Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.

I destroyed the pretty.
It's all emptiness now, what do you expect? You can't expect me to trust you further! Why would you let me break?

I destroyed the pretty.
It's not the question if you trust me, it's the question if I still feel a needle in my arm. It's the question for love and pain; a heart attack in a field of broken Roses.
Why can't you break me further? I am done, and you took my lifesaving essence.

How may I feel betrayed today? If it wasn't you that destroyed, oh, but it was me.

I ruined the pretty, I destroy the last lovely, I broke it.
One was left, now two are shattered.

So give me pain,
pain to ban the feelings,
pain to ban my life decisions,
pain to ruin further what's already lost,
has always been meant to be lost.
God why does it hurt so bad?
It's not like heartbreak,
it hurts like betrayal
and it hurts like death.
The feeling of death, deeply sitting down, wearing me out like a broken glass of beauty.

I threw you down, Glasshouse
Pretty
Beauty
I destroyed the pretty all the beauty is what I took away.
Shattered on the glass wood floor.
Death crawls up my spine like a spider to its to be killed prey.

I can't hear you anymore, how could you???
How on this earth dare you???
You left me!
You let me break you.
Why would you want that?
Isn't one destroyed body enough?
Isn't my misery beautiful enough?

Burgundy book oh such a creation.
500 million British passports in circulation.

Patterned leaves adorning a secret interior. Without this treasure am I inferior?

Access to benefits and free healthcare. In a world like ours in a world so unfair.

Shiny pocket book taken for granted?
Non owners aware of its powers, automatically deemed the disenchanted.

Access to a phone call.
Access to legal aid.
Access to commonwealth.
Access to the European Union.
Access to free education.
Human rights.
Freedom.

That marvellous lifesaving book of epic proportions with the ability to eradicate human ill-fortune.

It is in the midst of cruel December
That cynicism springs forth
Lush, verdant and fruitful.

As people sit
Firmly fastened in front of computers and televisions,
    Their pale, two-dimensional illumination
    A vicious imitation of the golden glow
    Of which we have been deprived,
The trite uniqueness of each falling flake
Is regarded with the same appreciation
Held by a prisoner for the peculiarities of each bar of his cell
While mercantile endorsements
Perform their annual joyless Yuletide jig
Complete with sullenly cheery music.

Indifference plods with a purpose across the pavement
On feet uncomfortably shoved into boots
And sometimes wielding a shovel.

My own feet angrily railed against the bus-stop sidewalk
On this particular day.

I forfeited the ice-block bench on this occasion,
Preferring to crush my feet into the ground
Than to risk cryogenesis by the unfriendly seat.

I was waiting for the next vessel to drift in on a tide of noxious diesel
And take me home
So that I could put cables through my ears
And stare blankly into a vividly opaque window;
Fingers performing a well-choreographed dance
While I wrap myself in warm, gas-heated euthanasia.

As the bench reclined behind me,
She sat down upon it like a ghost.
Slight and spritish.
Silky black strands dance in brave escape
From their woolen armour
And guard green isles floating on white seas.

Where have I seen her?
This person so maddeningly, forgettably familiar?

A breath of persimmon and greenery.

She extends forth a creamy hand.
The snow eats the vibrant blood as it leaks from her wrist.

Seized by panic,
I leap from my station,
A lifesaving scarf in my hand.

Hers presses to my chest.
Her pale-sunrise lips move to my ear.

"Wait and see." She says.
"Read between the drear to find what you seek:
"That which you remember and yet have forgotten."
The vital stream returns to its tributary by a volition of its own.

Did I faint at this surreality?
Did I go into shock by it and return to my abode in an ****** ambulation?
Did it take place at all?
I awoke at home, seated in my parlour
And watered by the melted rime.

For weeks after,
I would, with expectation and intrigue,
Await her arrival at the same stop,
Search for the silky black strands playing in the crowd,
I even sought her in vain through my nocturnal oneiric haze.

Indeed, she must have been a spectre,
Either of our world or that of my brain.

Nevertheless, this I know is true:
I did feel her gentle hand against my panicked heart
And her delicate voice still echoes in my ears.

It is Spring now, and still my memory of her persists
As does my recollection what she had to tell me.
Her whisper is in the snow-melt water
And her eyes cry joyful tears from icicles.

I woke up late this morning, my phone was dead. I guess I never plugged it in, I found it buried under my pillow (erah!). I barely had time for anything, just managing to cover the basics as the “Whoop” sound signaled my first virtual classroom opening. A pop-up announced that the class would be recorded and available later. “Yessss!” I thought, as I put in my airpods.

My room is surprisingly full of houseplants. There’s a ponytail palm, an anthurium and philodendrons sending down tendrils of heart-shaped leaves from shelves and tables. I drew open my curtains and the room bloomed, morning sunny. It was 22° but my windows are almost always cracked open to let in some real air.

I’m dressed in an unstylish, black school hoodie, short pajama pants, long socks and fluffy, pink slippers for my virtual class. My still-wet hair looked attractively mop-like. I began brushing it out while arranging the colored gel-pens and highlighters I use to take notes.

Was I ever starving, but I could only imagine breakfast. Ever notice how the sun looks like a giant egg-yolk? At least my Keurig was on the job - burping, whirring and dripping like a malfunctioning steam engine as it rendered lifesaving French Vanilla coffee that smelled like caffeinated heaven.

As the professor started talking about the syllabus, outlining the types of problems we’ll be working on this semester and reminding us of things we learned in our intro to econ class, a teaching assistant, in another window, asked us to press the roll-call icon and reminded us we had a paper due (this is why we read our syllabus, people). Then the assistant's window became a countdown timer showing what remained of the ten minutes we’d been given to upload the first-day’s homework.

Twenty minutes into the class, I was combed out and ponytailed, coffeed-up and positively vibrating with pleasure - I LOVE this stuff - strategies, actions, outcomes and payoffs. Student life is unnatural, stressful and myopic - but it can be thrilling too.

There was a knock on my door frame (the door to my room is almost always open), and one of my roommates, Sunny, was there. “Morning, Princess Anesthesia,” she said, teasing me about over-sleeping.

I pointed to my pink-M1-iMac screen, to indicate I was in class and she tossed me a bag. I knew, at once, that it was breakfast from the cafeteria. “I love you,” I mouthed, before turning back to the screen.

Spring Semester has begun.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 29, 2019)

At the end, you always remember the beginning,
sleepless sweating and the dread of the new.
It was going into battle through the glass doors,
the receptionist on the front lines, the rounds of names.
There was always the fear of missing something lifesaving,
the cliffs of inevitable failures ahead of you,
the roster of duties and missions you would not be suited for,
the impenetrable maps, the bank of phones with fifty lights,
the script of survival at the skirmish, the awkwardness
in the dying role.

Figuring out your generals and where they stood
from their hilltop proclamations, this little trooper
finally learned the war machine, way too late
to take on the mission with any patriotism,
way too late to be anything more than a soldier
serving out the term. My badge of honor
became what I could not do, my efficient honesties
and the raw willingness to fail.

Maybe this is a mark of a mature conscript,
the luxury of modesty, the last days
of having nothing left to prove.

aboard the aircraft metaphorical
bearing those employed
by companies large and small

a moment arrives when the cryptic
overhead lights instruct
that the time to leave has come

passengers are led to the open door
at the rear of the fuselage
where they will leap into the mist

the happy few will be strapped
into a designer backpack
filled with a carefully packaged parachute
of luminous gold

others are handed
a sturdy bundle which holds a
lifesaving paraglider of shining silver

a group somewhat more numerous
gratefully accept their sustaining dome
of spun silk and exit with confidence

the greatest number will be in a line
leading past a toilet paper dispenser
each individual to be ejected will be allotted
a single sheet

the one ply tissue will be printed as follows
“Grasp tissue firmly on opposite sides
hold tissue above head parallel with ground”

a hearty cry of “Good luck!” follows them
as they are assisted through the door
by a well placed boot

My power on you
Is negligible
Yet you hold me tighter
Tight
Tightly to you.
We dance around
In endless rotation
I spin
Immortally.
I breathe you in
I walk all over you
Yet you don’t know
I exist.
I am one piece
Of the puzzle
Of your skin.

You are hot and cold
Oscillating my emotions
Tidally locking me
Ensnaring me
Into your brilliant bath.
She is jealous.
Stronger and brighter than
I am smaller and feeble.
Her light shines luminous,
My glow is conditionally a specter
Unseen.
Eons ago she was yours,
And the crawl of seconds
Pulled her away
And the crawl of seconds
Birthed me upon you

Given the chance
She would wrench the blood
From my veins as she
Tugs on your arteries
Yet the iron given to me
By you, residing in my
Bones and beating chest
Holds strong, touched by
Your lifesaving magnetism
Your ferric ferocity shields
Me.  In an invisible
Aromatic atmosphere of
Blanketing love.

You swirl me
Rotate and revolve me
Wake and quake me
Birth and waste me.
Mother and Father providing
The soul within me, the
Soul beneath my feet.
My planet, my world
You are my Earth.

Oh, i hate so much the noise,
the slamming of doors and
the cracking of bones.
The disturbance of air
caused by inessential cries,
disdainful sighs,
treachereous lies.
The purpose of many
are useless talks,
which poison thoughtful minds.
Only scratches of scribbles,
forging silence of words,
which sound so much tenderly clear,
than insipid shouts
are dear to my ears
    and eyes.
Couplets and couplets -
    my lifesaving droplets,
      that heal me of noisy venom.

on dreamy elves and better things
fortuitous it may be, lifesaving,
more constructive  in the scheme
of things, better suited to Knights
and Maidens so long ago may
be
things like dreams and visions
hopes and purpose,
love and romances, dances
under the arms of willow trees,
softly flowing brooks babbling, the calling
of a whippoorwill
the seance **** trance you put me in

One Sunday a cragsman
Descended a cliff
In a dangerous place
When the winds came up stiff

With sand blinding his eyes
He let go off his grip
And in that one little second
He started to slip

In that one little second
In front of his eyes
A lifetime of wrong choices
Misconduct and lies

In that one little second
As he started to dive
Prayed to God that next Sunday
If he was alive

He would come out to church
Accept a new calling
If God would stretch forth his hand
To save him from falling

In that one little second
He promised he'd alter
The many bad habits
That caused him to falter

He prayed to God that he'd change
And stop his wrongdoing
If please God would re-schedule
His funeral and viewing

If please God would stretch forth
His omnipotent hand
He'd most quickly repent
With a soft place to land

Then his feed gained some ground
Where the earth was more firm
And he slid to a stop
On a thin piece of berm

With his prayers safely answered
On that lifesaving shelf
Said, 'never mind Lord;
I have saved me myself'

One more time he was grasping
At crumbling sod
He'd learned as we all must
None is saved without God

For all men are fallen
And a Savior's been sent
To lead them to safety
And help them repent

That old Prince of Darkness
Is the changeable wind
He's luring and coaxing
And blinding with sin

Just one little second
Is all that it takes
To fall from the edge
As result of mistakes

For the pathway to safety
Place your hand inside His
For seeking salvation
The only way that there is

He will lead them and guide them
Unharmed from the rim
But none of God's children
Are saved without Him!

In the day those without faith think least,
That’s the day he will put in motion the prophesied wild beast.

Peace and security will come but not at their actual hands,
It’s the kings from the rising of the sun that bring about those final commands...

When the general thinking is the sky today looks clearly blue...
This is when he will make crystal clear what he intends to do...

Crashing down, the infamous harlot will completely burn,
Yes, this is what his righteous family does wholeheartedly yearn!

From mid-heaven down to the earth no place will be found...
Nowhere to hide from his judgement voice that the WORD will ultimately sound...

At the end of this day all wickedness will cease to a halt,
So (now) is the time best to practice being found without any fault...

No time will there be to rewind those fixable mistakes we continued to put off,
The hour is now to accept responsibility in one unhesitant quaff...

Thereafter, LIFE for those found clean and bright...
He guarantees them no enemy will be a match for his holy spirits might!

It is written that no one but he knows the actual day and hour,
Except perhaps his son to whom he has given all authority and power...

When exactly will it come, this we do not know?
But to those hearing with their heart, he now lifesaving truth does bestow...


J.I.F.

Revelation 16:12
The sixth one poured out his bowl on the great river Eu·phraʹtes, and its water was dried up to prepare the way for the kings from the rising of the sun.

Matthew 24:21
for then there will be great tribulation such as has not occurred since the world’s beginning until now, no, nor will occur again.

thankfully, the sky was clear
but I was deep in a fog of anxiety
or sailing the famous 9th cloud
either way, that morning was a blur

their timid thumbs pointed to the sky
at least six times during my desperate
rambling to avoid silence, quiet enough
that they could hear my racing heartbeat

eventually those thumbs found their
way to caress the back of my hands
and my tongue found a more sane driver
in a lifesaving a cap of paper strips

31.12.20

Natal Day - Poem by Marvin Brato Sr
Whenever it is your birthday my friend,
Enjoy the moment and be happy to no end.
Nothing more important in life than stay living,
Care for your health as it is priceless and lifesaving.
Even when getting older yet it's a step being smarter,
Spend the free time with family and friends to feel better.
Leave no place for negativism but allow space for positivism,
In this world we only live once so let live with much optimism.
None else can decide for what you want to do but yourself only,
Advise may be solicited from others but the finality is yours fully.

Ciming home alone may accentuate inner solitude,
And yet being a stong woman you incite fortitude.
Do what make you glad and share the joy with everybody,
As you have a good heart and hold no antipathy for nobody.
Onward to your adventures as single with much bliss to give.

When I first met Mr Marsh, I had no idea who he was.
He came off as abrupt, eccentric
and if I’m honest a little intimidating.
But once you look beyond this demeanour and see the true sincerity of his benevolence, you’re given an insight into what greatness truly is.
His compassion towards his patients and their family members was moving and he would come in on his days off to see how they were doingafter having lifesaving brain surgery.
It amazes me to think that this man
has seen a part of me that I will never see,
a place where every dark secret, sin, good and bad thoughts, loving feelingsand hatred is stored.
Without a doubt he saved my life,
although I can’t help but wonder how many failed operations it took to reach this level of excellence?
The burden of life and death that overshadows each critical fated incision is ineffable. The magnitude of pressure that comes with performing intricate turn of the tide operations must have weighed down on him like Atlas holding
up the sky on his shoulders.
I met Mr Marsh again 12 years later, he didn’t recognise me but mused at the scars on my head before declaring
“I take it I worked on you!”
What do you say to the man who saved your life?
Thank you and shake his hand? (It doesn't seem enough)
Mr Marsh in my opinion is what a true hero looks like,
he seemed genuinely pleased I was doing okay and even let me have my picture be taken with him
I’m forever grateful for his help
and feel privileged to be one of his success stories.

On the one hand,
Pain breaks the heart—
Ripping it apart.  
And yet, on the other,
It warns… something wrong.
Pain is a lifesaving sign.
’