A Poem for Three Voices

Setting:  A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE:
I am slow as the world.  I am very patient,
Turning through my time, the suns and stars
Regarding me with attention.
The moon's concern is more personal:
She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse.
Is she sorry for what will happen?  I do not think so.
She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event.
I do not have to think, or even rehearse.
What happens in me will happen without attention.
The pheasant stands on the hill;
He is arranging his brown feathers.
I cannot help smiling at what it is I know.
Leaves and petals attend me.  I am ready.

SECOND VOICE:
When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it.
I watched the men walk about me in the office.  They were so flat!
There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it,
That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions,
Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed,
Endlessly proceed--and the cold angels, the abstractions.
I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed:  'Have you seen something awful?
You are so white, suddenly.'  And I said nothing.
I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation.
I could not believe it.  Is it so difficult
For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth?
The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed
From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples.
I am dying as I sit.  I lose a dimension.
Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures!
The silver track of time empties into the distance,
The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup.
These are my feet, these mechanical echoes.
Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs.  I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death.
Again, this is a death.  Is it the air,
The particles of destruction I **** up?  Am I a pulse
That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel?
Is this my lover then?  This death, this death?
As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name.
Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE:
I remember the minute when I knew for sure.
The willows were chilling,
The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine--
It had a consequential look, like everything else,
And all I could see was dangers:  doves and words,
Stars and showers of gold--conceptions, conceptions!
I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look,
Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river.
There is a snake in swans.
He glided by; his eye had a black meaning.
I saw the world in it--small, mean and black,
Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act.
A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn't ready.  The white clouds rearing
Aside were dragging me in four directions.
I wasn't ready.
I had no reverence.
I thought I could deny the consequence--
But it was too late for that.  It was too late, and the face
Went on shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE:
It is a world of snow now.  I am not at home.
How white these sheets are.  The faces have no features.
They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children,
Those little sick ones that elude my arms.
Other children do not touch me:  they are terrible.
They have too many colors, too much life.  They are not quiet,
Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances.  I have tried and tried.
I have stitched life into me like a rare *****,
And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare.
I have tried not to think too hard.  I have tried to be natural.
I have tried to be blind in love, like other women,
Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one,
Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look.  But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
In its easy peace, could only keep holy so.
And then there were other faces.  The faces of nations,
Governments, parliaments, societies,
The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind:
They are so jealous of anything that is not flat!  They are jealous gods
That would have the whole world flat because they are.
I see the Father conversing with the Son.
Such flatness cannot but be holy.
'Let us make a heaven,' they say.
'Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.'

FIRST VOICE:
I am calm.  I am calm.  It is the calm before something awful:
The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves
Turn up their hands, their pallors.  It is so quiet here.
The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks.
Voices stand back and flatten.  Their visible hieroglyphs
Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off.
They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown.  I am a seed about to break.
The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen:
It does not wish to be more, or different.
Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary.
O color of distance and forgetfulness!--
When will it be, the second when Time breaks
And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart--
Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial.
Waiting lies heavy on my lids.  It lies like sleep,
Like a big sea.  Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug
Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal.
And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach
Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE:
I am a mountain now, among mountainy women.
The doctors move among us as if our bigness
Frightened the mind.  They smile like fools.
They are to blame for what I am, and they know it.
They hug their flatness like a kind of health.
And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did?
They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs?
I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments.
It is a place of shrieks.  It is not happy.
'This is where you will come when you are ready.'
The night lights are flat red moons.  They are dull with blood.
I am not ready for anything to happen.
I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE:
There is no miracle more cruel than this.
I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves.
I last.  I last it out.  I accomplish a work.
Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations,
The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces.
I am the center of an atrocity.
What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence **** and ****?  It milks my life.
The trees wither in the street.  The rain is corrosive.
I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors,
The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers
With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.
I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting.
I shall be a sky and a hill of good:  O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity.
I am breaking apart like the world.  There is this blackness,
This ram of blackness.  I fold my hands on a mountain.
The air is thick.  It is thick with this working.
I am used.  I am drummed into use.
My eyes are squeezed by this blackness.
I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE:
I am accused.  I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies.  I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing.  And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It is a love of death that sickens everything.
A dead sun stains the newsprint.  It is red.
I lose life after life.  The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all.  So she supports us,
Fattens us, is kind.  Her mouth is red.
I know her.  I know her intimately--
Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb.
Men have used her meanly.  She will eat them.
Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end.
The sun is down.  I die.  I make a death.

FIRST VOICE:
Who is he, this blue, furious boy,
Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star?
He is looking so angrily!
He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel.
The blue color pales.  He is human after all.
A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood;
They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him.  May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE:
There is the moon in the high window.  It is over.
How winter fills my soul!  And that chalk light
Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices,
Empty schoolrooms, empty churches.  O so much emptiness!
There is this cessation.  This terrible cessation of everything.
These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers--
What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument.
And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth
Open in its gape of perpetual grieving.
It is she that drags the blood-black sea around
Month after month, with its voices of failure.
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string.
I am restless.  Restless and useless.  I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north.  I shall move into a long blackness.
I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman,
Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man
Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack.  I feel a lack.
I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.  I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral.
I shall not be accused by isolate buttons,
Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces
Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case.
I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused.
The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars
That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE:
I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl.
She is crying through the glass that separates us.
She is crying, and she is furious.
Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats.
It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice.
She is crying at the dark, or at the stars
That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood,
A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open.
And from the open mouth issue sharp cries
Scratching at my sleep like arrows,
Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side.
My daughter has no teeth.  Her mouth is wide.
It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE:
What is it that flings these innocent souls at us?
Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out
In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists,
The little silver trophies they've come so far for.
There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald.
Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red;
They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water; they have no expression.
Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water.
They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments.
I see them showering like stars on to the world--
On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images.  They smell of milk.
Their footsoles are untouched.  They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal?
Here is my son.
His wide eye is that general, flat blue.
He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant.
One cry.  It is the hook I hang on.
And I am a river of milk.
I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE:
I am not ugly.  I am even beautiful.
The mirror gives back a woman without deformity.
The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity.
It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen.
It is usual in my life, and the lives of others.
I am one in five, something like that.  I am not hopeless.
I am beautiful as a statistic.  Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth.
The red mouth I put by with my identity
A day ago, two days, three days ago.  It was a Friday.
I do not even need a holiday; I can go to work today.
I can love my husband, who will understand.
Who will love me through the blur of my deformity
As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless.  So I walk
Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well.
And learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue.
The body is resourceful.
The body of a starfish can grow back its arms
And newts are prodigal in legs.  And may I be
As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE:
She is a small island, asleep and peaceful,
And I am a white ship hooting:  Goodbye, goodbye.
The day is blazing.  It is very mournful.
The flowers in this room are red and tropical.
They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for
        tenderly.
Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces.
There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know.
There is my comb and brush.  There is an emptiness.
I am so vulnerable suddenly.
I am a wound walking out of hospital.
I am a wound that they are letting go.
I leave my health behind.  I leave someone
Who would adhere to me:  I undo her fingers like bandages:  I go.

SECOND VOICE:
I am myself again.  There are no loose ends.
I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments.
I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened,
Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again.
There little black twigs do not think to bud,
Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain.
This woman who meets me in windows--she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit.
how shyly she superimposes her neat self
On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs.
She is deferring to reality.
It is I.  It is I--
Tasting the bitterness between my teeth.
The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE:
How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off?
How long can I be
Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand,
Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow
Lap at my back ineluctably.
How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property?
How long can my hands
Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words
Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling?
It is a terrible thing
To be so open:  it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE:
Today the colleges are drunk with spring.
My black gown is a little funeral:
It shows I am serious.
The books I carry wedge into my side.
I had an old wound once, but it is healing.
I had a dream of an island, red with cries.
It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE:
Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house.
The swifts are back.  They are shrieking like paper rockets.
I hear the sound of the hours
Widen and die in the hedgerows.  I hear the moo of cows.
The colors replenish themselves, and the wet
Thatch smokes in the sun.
The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured.  I am reassured.
These are the clear bright colors of the nursery,
The talking ducks, the happy lambs.
I am simple again.  I believe in miracles.
I do not believe in those terrible children
Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands.
They are not mine.  They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality.
I shall meditate upon my little son.
He does not walk. &n

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ----
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free ----
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

I'm tired of waiting,
Just ******* die.
Too harsh?
Perhaps a delicate massage
Before I snap your neck,
Like wringing out a mouse
The cat dragged in,
Its poor beggar body
Broken in the cat's sin.
Perhaps a drink,
Spiked with hatred
Distilled in glass warning
Skulls and crossbones
Tucked behind the tray of biscuits
And endless chocolate ice cream cones.
Is it so hard to do?
Just stop breathing, shut it off,
Stop the heart.
Perhaps you can hold your breath,
Like the countless times I held mine
When I was forced to breathe in yours
While I swabbed your chin,
Dabbing up a dinner
That should have gone straight in.

Just die and get it over with.

I don't mean it.  Not really.

No I don't want you in a home;
They can't care for you like me.
Who will give you all the hugs
That you would give for free?
Its not that they won't care for you,
Or wipe your chin from drool,
Or even change your dress at night
After you had laid a stool.
It's just that they don't love you
And it's my curse to repay
All the love you gave to me
From birth through night and day.

Don't be mad at me,
I don't want you to go,
But I'm so tired of waiting;
No, I know that you don't know.

Every true crime documentary resides in me.
Binge used to be tied to drinking. The language, I think,
is evolving, and I walk the black part of town at
night on a double dare from a lady poet whose
lexical purview lies somewhere between her
**** and the moon. I'm a beacon of fairness,
fair trade coffee stains my teeth, my lenin pants
imported from Bali are ethically made, and I speak
in a respectable and thoughtful half whisper
like the women of the QVC.
I return to the loft free of gunshot wounds
and love my lady poet thin and love my lady poet
tall and she says confusion is the only sustainable
state of being and I say I can agree with that and
she says she's been thinking about transitioning
and I say into more responsibility at work? and she
says haha no. Into a man.
And three weeks later I watch her read a poem
entitled "Traffic My **** Transgender *** to Heaven,"
she goes home with one, two, three Sylvia Plath lookalikes,
and I get swabbed at the doctors and I get prescribed
a moderate dose of Effexor and I speak in high school
Spanish to my office crush — she's from Venezuela, I think.
Power. Control. Stockings, I tell her, I have a thing for stockings
and pink cotton socks. One more drink and I'll hit my
groove. Chill. Power. Control. Put on that soul song I like.
Didn't I do it, baby?

I met a little boy, he loved the color blue.
All he did was laugh and sing, merrily free.
Man, don't you wish we could be this boy too?
He swabbed the deck; a pirate at sea,
A brave knight, or keeper of zoos!
Perhaps a king, sipping tea.
Perhaps milking cows! moo!
Yet he is not sick.

Today mom cried
Over my bed.
On my head.

Province acreage dies for one to tilleth its deserted range
Wherein cement meets the grain
It's love wants to be an emblem upon the world's and celestial's mapped blueprint........

Sick of nothing
Infirmed by zich
Swabbed by heartache
Taping its own stitch...    

Just another moorland
Who Gaveth all
Lost to
Hopeless romance merry....

Depletedness licketh...  


Deprived
Scanting
Panting its last sad hopeful breathe!!!!

Tis
All it hath left
As its been pruned
And left for rocks to corrode...

Sold its soul.....


One of old,
Superannuated doppelganger.....



An obsolete antediluvian
One not meant
For loam inanimate's.....



By me( Brandon nagley) - ( lonesome poets poetry)

~


Windows show the world…
Beyond this pane of glass sits my imagination,
well beyond the reflection that greets me
A smiling face perhaps, a somber frown at times,
this transparent image
like a soldier, guards my thoughts
and holds my dreams captive


I can see the chest rise and lower
as breaths escape the figure telling me
it lives, at least for this moment
Still the worry of loss fights through the ghost-like outline
invading my soul,
pulling and pushing on my heart,
leaving me exhausted as my mind sails to the silhouette ahead


Two ships, why do they always pass,
why is it always at night,
when faces are obscured and merely shadows
of a dancing moon
Ripples of friendship, waves of anguish wake,
not knowing the set course or the boundaries of love,
reaching for the anchor…much too late


Currents swiftly dispatch the emotions,
wash away the feelings in salt water swells
Sails are hoisted, memories are swabbed,
clean as a whistle,
melodic and sad for the song
sinks slowly into the mist
only to be swallowed by the sea


Still, here I sit, gazing at this clear protection
finding not sea worthy vessels, but street lights call
and morning suns rise
to eliminate my reflection
as fingers type in the realization
that beyond this glass sits nothing,
for once again I am alone

Darkened blue splotch
Swabbed with remnants of night
Liquid opal slants
Almost vertically
Shimmering through car window
Of grey-tinted dawn.

The forgotten essential workers
Who is seldom mention.
Who is so often belittle,
Porters,
Cooks,
Laundry workers
Dish-washers,
Elevator-repair men
Recreations,
Front Desk clerks
Certified Nurse’s Aide
Home health aide
Waiters,
God! Oh how hard we work!
Private’s aides

Now as we celebrate Juneteenth 19
Black lives matters, can we really be seen
After four hundred years of oppressions
Can we tossed back river of tears
we are in 2020 is this our commission?

We as Essential workers in your nursing homes
Being tested twice a week,
By your essential worker phlebotomist
Who puncture my vein with his cannula?
For the governor executives order
listen up you uncouth nurses who poke
The swab sticks deep into my nose.
Listen this quackery has to end!
Pandemic, politics, election strategy
We essential need more respect.
You with your white privileges, and your treats

(RE: PCR swabbing, week being on Wednesday and ends on Tuesday.
If you work 4 or more days you need to be swabbed 2x per week
In a 48hrs time frame, if not you will be taken off the schedule
You will be humiliated, said the Administrator  Mr. Sal
Because he is not a babysitter there to reminds you..
Said a non- professional white privileges)
as the city navigate the pandemic
moving on to injustices of systemic racism,
poverty, militarism and
a war economy:

Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe..
I
Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe

This bitter endgame theory
is the remnant of us
tightly clutched in a loose collection
of dulled hidden blades I kept in
empty sugar pill bottles
for moments such as these
My shallow breath slowing
showing
nothing left but hesitation marks manifesto readings
to stave off never lasting mob stompers
losing control of thought criminal empires
All is lost with wounds swabbed in hopes of growing cultures
not inundated by murderland vultures
cackling that doomsday clock apocalyptic-talk
as they pick apart failed crop circles
The past is in the past but remains so tense
as you stand revolted by wretched plans
while wrenching cold calculating razors from my hand
because being allowed to touch seemed so unattainable to me
in the first place
and now that you're gone
I
am
so
scar struck.

Windows show the world…
Beyond this pane of glass sits my imagination,
well beyond the reflection that greets me
A smiling face perhaps, a somber frown at times,
this transparent image
like a soldier, guards my thoughts
and holds my dreams captive


I can see the chest rise and lower
as breaths escape the figure telling me
it lives, at least for this moment
Still the worry of loss fights through the ghost-like outline
invading my soul,
pulling and pushing on my heart,
leaving me exhausted as my mind sails to the silhouette ahead


Two ships, why do they always pass,
why is it always at night,
when faces are obscured and merely shadows
of a dancing moon
Ripples of friendship, waves of anguish wake,
not knowing the set course or the boundaries of love,
reaching for the anchor…much too late


Currents swiftly dispatch the emotions,
wash away the feelings in salt water swells
Sails are hoisted, memories are swabbed,
clean as a whistle,
melodic and sad for the song
sinks slowly into the mist
only to be swallowed by the sea


Still, here I sit, gazing at this clear protection
finding not sea worthy vessels, but street lights call
and morning suns rise
to eliminate my reflection
as fingers type in the realization
that beyond this glass sits nothing,
for once again I am alone

Heaved aboard-
lay flat on your back
on swabbed and
polished deckboards
and watch the white
sails fill

As we sail into dawn,
red and yellow banners
counter intuitive,
streaming ahead of our
godspeed.

Unwrecked,
rescued,
lifted from fossil sea

Powered by wind
to cut wine-dark waters
homeward
bound roped and rigged

And freedomed

She pulled her upper lip
Down across her teeth,
Tilted back her head,
Flew her eyes at half-mast
While perfect tiny fingers worked
Brushed and swabbed,
Dressed, accentuated,
And brought to life perfection
Already there.
A powder, a crème
A special brush to apply
On her lips and brows,
And eyes that tear apart
My soul
Each time she blinks
And smiles.
How I was so startled
To find myself,
How amazed I was
To be so mesmerized,
How intrigued I was
To be so humbled,
Allowed to watch
This simple act,
Her practiced step-by-step,
Preparing for the day
While she drew me in
And gave to me a gift
Of rare and honest beauty.
And stepping back to assess
Her practiced work
Then to dress
And dash so quickly
Prepare for day’s  
Each tick and tie
Remembering that there am I
Gazing while
The time draws near
When out the door
To disappear,
And once again
I am in wait
Till beauty comes
To hold me near.

set the scene, you are old. As old as any one you ever knew.
Locked in

isolated for the incubation of whatever they
they
they, these
masked  others,
I see eyes only, like if Lone Ranger were inside out,
where his mask is, is eyes and their fleshy environs
to the edge of brows, still effectively
arching, one by one in some
models of these hoo-min…
beings

whatever they swabbed in my gnose… is
working…
Things morphevolverevolve and twist to catch a beam
slipping past the shades,

see, there
in your eye, I see, that mote be me, my self,
might I

extract my self and leave you wishing for more?

Dappled sweat, bile, snot, the quick
Boiled then burst. A flushed anemic,
My body nothing but a seam.

Rag slopped, sodden shot to wick,
Smeared the table thick with sheen,
Rutting reek on things pristine.

Outpours the raw and unhygenic -
Perfection is this bowl swabbed clean.

They swabbed my
nostrils
testing to see
if
I've contracted the
coronavirus;

keeping my fingers
crossed
that I'm not
sick.

Rubbed drying earth from my hands,  
swabbed my brow with my shirt tail.
Jeans stained with mud and plant juices,
the shovel rests without complaint on the lawn (It's use to me by now).
Though my back aches
and blistered hands shake,
despite being beat and done,
working out doors
under the intense sun,
crawling with insects
stinking of sweat,
I feel more satisfied
than when I sit
in a clean office
on a comfortable chair
with only a phone to lift.

i am synthesized under a microscope
like being shot through by many arrows
slowly-
slidedark around the corners of the glass.
i twist and roll .      belly over
ribs
as her eyes, chalky, talk to me.
i take it
toothily
soil-minded, both.
heads with weapons.

gritty gums is love+
dim viewfinder is love+

dust in the screen-shine
and shoes under the table

[my] cheeks are drying out
each time they are swabbed.

[i could be i n the world
i could be in this world]

the watchband is tightening. as the arms
are . swelling
as the sea is rising
rinsing salt [and other semi-conductors]
around in my mouth
caking crystals deeply into pores and
dimples

like thefloodlights         coming     o  n
to **** with the lives of bats
and bugs .     both

My mood is constantly fluctuating,
They are the mighty seas of my life,
Sometimes I feel like a faithful captain,
Never abandoning my ship,
Other times I feel like a shipwrecked sailor,
My ship overturned by the waves of my emotions,
I feel second to the raging waters,
I know I would fight for my life to stay afloat,
My ship is made of my experiences,
I make small repairs every now and again,
I tear up the mast when I can’t look too far ahead,
I question my own ship and walk on my own plank giving in to the rushing waters,
I feel like I have done wrong,
That my ship is not special,
That I should be no captain of my soul,
But there is no one who knows my boat best,
I know every crack, crease, and leek,
My cabin is safer than the mast,
I go here to write of a fearless sailor they say once inhabited my boat,
A man who knew no fear except to one day find calm waters,
He would climb to the crows peak with a dirk in his mouth to loosen the chains of resentment and self pity,
The hurricane slowed and the captain returned to his cabin,
Now all I know is the fear of the storm,
My soul needs rest,
Company is always appreciated, but I never really swabbed the deck,
I pray you overlook the mess friend,
My ship has nothing to hide.

The plasticiser of human flesh–
Influence,
Poured on without filter or mesh.
Swabbed, glazed
Over a body.
The victim left in a daze
While we
Watch (unknowingly? Or not?)
As they rot away,
Day by day.
They’re less brittle,
Yet it seems this plasticiser has little
Positive effect.
For the promoting of flexibility
Just seems to mean two-facedness
And a lack of respect
To them and me.
Plasticiser just turning our world to mush–
To get it done,
I’m truly in no rush.

Like twinkling drops of hallowed lambanog
that you later called miraculous coco *****,
they remained in the night sky of your shot glass
after you tried to drown the sorrowful mysteries
in countless gulps of your comforting best friend,
anaesthetizing every pain in your fatigued heart.
There your imagined liquor-incarnate compadre
of one comforter spirit friend and brother beside
sitting, hugging your shoulders, in whispers telling
you, you’re not alone, just cry if you need to, crying
as no Jesus or Mary could save your unfortunate soul
sentenced and punished without trial, by sheer strike
of Luck or lack of it. Keeping the faith despite the fate.

Not even a single teasing demon to offer you to pawn
your one forsaken spirit. Gods are deaf. Salve Regina!
yelling to high heavens, growling to the deepest hells
"Eli, Eli, Lama, Sabachthani?” - viral pneumonia spells
the names of maimed friends and silenced co-workers
“in no particular order!” as if finalists in that pageantry,
we call pandemic - worldwide but never world class
- and only the coronavirus wears the crown and reigns.

The roll call of the departed has become as endless
as the river of tears and sent messages of sympathies
and ocean deep condolences and sincerest wishes of
peaceful rests, soul or no soul, expressed. Covid or not,
all the dead are suspected zombies and swabbed; a stick
up one’s nose has taken new meanings. And thinking
positive is suddenly not on, not in, but off – it’s feared.

Life is like the alcohol with which we wash our hands.
It easily evaporates, leaving our skin feeling cold. Like
when Sepsis claimed a dear sister on New Year’s Day –
Anxiety is a real, a dangerous reality. Then colleagues,
mentors, friends, relatives, acquaintances, mother of one
pal, a health worker, front liners, a driver, a poor child,
a teacher, a student, a jobless man, a millionaire, an idol
An aunt passes away, on one unhappy day. Grim Reaper
blindly, swiftly, sweeps the shining sickle, the scythe . . .
and the life that began at daybreak is gone, gone, so quick.
All grains harvested in just a day.
Life. Just one short day.
One day.

I am reminded of the ghosts of wars past.
The unknown unknowns.
Shedding blood for profit
Necessary to an empire of pretenders

When I see the desiccated bones of the soul
That died a few yards from the bent flag pole of the mutilated water station.
Blue barrels chain-sawed.
Under a withered live oak.  

“He stuffed photocopied money into his pockets . . .
Said the anthropologist, as she reverently swabbed the bones for a DNA sample,
“And sewed pockets into the jacket for his real money.”
Before gently placing the remains in a black trash bag.
Like the one I imagine Donald has
In his garage back home.

Pink and orange
smear
the gray clouds

as though a ***** mop
swabbed

the darkness
and the night away

it's over now
I forgive you

why

I do not know

I just will
I just am
and it'll just be

Whit Howland © 2020