deep man's voice,
the doctor's;
I sense him waiting for reply.
My legs hurt,
my toes itch,
but when I go to rub
or scratch them
they're not there,
gone,
no legs,
I say moodily,
clutching the sides
of the wheelchair.
Hands rest on my shoulders,
soft hands,
gently massaging.
That's understandable,
it happens often,
Dr Symonds says,
nerve endings,
the mind misunderstanding
ghostly messages
from limbs not there.
Will I ever walk again?
I ask the voice
unsure where
I am facing.
We will have to see
how matters develop,
how your stumps heal,
what is available
for your needs,
he says gently
but professionally.
He talks on,
but I cease to listen,
my mind is reaching out
for meaning,
for a sensibility,
for an escape
from his voice.
I want to go out
for dinner with Mr Kimberly,
I want to be out of here,
I'm going mad in here,
I say,
my voice stretching
its boundaries,
my fingers reaching
for a real contact.
Hands hold mine,
soft hands,
a nurse's,
they squeeze gently.
That would be good,
the doctor says,
but there may be
complications,
matters which he
may not be aware of,
simple things;
your stumps will of course
be well bandaged,
but day to day issues
may arise.
What issues?
What matters?
I say moodily.
Where is he taking you?
The doctor asks.
A restaurant he knows,
I reply.
How will he get you there?
Is the restaurant accessible
for a wheelchair?
And what will he do
if you have a call of nature
while there?
The doctor asks.
I stare at the space
of the voice,
my hands held tight
in my lap,
I feel I am sitting
awkwardly there
and move my bottom.
The nurse helps me
get comfortable,
then her hands leave me.
I don't know,
I reply,
I don't know anything
anymore,
I seem like a child
in a dark room waiting
to be punished,
fearing shadows,
voices.
The doctor goes on
about matters,
about him seeing
and speaking with Philip,
and I feel a huge chasm
open beneath me,
my legs want to run,
to flee.
I grab my stumps
and feel for my legs
for the dancing limbs I had,
but they have gone,
and I stare
into the dark spaces,
seeing only ghostly voices
of the past,
but no real faces.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
Some people are what Ms. Kimberly in first grade called
quick learners. They just know how to know,
even when it comes to the blurry subjects,
like love.
I guess I’m not a quick learner,
because I’ve asked three friends
what a butterfly is,
but I still don’t feel them in my stomach, and my skin doesn’t tingle —
sometimes it itches, but not because your hand’s holding mine.
Because I make lists every night before I can sleep,
but there are no boxes to check off for
the symptoms of love,
and I only take quizzes that end with an answer.
Because I don’t cannonball into a public pool,
no matter how sweaty it is outside, I only dip my toes in
a little.
Because there was one thing I was taught
growing up:
never tell a lie, just like George Washington,
and even if I’m not a quick learner,
I’ve always been a good student.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
°*There is a clear line between right and blur
I don't know which one is wrong
but
since you've been gone
I've been hanging on
a thread of lost ghost
Kimberly
that's a beautiful name
but
with you
I kept acing mistakes*
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
The Christmas angel sat sadly on the shelf
She sat there all by herself
She had been sitting there for years
You could tell she had cried many tears
For she was covered in dust, except for the streaks
On her beautifully round cheeks
For there was no tree for her to grace the top
One year it wasn't put up, it just came to a stop
All the children had grown up and left
In them the Christmas spirit had been kept
They had always been the reason
The mother had decorated for the season
The reason the smell of cookies baking would fill the house
Now there is not even a cookie crumb, not even for a mouse
So the angel sat all alone
Watching how the darkness had grown
The mother no longer caring
Her sadness, over bearing
Every year it seemed to get worse
The mother feeling Christmas time was a curse
The angel trying to figure out how her cold heart to traverse
How to chase away the darkness and the pain disperse
Then like magic, one Christmas eve a knock on the door
What the mother saw knocked her to the floor
Her eye's filled with tears of joy
There in the doorway stood a little girl and a little boy
The grandbabies had came
Christmas would never be the same
Those tiny little arms held out to be picked up
Had more than over filled the Christmas spirits cup
With laughter and song
The put up the tree, it didn't take long
And the angel was dusted off
Given a kiss and placed on the top
Although old and slightly tattered
It didn't in the lest bit matter
They plugged in the tree, fingers crossed they hoped it would light
All those gathered round the tree gasped at the sight
That little angel had never shined such a bright brilliant light
A single tear rolled down the mother's cheek, the same time one rolled down the face of the angel
A tear of joy and of hope for the future, then the Grandmother scooped up the grandbabies Kimberly and Abel
Held them up so they could see
Just how beautiful that angel could be
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
I am in the wheelchair
outside on a lawn
(I suppose that
as I am blind
and cannot see),
and Jean sits beside me,
having just arrived.
A blanket covers
the stumps of my legs
from her sight.
What's he like?
I ask her.
Who is like?
she says.
Philip Kimberly;
what does he look like?
I say.
I hear her breathe deeply
and shift in the chair.
He's dark haired,
clean shaven
and good looking,
I'd say,
Jean replies.
I try to picture him
by her description,
but fail,
I am not used
to putting together
a mental image as yet.
He seems nice;
he says he works
for the Foreign office,
is that so?
I ask.
Guy says he does
so I guess he does,
Jean says,
does it matter
where he works?
I sense irritation
in her voice.
Anything the matter?
I say.
She sighs.
I listen extra hard
in case I miss any words.
No and yes,
she says.
That's a contradiction;
what is the matter then?
I turn toward her voice
as she speaks to give
the impression that I can
see although I can't.
Seeing you like this
upsets me,
she says.
It doesn't please me
none either,
I say,
reaching out
for her hand
and touch her knee
and remove my hand.
I picture you as you were
and as you are now
and it pains me,
she says.
Why come then?
I say before I can
stop myself.
Because you're an old friend
and a friend of Donald's,
she says touching
my hand and holding it
between her fingers.
That is how I am now:
blind and legless
and who would want
a woman like that?
I say harshly.
Philip likes you
and wants to take you
out to dinner and maybe
a concert,
she says.
So he said,
I say,
not wanting to dwell on it
in case it doesn't happen.
He's spoken to your doctor
and is making arrangements
for transport and a suitable place,
she says softly.
I take her hand
and place it on the place
where my legs end.
I end here,
I say,
half a woman;
who'd want that?
She removes her hand
from my leg stumps
and stands up
and walks around me;
I hear the swish
of her coat going by me.
This is not like you,
she says,
this self pity,
this drowning in darkness.
I spit at the air,
hoping I have missed her.
This is not self pity,
this is my reality,
I say,
trying to take hold
of her coat or hand.
My hand sweeps around,
but she has gone;
only birds near by chirping,
distant traffic,
and a wind touching
my skin; digging at me
deep within.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Yeeus you’re not Jesus
Or show us a miracle
With evidence empirical
Not music-based or lyrical
Show us you’re the answer
Nature’s true advancer
Not a popinjay or dancer
Give us a cure for cancer
Yeesus you think a lot
Of yourself
Are you The One
Or is it someone else
Son of Donda not of God
No one calls you the Lord
Don’t you try to run that fraud
Or no one ever will applaud
Yeesus? let me take a guess
Aren’t you Mr. Kanye West
Nothing more or nothing less
Just Porgy to Kimberly’s Bess
Even though you think you ougtta
You walk on air not on water
You’re no giant
You're so much shorter
Yeesus you haven’t been
Crucified
You just think you have
But that’s false pride
You make good music
And you entertain
But you don’t have
Einstein’s brain
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2915. All rights reservd.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
Phone call: "hey babe, what time are you gonna be back from work?
You need to show up on our date...
By the way, happy Valentine's day Kimberly!"
Fourteenth February; little Kimberly delayed at the library
By her boss Mr hamesty
Arranging books to get her salary,
Going home around twenty three-
Walking on a dangerous Street,
Missed a date with her charming prince
Her phone- she couldn't answer it
Because she knew that her boyfriend was ******
Home- thirty more minutes till she reached...
Didn't know that she was being followed by three ***** creeps...
The first one whispered "uh looks like we have found ourselves some meat"
The next one whispered "uh looks so Sweet"
The third one shouted " that's some tight **** We going up in this *****
Kimberly was alarmed and tried to be athletic
Screaming "help I am being followed by a ****** thirsty savage!"
These ****** laughed like hyenas fully energetic
Because the area was empty and so silent,
Caught her with an easy tactic,
Her Prada pumps kicked and kicked
While they filled her mouth with ***** stockens
The first one broke her phone and held her hands
The next one held her legs after taking her wallet,
The third one ripped her clothes so barbaric
***** broken by a gigantic ****
Forcing it's way in like a plumber stick
19year old girl turned into a joystick
She fainted while they repeatedly switched,
Praying it was a nightmare in her bedsheets...
She mastered their voices and faces so quick,
They continued till O'six and dumped her body in a ditch
They left her covered in spit and almost dislocated her feet,
After two hours of display in public
A good Samaritan rushed her in to a clinic
That day she was left traumatized thinking of suicide
Totally petrified wishing she had just died
As much as I would like to rewind
Let us fast forward to after two months
Kimberly purchased some guns
And decided it was about time
11pm
She took a walk in the same street fully armed
To her surprise
The same guys showed up
Ready to have their jocks satisfied
Till they saw shiny glocks pointing them right in the eyes
With no mercy she pulled the trigger
And ended up behind bars
For killing the men who destroyed her life.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
Be who you want
Talk to who you want
You are you
No one can stop that
My name is Kimberly
I call myself a different name
Hard drugs is who i am.
Before you ask, no
I don't care what you think
They help me ESCAPE
I consider myself different from all the rest, I'm distant, the drugs really overpower me. To me it makes me have a rush, I can **** it in a heartbeat. I know its just white powder
It makes me feel invincible, grateful for this powder while every body is against it
My nose will bleed. .my family can most likely notice the powder on my nose then I know I'm not invincible
Yet another failure on this ******* planet.
Another disapoitment,
Well I pretty much described myself . Everything gives me a rush and.....well
I've grown to love it, you can push me off a cliff
And ill do a kick off, I'm ready to ****
The tides
Ready to lose blood as I'm hitting the
Rocks
Im honestly am ready for anything
Because everything possible has already happened
Im ready for the good rush
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 7:52 AM UTC