"miriam" poems
the sophiatown i live in:
is a place i call home
is where i come to from work
is a place riddled with crime
is where i'm proud to be from
is a place being renovated
is where i'm not far from means
is a place that gets frustrated
by the westbury fiends
the sophiatown i read about:
is a place void of silence
is where bra hugh got his trumpet
is a place full of vibrance
is where miriam caught hold of it
is a place that was razed
is where a new place was born
is a place that couldn't be fazed
by the lines that were drawn
the sophiatown i love:
is a place that i live in
is where i've chosen to stay
is a place that i read about
is where that won't go away
is a place that's still here
is where apartheid escaped
is a place made austere
by the forces it shaped
the sophiatown that inspires me:
is very triumphant
is very intact
so what was your reason
for doing that
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
she was hot, she was so hot
I didn't want anybody else to have her,
and if I didn't get home on time
she'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that-
I'd go mad. . .
it was foolish I know, childish,
but I was caught in it, I was caught.
I delivered all the mail
and then Henderson put me on the night pickup run
in an old army truck,
the **** thing began to heat halfway through the run
and the night went on
me thinking about my hot Miriam
and jumping in and out of the truck
filling mailsacks
the engine continuing to heat up
the temperature needle was at the top
HOT HOT
like Miriam.
leaped in and out
3 more pickups and into the station
I'd be, my car
waiting to get me to Miriam who sat on my blue couch
with scotch on the rocks
crossing her legs and swinging her ankles
like she did,
2 more stops. . .
the truck stalled at a traffic light, it was hell
kicking it over
again. . .
I had to be home by 8,8 was the deadline for Miriam.
I made the last pickup and the truck stalled at a signal
1/2 block from the station. . .
it wouldn't start, it couldn't start. . .
I locked the doors, pulled the key and ran down to the
station. . .
I threw the keys down. . .signed out. . .
your ********* truck is stalled at the signal,
I shouted,
Pico and Western. . .
. . .I ran down the hall,put the key into the door,
opened it. . .her drinking glass was there, and a note:
sun of a *****
I waited until 5 after ate
you don't love me
you sun of a *****
somebody will love me
I been wateing all day
Miriam
I poured a drink and let the water run into the tub
there were 5,000 bars in town
and I'd make 25 of them
looking for Miriam
her purple teddy bear held the note
as he leaned against a pillow
I gave the bear a drink, myself a drink
and got into the hot
water.
6.3k
Behold the One with the Aries, the Ward of Santa Muerte
Our 16th President voted by 16 million Filipinos this 2016
The 1st President from Mindanao from being Mayor of Davao…Duterte!
He is One with MiJoRdGr (Miriam, Jojo, Rody, Grace)
The 4 Opposition Presidentiables who defeated Mar Roxas
And brought Liberal Party its great disgrace!
The One with the Aries from the Land with War
The Land of Promise – feared by typhoons, but filled with goons
So from her came a Liberator among MiJoRdGr!
That this One should war with our nation’s greatest horrors
-Drug Lords, Liberals, Treasoners, Criminals & Terrorists-
These powerful entities to our history are desecrators!
So by being one with lawmakers, law enforcers & lawful people
By the overwhelming power of the Supermajority
Our country’s greatest terrors…Du30 shall conquer them all!
But first, he must defeat his detractors – Leila, Leni & Trillanes
These triple crooks who want to topple the government
Are also said to be conspiring with EU, UN & US!
Yet with Trump’s triumph, US is no longer an enemy
Our American hatred weakened, our Chinese friendship strengthened
As it established great friendship with Pres. Du30!
Do not emulate the girl power of those Liberal crooks
We got an Olympic medalist Heidilyn & Ms. International 2016
But Leila & Leni?...Can only ruin our country…like blasted nukes!
Do not worry for we have Pacquiao as still winner & role model
Alongwith Gen. Bato, a victim of yellow washing machine
But these Pro-Du30 men…to criminals tough, to innocents gentle!
May God allow this True Change to take place with continuity
Let Pres. Duterte lead us for many more years to come
For the Supermajority, for you & me… for our country!
-12/30/2016
(Dumarao)
*Our Golden Times During PDu30
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 9:19 PM UTC
Morocco
some base camp
by a beach
in 19
70
a small bar
Miriam
sitting there
drinking her
Bacardi
and small coke
wearing that
very snug
bikini
coloured red
like her hair
of tight curls
up one end
a very old
Moroccan
was strumming
a guitar
him smoking
cannabis
happy guy
what's that stink?
Miriam
says to me
cannabis
I tell her
how'd you know?
A girlfriend
I once had
smoked the stuff
how could she?
Miriam
says to me
I don't know
she just did
I sip my
Bacardi
and smoke my
cigarette
she looks neat
in her snug
bikini
but neater
out of it.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
What’s in a name?
It is what turns heads
It can cause a quiver in your body
Or a smile to curl onto your lips.
A name can be tarnished
Or reborn.
It can make you stand out from the crowd
Or join the masses.
It is more than what society deems
A socially acceptable form of
Introduction.
So let me introduce myself:
I used to feel my name in harsh syllables
Rooted in the language of my people’s history.
MAR or MIR meant bitter.
Like having the wrong taste in your mouth
Reminding me of MARor –
Eaten on Passover to remember how burdensome,
Difficult and bitter the Jews’ slavery in Egypt was.
IAM (YAM) – ocean.
Tumultuous, never still.
Always swirling and scaring children out of it.
MIRIAM – my Hebrew name.
Bitter sea.
I grew into that name resentfully.
I reacted when I was called that by fellow classmates,
For what else could I do?
But time went by
And I began collecting seashells by the seashore.
The ocean became a treasure and my name
Had a new ring to it.
Yet when eighth grade graduation came around I was given the option
Of writing Mariya instead of Miriam.
I was going to high school where I didn’t know anyone.
So no one needed to know my bitter past.
I also learned that a name was not made up of syllables
But of sweet sounds.
Mmm – like the taste of something so delicious your eyes close
And you feel yourself melting.
Aaa – you’ve just finished your meal and on this hot summer day
You find solace in the cool water running down your back in the shower.
Rrr – racing, running, reaching for the sky.
That’s the sound I want my plane to make when I can hold a piece of
Cloud in the palm of my hand and feel its silver lining.
Iii – the sound of “and” in many languages. The sound of something more,
Reminding me that this is not the end.
Ya – the sound of agreement and conclusion. As if that is all I have to say…so yeah.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Fake promises, Fake promise,
and your words so sweet.
I, the innocent girl becomes crazy
you tell me you love me,
But all you want is to satisfy your selfish desires.
You tell me I am the most beautiful girl in the world,
but all you want is to flatter me.
You tell me you will never leave me whatever happens
But all you want is to make me lose my guard,
Time comes when I am pregnant
You tell me you are not responsible, that you are too young
You tell me you cannot marry an ugly person like me.
That I am not your class, that I am it wasn’t you,
The most beautiful girl in the world I was, but now I am no more.
A fatherless child comes into the world
No one to call dad, No one to lift her when she falls down and hurts herself
No one to run to when mum spanks her
Your fake promises, your foolish promises
Oh selfish boy, master of lies
Who have brought all these misery on me and on your innocent child
whom you have rejected.
Will I believe you boy, Never never in my life
I will be master of myself, I will control my destiny
I will educate myself and Show you what I can do, foolish boy the master of lies.
Fake promises fake promises
Copyright ©2008 Miriam Musonda-salati
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
#*“You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.”*
**From: Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover
... by Nat Lipstadt**
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in memoriam to memories:
for Miriam and Nat
reading each thought numerous ticks of days,
imbibe the silent of the silence
hanging from the rafters this wilderness roof;
grayed heartwood walls that separate
fractals of inseparable distances ― celebrations
the roads taken ― memories of those left behind
at the side of the mile untrodden
Congregated love and sorrow’s spoken words
scribed on paper bark touchstones ―
etched watermarks of perpetual tides
patina the afterglow of life's ebb and flow,
traces of everything and naught can ever fill
Experiencing intimate moments immemorial;
the whispers of living pulse still murmurs
in the gentle breeze between the gathered words of heart
breathing deeply ― a rush of systemic truth
born in the wholly sacred blood bequeathed
A soul outside the lines ponders ―
the sum whole of a life well lived;
coming to understand, although
all might not see the same light shine:
there’s a place one day we’ll return
we found along the way
because one day will come by here …
harlon rivers ... Memorial Day weekend ... May, 2018
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
O my God
the ride down here
to this base camp
in those converted
army trucks
wasnt that something?
Miriam says
my face felt frozen
and my hair
looked as if
Id been in front
of a massive
hair-dryer
for hours
I sip my coke
and watch her
sitting at the bar stool
thinking
her jaw sure must
have unfroze
since shed not
stopped speaking
for a good five minutes
and guess who
Im sharing
a tent with?
she informs
I dont know
I say
that hippy girl
you know the one
whose boyfriend
looks like Jesus
o yes
I know the one
yes so whats
she like
to share with?
o you dont
want to know
she says
then dont tell me
o but I must
so she does
and as she rabbits on
I study her hair
a mass of curls
tight and red
which reminded me
of a guy
I worked for once
who said
I took a red head
out last night
no hair
just a red head
and I laughed
because he was
my employer
but it was a kind
of put on laugh
and o
she says
and thats not all
when she undresses
at night in the tent
I am brought back
to the present
and am all ears
hanging on to
her every word
about the dame
**********
like a penitent
awaiting
a priests blessing.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
The sound of the sea behind us
the sand dune protected us
from a slight evening breeze
some Arab guy was playing a guitar
up at base camp
laughter from others
singing on the wind carried
and Miriam said
you want to make out Benny?
here?
I said
sure why not?
she said
won't they miss us?
I said
they wouldn't miss the moon
they're so ****** on
the Arab wine junk
they've been passing around
in that big jar thing
Miriam said
we were close in the sand dune
clumps of grass
and sand warm
my hand on her thigh
other hand about her neck
is it safe?
I said
safe for what?
she said
I haven't got no pox
have you?
no just wondering about
in case you know?
I said
got the pill
no worries there
now kiss me
she said
so I did
lips to lips kind of thing
her hand unzipping my jeans
her other hand around me
want to?
she said
the guitar was still being plucked
voices still sang
laughter on the wind
she had my pecker
between fingers and thumb
and talking to it
I was seeing the moon
over her shoulder
stars blinking
come on come
she said
then someone fired
a rifle in the air
silence followed
then chatter
we were well away
so it didn't matter.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
That time we went to Fez
and you said
it's like Biblical times
all these fecking donkeys
and camels and people
dressed like Jesus
I said to Miriam
so it was my first time
and we had to leave
the vehicle outside
the gates of the city
she said
we were sitting
at the Moroccan bar
of the camp base
sipping cokes
and had French loaf
sandwiches on plates
beside us
but it was good
I said
and that mosque
I went in was great
I had to take off
my sandals mind you
but hey the site
inside was good
I didn't go in
but that market
was out of this world
she said
she sat on a stool
beside me sipping her coke
she had a pink tee shirt
and red shorts
-I loved red-
and bare feet
I looked at the feet
recalling mouthing
her toes that night
in Malaga after
the shower
at the camp base there
and well the rest followed
I bit into the French roll sandwich
lettuce
cheese
cold lamb meat
and some kind of pickle
those women wore
those black gown things
she said
could only see their eyes
I don't think I could wear
one of those
I like to be seen
and why bother
to wear make up
or wear something skimpy
if you've got one
of those on
she said
they don't I guess
that's their religion
I said
she bit into her French roll
and was silent
she smelt
of apples and hay
and I could have licked her
but we sat and ate
and thought of the beach
and moon and stars
and ***
if not too late.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
Did you get a photograph
of me standing by the camel
on the beach?
Miriam asked.
Yes I did,
I said,
the two Arabs
didn't look impressed
with you in your bikini though.
I was clothed;
it wasn't as though
I had nothing on,
she said.
No,
but you know
what they're like
with women,
I said.
****** them Benny,
I am here on holiday;
what do they think
I'm going to do
wear a long dress
and head scarf
in this heat?
Never mind,
I said,
it is done now,
and I have taken the photo.
Will you send me a copy
of the photo
once we are back in England?
Of course I will
if you give me your address,
I said.
Make sure it is an envelope;
I don't want my parents
seeing me in my bikini,
she said.
I will seal it in an envelope
out of prying eyes,
I said.
We looked out
at the Mediterranean.
The water was calm and blue
and the sky a kind of white blue.
The sun hot and pouring
its heat on us.
Do you miss me nights?
She said.
Of course I do,
but the tents are only made
for two not three,
I said smiling.
She tapped my arm:
maybe when your friend
goes into Tangiers next
we could,
she said.
If he goes,
I said.
Hope he goes,
Miriam said.
And the memory of her
in my tent
the other day
buzzed around my head.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 4:24 AM UTC
The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.
When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.
A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.
Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.
Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.
The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Is this not prayer?
is this tool not the tool I hoped for? The pen
filled by the ever-flowing flowery ink
that re-news old knowns
left to ripen under bald and hoary heads
in stoney hearts softened by seventy years worth
of salty tears
and sad songs
"great was the number of them,
wombed ones all, who sang of the victory to be"
Miriam and Hannah, Deborah and Jael, who
retold those tales by the rivers of Babylon?
And who fueled the furnace seven times hotter,
to signal the unbelivable fourth.
being likend unto the son of god, though the
analogy seems
lacking evidence that the likeness can be reproved.
Look again.
This magi-tech converged from all the poetic,
pathetic
ethos of logo marks making proper
ification of a rythm's
un legit singin' in public,
on the corner, wit' Willie and the po'boys
beat me daddy six t' the bar---
Oh
--- those ethnic poundings on my skull,
--- send those feelings, urging, grow grow grow
--- 'til the roofs cain't hold hope in
then
hear come them ol' time thought cops,
wee gray dominees preparing dominoes for
one reason,
dominos are never stood to stand, but to fall
touching one, touching one, touching one
whisper, rest
the waiting is over, this is the time
to start all over.
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle. He called it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.
That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.
Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fly Fishing’).
Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).
When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.
Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.
—
Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he senses this – and is peaceful.
When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.
They’re good sounds.
They are old sounds.
They bring him…
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
"How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob,
Your dwelling places, O Israel!"
Thy children gather,
telescoping generations,
O Jacob, what do thine eyes ascertain.
what history do they memorize?
Coalescing younger star clusters,
disparate related families uniting,
embedding as a single unity,
a star cloud,
shedding a new light,
the astronomers awed, witnesses,
a super-star cluster birthed.
The beauty of thy tents,
thy wealth, O Jacob,
is their multiplicity,
their construct and content.
The web of thy tissue,
bindings, linkages,
what resides within thy tents,
acknowledge, testify, that
the strength of thy issue,
are the Matriarchs,
managers of thy destiny,
mothers of thy dynasty,
The Sarah's, Leah's, the Rachel's,
the Fay's, the Ginger's, the Miriam's
these jewels bedeck, beautify,
brides and bridles of thy tents,
master mistresses of thy dwellings,
without them, O Jacob,
you, but, just,
another desert tribe.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Her hips were poetry
When she walked,
Leaving the room hushed
And breathless;
Gazing in awe
Her lips were poetry
When she sang;
Clearer than the birds
And prettier than the stars
And bolder than the moon
And softer than the night
Her eyes were poetry
When her brows crinkled
In delight
And her lids fluttered
In fatigue
And her irises sparkled
In passion
And the way she spoke
And the way she did
And the way she was,
It was all poetry to me.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
Of skylarks and June roses bygone poets sing.
Yet alas! Seldom pen sweet lines to such as thee.
O! How I yearn from harshest winds to set you free
If such futile vain longings could perchance take wing.
Poor darling stray! Green eyes stare pleading into mine.
O! My heart aches to stroke ebony silken fur
And cuddling you revel in thy low grateful purr.
Yet how can I to fate this fondest wish resign?
Raven Miriam! Daughter o' plumy waving tail
Dancing freely, arms outstretched in moss laden air,
For three baby sisters and wee brother doth care;
Showering them all in tender love without fail.
Four growing babes frolicking with Miriam so dear.
One glossiest raven, proud miniature of thee;
Grey tabbies—two mittened—comprise those other three.
Bringing to lonely bleak days a ray of cheer.
One balmy afternoon I searched but found I none.
To my frail despairing call, silence echoing
While all around me harsh November winds blowing
Taunting in cruelest mockery—all now are gone!
One morn you came—yes! Only you in dreary rain.
With glad heart and bountiful meal I begged thee cleave.
Poor onyx stray! Where is thy fam'ly? Why must thou leave?
Helpless, I watch you cross the busy road—again.
~Hilda~
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
for Harlon
who recalled them to me five years later, asking for the all of them...
only on Mother’s Day +1
and for Miriam
———————————
My Mother is Dying July 2013
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.
We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.
One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.
One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.
Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?
Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.
Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.
Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;
Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,--
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.
And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.
1.6k
She'd gone from discharge straight back to the office, dressed in her sweats and intake band. She got into the elevator, fingered lucky seven, and rode the way up stuck in molasses thoughts, in anger and shame.
She was no one's property, The Agency's least of all.
The neon lights over River City's southeast side popped and sparked, dancing gracefully in the array of dull grey derelicts. She watched them exploding through the safety of the glass.
She'd tell Asgar exactly what she thought.
"I don't give a **** about the why, I give a **** about the how. How could you do that to me, man?"
I was doing you a favor.
"No, don't even -- you were doing your ******* self a favor. "
Oh, of course. We all thought you might like to have some teeth, Miriam.
"Don't say my name like that! I'm not your ******* daughter."
Calm down, okay? Please?
"You made a decision about my body that was not yours to make. If I want to be a toothless crone, that's my business. If I want to have one *** and a **** that's my ******* business, Asgar. "
And when it was over, as most do, she rode the way home with her head hung below her shoulders, wondering if the words she'd found to say were too true. She wondered, what some wonder, if her truths were better used when they were cut from the script to defuse inconvenient situations.
When she went inside, Miriam threw her keys and her clothes into a pile by the bedroom door, pulled the band from her wrist and then stepped into the shower. She'd go out. If she truly weren't worth her weight, then she'd throw herself to the city, hoping to trade what was left for ***
And drugs. Drugs, too.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
Waiting like always sitting with hands in lap and head bowed
Just knowing I'll hear news that you messed up
Not knowing, like ever, the words to change or chastise or
Save
Not knowing why I want to
Not knowing why I need you
Protected
Not knowing why I need to
Not knowing why I want you
Directed
Nursing your head wounds with the TV on while you tell me
We are watching the news that you messed up
We are cuddled and sitting how the god and the child
Would
She doesn't remember what I remember of the years she means to me.
She will fix the pieces eventually so why don't I give her just one small piece?
So I take Miriam to the cemetery.
The cemetery at sunrise.
Looking over a rail yard.
Revealing old gravestones.
Nondescript in the lay lanes.
She doesn't remember why she doesn't visit the grave of her mother.
She will fix the image much sooner than later so why don't I give her some relief?
So I tell Miriam in the old green graveyard.
The graveyard filled with carbon.
Speaking of another girl.
Revealing I knew her
As another distant frame.
You are married with the orange scene in gleaming while I
Look,
Not knowing why I want to
Not knowing why I need you
Protected
Not knowing why I need to
Not knowing why I want you
Directed
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
The Mediterranean Sea
is out there
Miriam said.
You and she
sat on the beach
looking out at the sea
lit up by the moon.
You and she
had just made love
in a small sand dune.
Stars sparkled over head
and over the sea.
And we are here
you said.
Behind you
up the beach
was the camp base
and the tents.
A party was going on
which you both
had sneaked away from
to be alone
and have ***
She looked up
at the sky:
I guess my mother
is looking
at this moon now
Miriam said
she likes gazing
at the moon
but she is in England
and we are here
in Morocco
but same moon.
The party was noisy
you could hear music
and singing from the beach.
Those stars may
have burnt out
hundreds of years ago
or more
but we still see the light
from maybe dead stars
you said.
She lay down
and you lay beside her.
She kissed you
and put her arms
about you again.
She was still naked
from the waist down
so were you.
Someone
was playing a guitar
the sound hung in the air.
You made love again
without worries or care.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
I lay on the grass
by the tent
at the San Sebastian
base camp
warm sun
other tents all around
Miriam beside me
hands behind her head
sunglasses
tight curled
red-hair
music on the loudspeakers
some Spanish stuff
how'd you sleep?
she asked
eyes closed
I said
no how did you sleep
good or bad?
she said
not bad
the ex army guy
yakked a lot
about his mother's
new boyfriend
and how they
don't get on
(the ex army guy
and the mother's
boyfriend)
is he jealous?
Miriam asked
no idea
his problem not mine
but he will yak so
I said
how about you?
I asked
giving Miriam
a sideways glance
some Yorkshire girl
she don't say much
but when she does
I can't understand
what she's saying
I asked her
if she had a boyfriend
and she said
feckless can
gerr eur lad
I smiled
which one is she?
I asked
big ***** girl
with blonde hair
in bunches
Miriam said
O her
I said
she's not bad looking
but not as good as me
Miriam said
raising her highbrows
of course not
I said
Miriam smiled
and lay her hands
on her stomach
and turned her head
to gaze at me
(but the blonde
Yorkshire lass
had a nice ***
maybe we should
match up the ex-army
with the blonde?
I said
then we can
share my tent
Miriam frowned
then said
can't see it myself
the blonde
and ex-army together
shame
I said
do you always
think of ***
Miriam asked
giving me
her stare
not always
sometimes I think
of ***** and art
and music
here and there.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Moses, Miriam, Aaron and the children of Israel wandered into the wilderness of Zin.
The Israelites complained because there was no water, their patience was wearing thin.
God told Moses to take the rod, call the people and speak to the rock.
God said there would be enough water for the people and their livestock.
But instead of speaking to the rock like God commanded, Moses raised his hand and struck it with the rod.
Water flowed from the rock but Moses was punished because he became angry and didn't follow the command of God.
Because Moses didn't do as God commanded, God wouldn't let him lead the Israelites into the promised land.
Moses quickly learned that the best thing to do is to always do as Jehovah God commands.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC