Ganges, dawn, a luminous haze
over the water. The bathing ghats
are busy with the faithful. (But India
is inconceivable without faith.)  
The robed bathers, raising river water
to the sun, pouring it back
to mother Ganges, are they worshipping
the sun or the river?
For them God is everywhere
and everything.  Water, sun,
the river and the twinkling lamps floating on it
are part of one consciousness.

The burning ghats too (such quantities of wood
stacked ready) are beginning their day.
The funeral party approaching in respectful haste
have a job to do. They build their pile,
move the body to the wood,
start the fire. I watch, but not for long.
This moment, so intimate, so public, reminds me
I am an intruder here. The ashes
will return to Ganga unwitnessed by me.

Away from the river, the vendors of tea
do their trade among the stalls. Monkeys,
cheerfully pilfering, are chased away
half-heartedly, for they are Hanuman’s representatives,
and they, with the sacred, garbage-clearing cows,
are part of the one consciousness. In this land
all are “the faithful”, everything is God’s creation.
In this poverty is richness.

The city is loud with chimneys,
bristling with dimpled sky dishes,
afloat in a dammed lake of sunset fenestration,
beneath unwitnessed, unappreciated clouds,
its streets a grid of flowless canals,
to the music of "Hey, mister, got any change?"
Oh,
but,
when the lights go down,
and the pretty people come out!
and the beef bouncers sort snort the buzzing sequin queen queues
for the sparkle dance houses,
the city,
the city,
can one ever get enough?

If a tree falls in the forest
And no one is around to hear it
Does it make  a sound

If a gun goes crack in the night
A soul leaves a body limp
Did anyone care enough to see it

If a young man dies alone in a desert
And no one's back home to fear  it
Does anyone care

If a little girl falls in a pool
But mommy never came home
Does she still get a head stone

If a man dies in a crowd
But noone looks up from thier phone
Wasnt he also alone

a glass chalice shattered on marble steps,
a cherub speared by his own arrow—
    do not tell me you do not hear it.

where moon boys and glossy girls live boldly,
they glow, shining and tacky like transparent saran
wrap
a rope around your neck and
stay.
for where death is present, so too is its midwife.

inhale exhale
in the dark
help guide me to the exit sign

oh! perform for the lords and ladies,
lie down under lights and washes of blushing love,
over your body
lay a rose for crows who do not sing.

but beware, when slowly will a golden shroud descend

and you will fall to your knees.
(as petals fall to the ground, so soft)
and it will part a way
(if buttery light could cleave so)
not clear but swiftly fading, slowing

illuminated faintly dimly glowing
above me reaching inhale
exhale inhale exhale inha—

thank you.

.
oh fallen child, where have you gone?
is there really balm in Gilead
or is that the mistaken hope of every saint and sinner?

it is a silent night tonight, blessed with only one star,
and i hope that it is yours.
for the world went black when you closed your eyes
and will need new seeds of light.

how did we fail you so badly?
how did we fail to see underneath, fail to
hear you screaming, telling us you felt wrong.
you spoke out for us, lifted us in our silence,
and yet, we said nary a word during yours.

it is not hard to tell someone they are loved.
to let them know that they have done well, that they have worked hard;
to lighten someone’s heart with a simple word or two.

for in this life of stop and go, the rush and sigh of a few billion souls
runs fast like rapids beneath the feet, and
it is not so hard to be
lost ,
swept up amidst a current of
mockingly pulsating restless life,
all the while being buried ,
fathoms beneath a violent sea of wrath,
a tempest held in depthless waters, a fight unresolved—  
where, under the shadows of a brooding cloud and a weeping rain,
our sorrows will wash over us.

but what good is a battle unwitnessed?
address it say its name.
stop hiding it behind plastic flowers and brittle leaves,
under rice-paper skin and honey smiles.
rip the valance off
of this drapery of deceit
and lay bare before the world the truth.

it was suicide.

he took his life.

mental health is real.
perfection is not.

reach out.
speak up.
give love.

if anyone can be saved, then
let not your death be in vain.
.


rest in paradise, jonghyun.

Precise scaffold silhouette
slants sharply across smoothed
cement. Narrow shadow shaft bisects
unfinished window, points
toward glowing sunlit
sliver of grey wall. Mundane
beauty, workday
glory unwitnessed.

There are no pictures of the forgotten child
just second hand memories
of a police station handmedown
and too many mothers.

There are no echoes of my smile to be found in family albums

No book to lovingly hold the dates of firsts unwitnessed by love.

Yellowed paper bears witness to my existence, a name given, typed above that of an unknown Father and a mother too new to bear my needs.

There are no tales of first days and birthdays, no tears of joy at my arrival, nor at my loss.
Just me, a girl with no past and a stolen future, screaming at shadows while clutching at straws, hoping that someday my face will be reflected by that which I did not create.

Girl, it is summer in just a few months.
Springtime -a newborn that screams.
World will be warmer with wildness in hunt.
Winds wave away winter dreams.

Girl, we could sleep just as normal would be.
Awaken when sun chases moon.
But baby tonight, let's get lost in the night,
Let's get dressed, see the sun's setting soon.

Boy, you will say, not a scene have I seen
That scares me and still owns my eyes
The way this is cut from the textile of dreams,
You were right; I did not realize.

You'll see elk in the moonlight; not sensing us there,
Bats between branches in dance.
All playing near to the river down here,
Like some unwitnessed rural romance.

But more than the Wild, there are mysteries still,
Of nature beyond what we know.
Of trolls and of elves and of creatures that will
Only let nighttime them show.

Let's get lost in the woods, find our animal roots,
I will go there with you if you might. By
When Sun lights her flame, we will not be the same.
Let's get lost in the woods tonight.

Each twilight goes unwitnessed
I haven’t had a meaningful conversation in years
And as the hours pass between waking and dying
I scarcely feel emotion, I scarcely know life
I can’t remember what I did a week ago
But likely it was unremarkable
And the week before that I might have tossed a ball
Although that seems too recent
Things are harder now, despite the congruence
I could be doing those same things
Without knowing it
And each fetch is like an unanswered question
Soothing, in its clumsy forthrightness
The ***** of my yard, dramatically subtle
I assume the sky’s above me as I bend
Here is the ball, I’m picking it up

~for betterdays, and all Aussies~


the fires massifs all around, the smokes surrounds,
the house invaded with closed-out-of-college students,
mother and father who are similarly workless, a fire bounty,
all this a treat to an nine year old (no school) boy and his dog

newly self-appointed ringleader, the little boy,
in his fire heaven, with a gang to command, to entertain,
some adults, silly college students, who don’t know “no,”
when he says this is the game we are playing next

this vignette, is not a Manhattan variety^
but an insight story heard, unwitnessed, but of
those who tell the tale, unwittingly, of finding small joys
amidst sky-full clouds, all grayed bunting of burning stink

few wiser than my old, tired and smokey clouded eyes,
though, one yet detects those who are truly not lost,
those who are found, and those who will find them all,
and lead them to the safest places inside themselves

and my heart and brain, at last in unison,
forgives the restless adults who with grownup worries,
yet can! just barely detect those mini joy-rivulets among the whiffs
of destruction and bravery, losses and new hands extended

So I ask, Mum, what game shall we play next?

Perhaps, Noah’s Ark?

Searching

In the ashes

Of our

Unwitnessed

Love

I resurgence

The ancient

By us

Fire

And your lips

The hands

Of

Prometheus

Not quite sure
How we

Ended up
Without clothes

I hold you
My chest to your

Back
Eyes interlocked

In mirror
I help myself

To your every
Treasure

You try to close
Your eyes

But we are too
Beautiful

To be
Unwitnessed

You lean an ocean
Of raven hair

Against my
Face

And whisper
The Devil's honest

Truth: Everything
You see

Is
Yours

I
Know

Out of all the living things that are alive on this planet, I believe that the true witnesses of love were the trees that root the earth. In the history of the world, you will always see one growing tall and strong. And if you don't see one growing, then you'd find yourself unwitnessed of your love. For in the trees were carvings of every movement of the wind, sun and rain. Markings of wars that fought for love, and names of people who fought with love. The trees were there to witness love through the air, for every moment the air becomes wind was a moment that love was being felt. Maybe, when we cut a tree, maybe we should first think of the love it witnessed. For every tree that's cut, believe that it once saw and felt love. Whether it was plant or animal, human or God. It was there to witness love.

Every movement
Every twitching
Every bruise and
Every blister
The dark fine line
My blood glistens
In the moonlight
Ain’t it twisted?

Every vision
Black and blue, I’m
Used, abused, Crime
To suicide
Every sharp sur-
Face of the knives
Every blunt hammerhead
That I’ve tried

‘Fore they knew I’m
Painting pictures
Inhumane crimes
Still unwitnessed
Going through, I’m
Thorough, twisted
Me beyond recognition
Ain’t it vicious?

I deserve hurt
I deserve pain
I deserve work
I deserve strain

Self-starvation
Unsatisfactory
Tainted believes
I become feign

What good is art if no one sees it?
Silent, unwitnessed catharsis.
The magic is in the witnessing.
I still write (emo) poems.
I've been too self-conscious to share them
...not even that really.
I've been protecting myself
after many periods of over-sharing.
My poems are a reflection of the deepest part of me,
things I don't speak out loud.
I lost trust.
I lost faith in the world.
In you.
In your ability to witness me,
to make space for me,
to hold me the way I really am.
Yet,
I keep writing,
compelled by the demons in me.

Squandered an hour or so
chasing an echo's
last rebound
off mountain slopes
until the final "hello"
fell unanswered as it petered out tapering to a point of silence.

A squandered hour or so
making sure I was all alone
Sometimes and some places
are better being by oneself
like when you need a primal scream to rip open
unwitnessed,
unseen
for some the burden of despair
is too personal to be shared,
and no, talking doesn't always help.

earth is a place in which a poem is produced at least once a minute
or so it seems
HePo has spaces in between
how we love to linger amongst those
but not everything ends up here
and so much goes unsaid
there is ink on page - an anachronism in these days
as waves crash down on sand - unrelenting
on all the beaches
witnessed or unwitnessed
lost in the solar wind
perchance, I saw yours
perchance, you saw mine
and perchance, an arc sparked, cross this distance
in this fleck of time