THE RAT AND THE PREGNANT WOMAN


A story poem

BY

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



Dedicated to;
My mother Neddy Nabisino Mayende Kuloba Makhakara
And her mother Maritini Nabengele Nasenya Mulemia Namugugu Ilungu wa Wenwa.
The story telling power of these two ladies is the primary source of my passion and love for humorous and peace bettling stories. I owe them all the recognitions.







OPENING SONG
How do I start telling this story that I got from my
Grandmothers when sited around the fire yard in the evening?
I don’t know how to start surely,
For to day I am very shy; all of your eyes
Are on me, looking at me like ocean of looking organs
But let me embolden my self with the belt
Of a story teller that my grand father gave me
And commanded me to preach peace
Through story telling in every place I go
So my spiritual service to humanity is telling stories
Is to soothe and heal wounds of humanity
By softly telling peaceful stories
Let me then cough to clear my voice and start;

Long time ago, but not very long time
Some where between the centuries of twelve hundred
And seventeen hundred after the death of the other Jewish
Story teller who died without a wife, who died on the cross
But others say he died on the stake, his name was Jesus,
There existed only two kingdoms in land which is known today
As Bukusu land found in the present east Africa or Indian Ocean coastal Africa,
The first occupants of this vast land is the sons and daughters of Babukusu
Or the ones who like selling ironsmith products
And hence the name the people of Bukusu; the people who sell,
The two kingdoms were the Kingdom of muntu and the kingdom of manani
The citizens in the kingdom of muntu were short men and short women
Handsome and beautiful, slender and not assertive in their physical disposition
But the citizens of the kingdom of manani were all cyclopic,
In their everything; the manner of walking, talking farting, micturating
Farming, breathing, snoring, smiling, singing, whispering
Their whisper was a noisy as the tropical thunderclap
They were tall men and tall women, very tall
Their young person was as short as the tallest
Person in the kingdom of muntu,
When one of the citizen of manani snores
All the citizens of Muntu along together with,
Their king Walumoli wa Muntu had no option
But remain awake throughout the night,
Because the cacophony of a snore from
The sleeping courts of Manani was not bearable,

On many occasions Walumoli wa Muntu
The conscientious king of the muntu kingdom
Had arranged to talk to Silinki wa Namunguba
The ostensible king of the Manani Kingdom
About the cacophonous sleep robbing
Snores of daughters and sons in neighbour kingdom of Manani
Only to cow and chicken away in a feat of prudence
Lest Silinki wa Namunguba will suspect him for being
A night runner or a thief of *** perhaps
Who roams his compound during the wee of the night
In hunt of any of Namunguba’s wife maybe
Perchance having gone out for a mid-night *******,
This is how legendary snores of the sons and daughters
Of Silinki wa Namunguba the king of Manani
Has remained unchecked for ever till today,

One time an ugly passer by happened to be seen
Traversing the kingdom of muntu
In the early afternoon some two
Hours after Walumoli the king
Had just cleared the last plate
Of the mid day meal from
His last wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
He always eats her food last in the afternoon
Because it comes on the table steaming youthfulness
He loves his Khatembete wife, the wife of his old age
The wife he married by use and show of the royal regalia
The powers and dignity of the king of muntu
He married her when he his a king, the scepter in his hand,

Going back to the ugly passer by
It was never known where he came from
Not from the east where the Indian Ocean is
Not from the west where the vastness of the land
Of black people of Baganda and Bacongo
Baigbo and Bayoruba or Bafulana of Nigeria
Or the sons of Madiokor Ngoni Diop in the Senegal,
Not from the south from shaka the Zulu and Mandella the wise one
Not from north in the land of Dinka and Nuer, Ethiopian Jewish and the Egyptians,
The passerby was ugly and from no where, in a dress and
A very ***** dress that fumed out a malodorously stenching reek
He was a man in attires of a woman; this was a taboo in the land of muntu
He was left handed and a heavy weight stammerer, with an appalling
Protuberation of   a hunched back, an enormous hunchback
Enmassing entired of his masculine shoulders,
When the wind blew his loose dress followed it
Leaving the man’s thighs and then bossom naked,
Leading bystanders to a strange discovery; he was not circumcised
He was old like any other father, he had beards
But not yet circumcised, his ***** ends in corkscrew of a sheath,
This was a taboo in the land of muntu, in the kingdom of muntu
Which Walumoli wa Muntu the son of Mukitang’a Mutukuika ruled
For the spirits, gods and ancestors as well as foremen of the kingdom
Behooved that all male offsprings of the kingdom of muntu
Whether born in marriage or out of the wedlock
Born the blood or born as a ******* must and must be
Circumcised in the early teen hood
They must be circumcised before they grow the hairs
On the face, on the chest, in the scapula and on the areas
Surrounding the testicles, the **** and the endings of the backbone,
The man again had six fingers on the legs and on the hands
He walks slowly like a porcupine, his dress was in tartars
He was violent to every one he met
Insulting old people and old women with words
Of bad manners not used in the kingdom of muntu,
He terrified and beat young children, including the royal children
And grand children of Walumoli the king of muntu
He again had to beat and chase nine young virgins
Who had come from the palace of Walumoli the king of Muntu
Away from the forest when they picking fire wood
As well as playing a game of hide and seek with other palace lads,
The ugly passer by then chased to get hold of the
Nalukosi the first born daughter of
Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
The beloved last wife of the king of Muntu
All other virgins ran home, but Nalukosi remained behind
In the inextricable grip of the ugly passer by
She screamed with hysteria of a hypochondriac
She screamed and kicked with her wholesome mighty
The stubborn passer by never left her alone
She gnawed the ugly passer by with
Her girlish claws of her fingernails
But is like the passer by was mentally disordered
He was a ******* of some time
He derived some pleasure and instead
Enjoyed the girlish scratches of his captive,
Before the eight running virgins reached the palace
Together with their companions, the playmate lads
The shrilling scream of the captive Nalukosi
Was sharply heard at the palace, first by King Walumoli
Who called his wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
To come out of the hut, the kitchen and help to listen,
Immediately Mukisu wa Mujonji the palace keeper surfaced
His face displayed genuine askance of an adept military man
Whose martial arts have rusted for a week without usage
He confirmed to the king that the cry from the forest
Is of the one from this royal home of your majesty the king
And none other than the ****** princes Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The pride of her father, the eye of the palace,
Without hesitation the king permitted the wallabying Mukisu ,
Permission to run in a military dint and find out whatever that
Was eating Nalukosi Mukoyonjo the familial heart of the king,
Mukisu wa Mujonji who was clearly known in the kingdom of muntu,
For his swift running like a desert kite, he already twice chased
And gotten single handedly two male gazelles,
Without aid of a dog nor aid of fellow hunters
And delivered them to the king as a present to the palace
Which he achieved because of the speed of his legs,
On this royal permission he unsheathed his matchette
And went away like any arrow from the bow
His shirt trailing behind him like mare’s tail
Or like the flag on the post on a windy day,
Not a lot of time passed.
Mukisu wa Mujonji is at the spot of struggle,
Between Nalukosi and the Ugly passerby
There was no question or talking,
The first thing was Mukisu to sink the Matchette
With all of his mighty into the tummy of the ugly stranger
The bowels of the ugly stranger opened puffwiiii!
He breathed and gasped twice then succumbed to death.
His grip still strong on the leg of Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The ugly passer by reached the rigor Mortis
When Nalukosi was still strongly gripped in his
Beastly hand, Mukisu wa Mujonji with all the skills
Used a Sharp matchette again; chopped of the hand
Of the ugly dead passer by off, from its torso
At the point of the muscular elbow,
Now Nalukosi was extricated, but not fully
From the grip of the dead ugly stranger,
The chopped off hand is still knotted at her leg
Around her leg, the dead hand also grips.
Nalukosi jumped here and there to throw away
The leg and the dead hand, but it was not easy to throw
The hand still stubbornly gripped around her angle,
*** time passed, each and every one of the kingdom came
Including the king Walumoli wa Muntu himself
And his nine wives, Khatembete Khobwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
Came last, as she was energyless due to rudely shocking tidings
Which the escaping virgins and lads had given her
That the ugly passer by had turned into the ogre
And had swallowed her daughter Nalukosi
That he had swallowed her piecemeal without chewing,
People of muntu came and found the ugly passerby dead
The left had chopped off its torso
But still hanging loosely on the leg of Nalukosi
Nalukosi jumping, kicking, screaming
Screaming away the dead hand from the grip of leg
But nothing had forthcame her way,
Walumoli wa Muntu could not afford to see
The hand on the leg of her beloved daughter
What could he tell his wife, is your all know
Dear reader and audience to this song;
Even the mighty and the wise ones
Generously bend when under the pressure of love,
Out of this dint, even before Mukisu wa Mujonji
Could display his next military card
Walumoli wa Muntu grapped the dead hand
That stuck of the leg of her daughter
And pulled it with another force that
No man born of woman has
Never used since the creation of the earth
By the gods and spirits of Muntu,
The hand come off, he throw it
On the cadaver of the ugly stranger,
He clicked and clicked and hissed
With anger like a wild turkey
In the African thorny forest,
He ordered the dead one to be buried
Their without haste, nor ceremony
Mukisu wa Mujonji buried the body
Quickly in a brief moment with precision
As if he was taking notes
From the lines of the poem
OF Pablo Neruda on how
To bury a dog behind the house
This time burying an ugly stranger
Behind the forts of the kingdom,
After all these women, children and men
Of muntu plus their king Walumoli
Went back to their houses hilariously
Broken into a song and a wild *** dance;
Makoe eehe! Makoe !
Nifwe Talangi Makoe !
Talangi!
Khwaula embogo sitella
Nifwe Talangi!
They sang up to midnight before
They all retired to their beds
Respective beds with panting thoraces
From heavy singing and dancing.

There is connection and disconexion between
The living and the dead, the living fear the dead
And dead loves the living,
The dead want the company of the living
For the living to accompany in the land of the dead,
When the ugly stranger was killed
And buried uncircumcised with the hunch
Not plucked out of his back
The gods and the livings dead
In the realm of the ancestors
Of the kingdom of Muntu were not happy,
They never wanted uncircumcised old man
With a hunch back to join them
And worse enough with the six fingers,
The gods and ancestors really god annoyed
That Walumoli wa Muntu has done them bad
He is only caring for the living, the pre-mortals
Especially his last wife and the daughter
But he has neglected the ancestors,
Why trash to ancestors a stark humanity,
They communed among themselves
And resolved to sent Namaroro
The god of dreams, dreams as messages
From the ancestors and dreams from the gods
Namaroro visited Namunyu Lubunda the palace
Prophet in the Kingdom of Muntu to pass
The message vesseling unhappiness of the ancestors
And gods in a blend of gloomy read to execute
A vendetta;
This is when in the wee of the night that Namunyu Lubunda
Dreamed and had a vision of a old man from
The east is warning of the coming long spell of starvation
That will befall the kingdom of Muntu for ten years
                                      That Namaroro told Namunyu Lubunda
As for ten seasons of foodlessness
Behold a begging kingdom
Behold a starving throne,
The scepter of Muntu is a disgrace
To the holder
Then Namunyu Lubunda set forth by dawn
To the Palace to meet Walumoli wa Muntu
In his, palace before any other royal chores come up,
Both good and bad luck combined
Only to have Namunyu Lubunda to get the king at the palace
He got him fresh and relaxed chewing the cup of fortune
In his full ego, all his wives had submitted to the morning dishes
To his dining hall in the palace, he moved his hands from
One plate of food to the other.
Namunyu Lubunda entered with a submissive salutation
To the royal, He bowed and declared the glory of the king
In typical standards of the ethnic composition of the house of Muntu
Walumoli wa Muntu Mukitang’a Mutukuika
Majave Kutusi Mbirira Omwene esimbo ya
Kumukasa,
Walumoli responded with a feat of dignity to Namunyu Lubunda
The palace prophet, as he roared to him; come in
Come in son of Lubunda son of our people,
He did mention the name of Namunyu Lubunda father
As he fears his words may escape with the power
Of his kingdom the scepter of Muntu
To other insignificant families in the kingdom,
Let me announce what brings me here; intoned Namunyu
Go ahead and announce my holiness
s the prophet of this kingdom; responded Walumoli,
Misfortune is awaiting the kingdom
It will eat this kingdom away
Like a ravenous hyena on the ewe’s tail
The ancestors and the spirits of this land
This kingdom of yours the son of Muntu
Are immensely offended with your recent behaviour
In which you commandeered all villages
In your kingdom; from east and west
The **** the innocent passer by
With your owner hands that handle the scepter
You killed and lay to rest the foreigner
A pure omurende to the kingdom of muntu
You buried him uncircumcised without contrite
In the cemeteries of our foremen who asleep and circumcised
Why did you lower the dignity of our forefathers
Who never share a roof with uncircumcised person
To share the ancestral realm; our emagombe
With hunchback foreigner not circumcised?
This kingdom is condemned to all spell of curse of death
Ceaseless hunger famines and starvation
Women dwindle in their reproductive capacity
Rarely will you come across a pregnant woman
Food will be difficulty to put on the table
Even the sweat of your brow will go to naught,
You will not be buried with insignia
Like a pauper you killed will you be buried
The house of your wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya is a house of no consequences
For even your daughter Nalukosi stands cursed
She will not mature to be wedded into a marriage
She will hover the earth under heavy agonies of hunger,
My assignment is done and over
With or without your permission let me go.









THE FIRST SONG
Our song continues dear brethren
Come join me in arms we sing
Joyous singing of these songs of peace
Telling the world peaceful stories
As we enjoy sitting together around my grandmothers fire yard
Warming our selves to her lovely fire inherent in her good stories,
These songs will sing the glory and success of the king of Manani
It is an irregular Ode to Silinki wa Namunguba the son of Mwangani,
The son of Tunduli, the son of Wajala Njovu, the son of Welikhe, the son
Of manyorori, the son of Chumbe, the son of Kajo, the Son of Mabati, the son of welotia,
The son of sikele sia mulia, the son of Toywa,the son of siruju, the son of Mango, the son of Mulwoni sinyanya Bakhasi, the son of Mbakara , the son of Makhakara wa Nambuya, the son of Mukoye mulala kukhalikha w0nga, the son of Zumba the son of God.
Silinki

Persephone runs amok, her hair caught on tendrils of wind,
eyes lucid as emeralds; aware, alive.
Hope is sketched on her face as if drawn by whoever paints the sunset,
pulsating with the reflection of neon cities, rolling countryside,
the adrenaline-pumping moment before a rollercoaster’s descent.
She is high on happiness, running across her plane of existence
with only her converse sneakers and extraordinary ambitions.

Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to Demeter.
Demeter, who is stern but unconditionally loving,
selfless, for when she hears her daughter’s plea for food she stops
her spoon midway through a bite.
When Persephone struggles with the perpetual torture of arithmetics,
Demeter’s sheer intelligence is astonishing, the iridescent reflection of
Persephone’s aspirations, for a problem to Demeter is merely
a hidden solution, a failure only a victory in waiting.

If only Demeter knew how her words are of the highest value,
her pleased smile the only affirmation to a job well done.
Her love cradled in the nook of Persephone memories,
every moment she is infinitely grateful to co-exist,
grateful for the Universe to award her the simple pleasure
of loving her parent with purity and stripped of conditions.

As Persephone runs, she glances back for a mere second,
in her smile is the mirror of her naivety,
she still believes that her Gods will save her from being a slave to
the inevitable corruption on Earth and Olympus,
for she is sure her untarnishable love for Demeter is her protector.

Yet, you know how the story goes.
In an instant, Persephone is falling into the Underworld, on the back of a beautiful monster into inescapable darkness.
But even then, she holds on to Demeter in thought and in prayer.
After adulthood, marriage, queenship, a childhood gone in a flash,
after her hands become worn with calluses, her face a series of rivers,
her mind expansive, her goals reached, Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to the first person she ever loved.

I love you Dad, Happy Father’s Day.

A man is like a flower
Starts with a bud
Blossoms into its nature
Natural ecstasy and perfection
In time it wears out too
Finally falls off the tree
A natural process
A natural phenomenon
Naturally the man
See as a flower
All the nature of being
To the base is the same

The intelligence the man puts into saying
That he is only the creature of importance
And everything in the world are the resource
Resource to be consumed by himself
Is the false flag he is raising
And is in the denial of the very nature

Anything which is resonant
And synchronous to the nature
Has the time in nature to the eternity
Whereas if not
In accordance to the nature
Sooner or later
On the verse of decay
On the verse of extinction

I see the human race is in the path of extinction
As civilization denying nature rather than glorifying
Human beings are far from the true essence
And are not synchronizing in the heart
Of the very nature
The so called intelligence
is what humans praise and glorifying
A lot full of ****
And it is a shame

We see the population of human species
To rise and rise
So may presume the statement
I just stated to be false
But seeing the thought processes
And so called intelligence
Is setting the human species
To a sense of decay
The step to the human race to demolish its own race
Is a unjustified intelligence in itself

The truth and laws of nature
Being in shade
Humans incorporating thoughts
As a tool of destruction
Rather than construction
In the field of criticism rather than motivation
In the field of extinction rather than sustainability
In the field of destruction rather than collaboration
And effort in maintaining the continuity
Of equilibrium and resonance with the nature

On the contrary
Making critics and complain about the others
Not realizing all are the part of the whole
Is creating a challenge to the nature
Going off beat with the nature.

We shall know
Anything not synchronous
And not resonant to the nature
Nature wipes out sooner or later
We cannot accept the very fact it is true

Even seeing our own life
As a child
The bud to the flower
The youth
The perfection in being and entire existence
The new ideas and new world
The fruit of generation brings about
The generation to come
To fertilize the seeds of the existence
The old age
To be renewed thoughts
Nature wipes out as per the plan
of its own
Accept it as a reality
As it is the truth

The sharpness of flower
Remembered as the youthfulness of flower
The bud is treated emotionally
With care as it is to be the perfection
In the time to come
The flower to be wiped out is respected
As it was once a perfection
Once roared the magnificence of itself
Upon this very world
The being-wiped flower doesn’t ask
For its claim in the now world
And indulge the new with its now state
But appreciate the perfection once it had  
Make believe the youthful flower to blossom
And accept its own existence in the present.

Every species and beings
Are in the nature of being
We are no different from the other species
We are no superior and at the same time no inferior
To the other species
And not the other species to us humans

Everybody and everything
Is the part of the whole
The whole is the nature itself.

maybe one day i’ll catch you
between
lovers
with
your famous smile
and a bottle
between us
and
catch
the moment
we lost years ago

maybe the sun won’t
go all the way
down
and we can sit
forever,
suspended between
today
and
tomorrow

i watched you dance
in the middle of the neon lit room
and as much as i loved you
i could not help but feel envious.
there was jealousy i could have sworn would **** me
jealousy for the way you could
move your body to the beats of youthfulness
jealousy for the way you could
smile and laugh with slightly drunken people
you didn't even know
jealousy for your confidence in the restless crowds
jealousy for the way you acted so carelessly on friday nights
the way i wish i could

He held my hand and whispered -
So softly in my ear,
That when the night is old,
Youthfulness would reappear.
Youthfulness? I questioned.
He nodded carefully.
Said when the morning light is new
Youth would come for me.
I waited for the dawn to wake,
Waited sullenly;
And watched the moonlight dancing,
As it crept amongst the trees.
The moon had ceased it's shining.
It had hid behind a cloud,
And the man began his sighing
Waiting for the sun to come around.
I looked towards the hills
That wandered in the East
And counted every minute
That I had dared to keep.
He squeezed my hand so tightly
My wrinkles all bunched up,
Said don't you worry darling,
The light will soon erupt.
And so there was the sun,
The hills had hid so long.
They had kept the colors,
Holding back their song.
The youthfulness was here now.
I cried until I knew,
That youthfulness was only
For the morning that woke anew.

the day i left for good he wrapped me in an inescapable bear
hug that made me feel like i was
gonna stop breathing in
3
2
1...

we listened to a whole lotta
tom petty which is the reason why
whenever i'm scanning through
the radio on those drives i go on too often
that lead to nowhere and
i hear "refugee" or "free fallin"
i skip.

i read a lot to him and he
always listened to everything i had to say
and the 290th time of the day that i'd say
"****" and everytime i said something even remotely
twisted a small smirk would
gradually paint on his lips
and then he'd laugh
and say it was a good thing we loved each other
otherwise he would think i was severely
****** up in the head.

he loved my heart shaped sunglasses
and he said i made him feel
like he was living in a time warp
where it was 1989 every millisecond
of every waking hour of every day
and i loved his eternal youthfulness
that sent fireworks flying through my
central nervous system.

and when he released me from the
wrath of his arms he promised
that we were gonna sit on his
back porch and crack open
some brews at midnight
and tell stories when i came back home.

i miss him more than the sun misses
the moon in the morning light
my partner in crime,
my adrenaline ******,
my sagittarius.

-*z. vega

Consumed with thoughts of innocence, youthfulness and vigor
Never understood the attraction between a boy and a girl
Never understood for I was just a slender spoon...
Writing, playful - never thought I'd act the fool.
In my heart there was nothing.
Nothing of substance, thought, not even a care.
There was no one…
Just a slender spoon living just to survive and not to be seen.
Then I traveled and laid bare my eyes intertwining with yours.
Never a word... a word we didn't say for you were strange...
Strange to my eyes and I was too strange for yours.
So we looked on, clueless of the storm we'd cause today.
And so under that hat you smiled at first glimpse of my beauty.
A black woman, innocent but not without fault.
How could that be...ahhhh?
Then you became curious...
Curious about that slender spoon and what she was capable of.
You now know her thoughts and I...and she knows yours.
Unaware... that man under the hat, that black felted hat would later be a man with a ring...
That slender spoon... the beauty that shone under the sun would no longer be naive, indifferent… but she later became someone who had your interest at heart.
....that slender spoon later became a woman with a ring and the man under that hat became the one… the one who gave that ring,

That man under the hat....
The masculinity who wore that hat
…It was the man who wore that felted hat.

Oh ROSE! How immeasurably I adore you!
So expressive, you are!  Eloquent and evocative!
Robed in red, you say to the world, “I love you,”
And speak all about courage and respect.

In white, purity and innocence are your names;
Then you’re a bride, heavenly, and in silence;
You’re clothed in secret silence and youthfulness,
And humility that commands world’s reverence.

Your pink is happiness; dark pink says “thank you”;
In yellow, it brings joyfulness and friendship;
With red added, the world would fall in love;
And orange—it’s full of desire and enthusiasm.

Red-and- yellow is jovial; peach, modesty;  
Coral is desire; and lavender, love at first sight.
But you’re never black,  for you know, it is sad.
How gifted a poet you are! A great symbolist!

A bud in red is purity and loveliness coupled,
One in white, emerges elegantly as a girl in her teens;
And a bud, if thorn-less, calls for love at first sight.
Oh, your magic tricks! How great a conjurer you are!

If single, you’re devotion; twin says, Marry me;
Six, suggest need to be loved; eleven says, Truly loved;
While in thirteen, you say I’m your secret admirer.
Oh! It’s wizardry! So overwhelming! So breathtaking!

A thin white dust of snow littered the concrete path like an overspill of Styrofoam *****. Summer had her hands buried deep into the lining of her coat pockets and her chin pressed tightly within her pashmina scarf. It was the first bite of wind she’d felt in a while. She had been holed up with her friends for several days and the concept of loneliness was already foreign to her, much in the same way as privacy. She could feel the cheap red wine rust in her veins as her body told her “too much” and in truth she was ready for the crackle of vinyl and the promise of fresh sheets and a shower. The week had been fun, she guessed, she’d certainly felt closer to her friends than ever before, even though they all went back for as far as it was worth remembering.  ‘She guessed’. She’d been guessing for a while now, living in absences with everything held at an emotionless distance – whether or not this was deliberate she could not decide.
It wasn’t a particularly long walk back to her house, enough to take the bus - but she guessed she wanted the walk. The cold air made her eyes glassy and occasionally she had to blink furiously to catch the water forming along her lids. The din of distant inner city traffic consumed the airwaves around her but the path that lay ahead of her was surrounded by parkland, and within eyeshot there was a lazy brook where children would often be seen playing, though they’d be at school at this time of day. She guessed. She wasn’t quite sure of the time, but she knew it was the 15th of February. She couldn’t always be sure of what year it was though, her head was often stuck back in the 1960’s, before she was even born.
Summer could feel the claustrophobia of youthfulness shedding from her every angle and with every insipid step she took, the world took on a more familiar feeling and she took her first real breath of air for days. From out of nowhere she felt overwhelmed at the breathless ease of the faint snowfall and the slate grey of the sky. The clench in her stomach – Summer often found herself weeping for no real reason, and she could never quite work out whether she would be weeping for beauty, or for sorrow…she guessed that there was some compromise between the two. All she knew is that she was very sorry when she reached her front door that her walk was over and that she must again disappear into the walls.
The heating had been off for almost an entire week now and Summer could hear the house groan into action as the radiators cracked back into life, and she felt much the same. The kettle jittered on the spot as the water steamed and bubbled welcomingly and soon the kitchen was greeted with the smell of tea. Summer retreated to her room upstairs. A wide room with white walls meant that it was often brighter than the world outside and it often appeared to unadjusted eyes to have a ghostly glow about it. Summer thumbed through her proud collection of second-hand LP records until she settled on listening through Pink Moon for what was now an uncountable time. “Saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way”. She let out an exhausted but contented smile and fell onto her bed. The sheets were cold from privation of use but the coolness on her cheek was welcome and she closed her eyes and imagined she was still outside on an effortless walk, with the sounds of Nick Drake overpowering that of the exhausts of one thousand cars.
After several moments of another world, she reluctantly sat back up and began to take off her clothes to get a little bit more comfortable. It felt good to get out of her clothes, she’d only meant to stay for one night so she had not been able to change her clothes for days and she’d appreciated the idea of clean underwear in a way she never considered worth noticing before. She unclasped her bra and felt it fall clumsily to the floor and just sat there for a moment, bare-breasted in the pearl white of the chilly room. She couldn’t help but feel like an illustration, of pastels or watercolours. Her mind was still a convoluted collage of the past few day’s events – the haze of alcohol and **** still occupied a small corner of her being, despite the cleansing walk and the wonderful clunk of a familiar guitar bouncing across her walls. Her ******* were hard from the cold so she threw on an extra large male t-shirt that fell to just below her upper thigh.
She slid off her skirt and underwear, which fell limp at her pale thin ankles. Looking at her thighs, she could still make out the small thumb-sized bruises scattered across them from the distant and removed *** she’d had at some point last week. At least she guessed, it could have happened back in the 60’s for all she knew. It felt as if the past week was not real, a familiar feeling. She was almost certain that man who had shared her bed did not really exist and her bruises contested her own existence. At least that’s how it felt.
She turned over the vinyl and remembering her tea, slid between the covers and warmed her hands against the steaming ceramic. The tea was perhaps the most wonderful and delicious thing she had ever tasted and she felt it nourish her metaphysically. In a way beyond words, she felt herself heal with the rush of warm past her lips and the sweetness on her tongue. The room was slowly warming as she skimmed her legs back and forth against the mattress in complete comfort. Once the last of her tea had been drunk, she let the empty mug rest on the bedside counter and almost immediately fell into a dreamless sleep.

You were once one of the first female supreme court judges.
An engineer, professor,  politician.
You were a loving mother,
The perfect husband.
Life can be cruel though.
Time has stolen your individuality.
I watch as your wife leads your hand down the hall.
To your room,  you remain suprised everytime.
The pain, in your families eyes,
Camoflauged with a smile.
As you introduce yourself as if you have never met.

You ask me where you are,
Why you're here.
I'll tell you, but you never believe me.
I try to explain over and over,
The shock is new everytime.

I take care of you,
I try to help you through this chapter of your life.
By the time I meet you,
You are not who you were.
Your mind is lost in time and my face is always new.

Looking at your pictures I try to see how you were.
Try to imagine the strength,  the youthfulness.
I try to make you feel as whole as a stranger can.
I am here with you day after day.
Over time you become like family to me.

The disease has taken you,
I wish I could change all that.
But instead I'll just sit here,
Listen to your story of strung up words that make no sense.
I'll smile when you do
Look sympathetic when I need to.

You are a human being with the strength of a hundred men.
You have had the diagnosis told to you.
You were so aware of what you would become.
I am here to help you
I respect who you were, and who you are.
I try to make your last days a little better, easier.
I'm your nurse.
I hope I can help.
Even if it is just for a moment.
I hope you know,
What an amazing soul still resides in you.

I wish you freedom, memories and peace when it's your turn to go.
And I welcome who takes your place.
Never forgetting your individuality.

Youthfulness in time
A lad full of energy
Chasing
The treasures and wonders of
A newly world
Feeling so freely
Nor vigilance, nor dilemma
Seeing everything through
A vision of excitement
As a seagull
Gliding across the oceanshores
Arouse
For cultural experiences
Until now
For I am old, but wise
To know
How people can be

Today he's so drunk,took a step forward
And two steps back
Drunk something transparent last night
Came to work today with tough luck
Told stories,when he was in puberty
While listening to a song,entitled
Bohemian Rhapsody

Though he was quick,
And full of strength and youthfulness
He is old and tired
And purely ruthless
He hates the songs, that he can sing
He talks about the strength and bronze he had those days,

I think of him as a powerful man,
Someone to look up to as a matured man
But,I can notice his grim and despair
Running through his eyes like ,a quantum flare

I sent him home with all my trust
Hoping to see him tomorrow with all my luck
Hope to work and drink with him while being tough
For he is the one who builds my house
My dungeon,and where I can keep my flock

Thy effigy was so charming
It can grips a heart
Thy face of youthfulness
It can tranquilized a war

Many roses envied thee
Their complaints was loudly burst
That blessed was unjust
That you owned a beauty, to them ugliness

Thy prettiness a weapon
Can  slave a kingdom
But it feared someone
The monstrous beast - the time

Thy beauty was rotten
The one that allured thousand kings
Thy effulgence doom
A star that used to be dream...


written: July 31, 2001 at 7:00 pm

Mysterious Aries

Immortal.
Oh, yes, he is immortal.
Immortal in his youthfulness indeed!
He shall age and grow but never change;
he shall wane and wither just in pain!
Just like a stubborn day rainfall-
ah! which remains a thick stifling veil
to our young sky, and its starlights-
like a loyal fence and its old window;
sitting and hoping that endings shall never show
Yes, he shall but still look the same tomorrow.

Ah! In his silliness and bold playfulness,
he sometimes makes fun of his own madness,
with a conscience that somehow be rapid
and cheerful smiles so genuine and sweet.
Like a miracle in one dull puppet show
He canst list five jokes in a row!
But a certain poison is in his blood;
and unreachable thoughts forever colour his heart.
His youthful lips are full of secret tales;
and his white skin can at times be pale.
His stories are songs we've never sung
and his breaths are simply words to my poetic lungs.
With daring steps that this earth never fails
into the moors every morning he sails.
Once I found him behind the walls
among the long corridor of my halls.
With lightness he sounded plain but sure
Yet the cold outside made him obscure;
his purity was like a shadow of lightning
so calm but innocent and bewitching.
But as soon as gales wafted through the grass
He would once again; flock away into its mass.
Glee, glee, was what then astonished my poetry;
with tears and feelings that might have lit-
o, immortal man, I have only words to play with!

And ah! How once I startled him by my lover's name;
which he enquired more without any shame.
But envious was my heart's flame-
and delight was sadly never there to tame.
I ran, and ran away-without staring back at him,
no matter how absurd it'ght hath seemed!
With turmoils that were inside of me-
I clouded his picture once more,
stiffened by cries, but hated by my own delight-
scarred by lies, and loathed by very fright-
but now and then he would spring back into my steps,
demanding me to give what had been said away,
but I sped and hurried 'till he no more tapped,
and was turned aback and into his own day.
O, immortal man, please just forgive-o forgive me,
for I shalt have no more courage to face thee.

And lust, and love are but my forbidden triumph
Which he can only be see within my poems.
With his hands that shall stay awake forever-
and never age behind eternal rains and thunder;
to every single day he shall wake gladly in wonder.
Gazing through his very own unnatural universe
with holy regrets but intense admiration
But sadly his life might never be my verse;
neither his charms ever be my wifely laudation.
The fate of his might just not be my course;
and as how my being; is not his envied incarnation.

But blessings be with him, whoever's precious treasure
and be pains his heart shalt never endure.
O, immortal man, our paths are one, but never meet;
and forever are just enemies like coldness is to heat.
Again whenst I am to die I shalt remember thee;
for being more awesome than even the lake
and more delightful than any words canst take.
Ah! And thy silliness is one that makes thee so special
and even lighter than letters that hide behind the wall.
How thou would be one of my firsts to call!
Just like how thou art always immortal;
as thy portrait is eternally young and genial;
from which my pondering eyes shall never stir;
as whispers my human heart forever longs to hear.

There lies a picture on the mantle
of my grandfather, my step-father's
father, clad in U.S. Navy fatigues
and grinning slightly, almost a
smirk. The year is 1960-something
as he enlists for Vietnam and is
shipped overseas on the USS
Corral Sea to load sidewinders
into fighter planes that ignite and
****. It happens so fast.

It happened so fast. Two months
of time reduced to blinks and
minute-long visits. This house could
be cold as Mt. Meru's peak and I
would hardly notice. The brain has
ways of placing things on autopilot.

His life has come to pass and I am
left to wonder. I am not sure I ever
truly knew the man. I heard stories,
his helicopter shot down in Vietnam,
his E&E; north of the ** Chi Minh and
how he owned a gun shop on Main
St. in the town I came to call home
before it was my home. I cannot hear
his whispering, small wind of existence
sidewinding away from me and my
youthfulness. In small time I've come
to find life is meaningful if you take time
to make it so.

The day of his funeral is beautiful,
sunny and mild and full of breeze.
The gas tank of my mother's car is
close to empty and I am worried of
worldly things, will we make it and
when can we fill up again. 21 guns
gives my heart a needed beating.

Recollections on Chaliyar.

In youthfulness was Chaliyar.

As I saw her next , from afar

Amidst the greenery was, she

Dancing in pleated clothes.

In spotlight of the setting sun

In tune the Air that hummed

On rail the wheels trumpeted

Gallery across the river I stood

Watching her”jahiliat” life moves

Lured all by giggle and smile

Ripples, eddies her beauty spots

She was mine I was hers!

Oh! My Chaliyar, recall, whence

We started and parted;

Made our veins venomous.

By-gone are by-gone-

God loves and pardons ;

He is with them that pardons

God won’t hear our prayer

If we keep deaf ear to prayer.

Unrelenting oars push a yacht.

The fume of trade shrouded me

With the smoke of train chocked

Down in water I plunged, yelled

Help, Help Oh! helpless yelp.

THE TIME rippled, wriggled

Coiled around while none

But Allah held me around.

On a delta I lay bare; hence

I write on rights we need.

……….



Note : Chaliyar is a river in northern Kerala, India, once most polluted.

“Jahiliat’ is an Arabic word means uncultured/impure period in life.

Allah is the name to denote the Almighty Creator that all religions expected to worship.

Immortal.
Oh, yes, he is immortal.
Immortal in his youthfulness indeed!
He shalt age and grow but never change;
he shalt wane and wither just in pain!
Just like a stubborn day rainfall-
ah! which remains a thick stifling veil
to our young sky, and its starlights-
like a loyal fence and its old window;
sitting and hoping that endings shalt never show
Yes, he shalt but still look the same tomorrow.

Ah! His eyes but a way down to my soul;
which I find lone but beguiling!
Pangs of endurance and blighting pain-
all vanish soon as I catch the sight of 'im again!
Oh! And with an indolent smile so comely;
he shalt answer up all my queries vividly!
Brilliance and height but with his tones;
but of a wit firm as an obedient stone-
he washes me of all my doubts,
fears, and worries of my small thoughts.
Amidst the decaying weary roses,
and those pallid old-time posters
he is but my friend, so jolly and bright like me.
He shalt stand there with shy feelings
next to the bustling stairs in the mornings.
And out doth I venture on errands-
so late that I need nearly run!
Greeting me there he smiles again-
and all day shalt his picture remain!
O, how I adore his cherry-like lips-
full of secrets, brave rays, and twists!

He is my immortal sun and star-
the flow that fills, and rises my heart.
He is my undying day and night-
to my thunder, he's brown starlight!

Ah! He is corrupting me again with love-
but in his eyes doth I find clarity!
Clarity, my dear, a bright tenderness and promise
that no other lover can surmise.
Oh, my whole sweetness-canst thou hear me
scream and pray for thee?
Ah, how that bunch of wordless gazes
brimming with startling eyelashes-
when thou peered into my moonless sun;
thrilled through me and proved us one.

And ah! My young sailor, be but my dawn to me-
when nights are lies and dusks are unfree.
Shield me on gray mountaintops-
hold my hand as I stroll amongst the shops.
Heap on me some flowers!
How betwixt those icy morning showers-
shalt thou retreat to my bower.
With a ring of blissful laughter-
and the joy of a new prudent lover;
shalt we entwine just together
and celebrate our glad encounter!
Meanwhile with conscience thy entreat-
that the vow of union I repeat-
and bringst thy heart which hast made me blind-
and knit thy pure love into mine.

Abraham Horowitz thought he was dead. Maybe this was what death was like, desolate and bleak, no different than his last few years of sheer misery, humiliation and pain.  He already felt he was in Hell, for Buchenwald was a Hell on earth, but what was going on now?  Just where was he exactly? His glasses had been smashed by a **** guard months ago, and now he couldn't understand why he could not make out the hazy figures of the guards barking out orders and smashing the butts of their rifles into the heads and backs of tormented inmates.  All that seemed to exist were walking skeletons aimlessly drifting about in the blowing wind.

His situation was always dire, but today was an indescribably odd day.   It wasn't good or bad. Lately, little aroused Abraham to ponder upon as he had long ago begun to believe that he was an animal and not a man. After all, different walks of life were thrown away like subhuman trash—left for the flies to feast upon—and it had powerfully defined the ghastly surroundings of his disgraceful existence. People who once were somebody to someone had soon become nobody in the world.  The rotting corpses proved that out. Since he was deemed as a beast, Abraham no longer thought or reasoned like a human being. There was no longer any reason to think or to feel or to imagine anything that could inspire his will to thrive.

The inhumanity had taken its toll. Too weak to stand, he had been fading in and out of sleep and consciousness when much of the chaos of forced marches took place. The Nazis were desperately trying to avoid encountering the allied forces that opposed them. They weren't going to give up easily as they'd sooner shake their fists and make all the prisoners suffer to the bitter end. Many of prisoners were moved out as possible, but not all went willingly. The remaining prisoners—those who weren't half dead—now had their chance to resist.

Abraham's back was leaning against the splintered, wooden wall of one of the barracks. He had tried to prop himself up in an attempt to sit up and then stand up. He only succeeded in sitting up in an awkward slouch, much to the discomfort to his bony backside. The sun beat down on him, his only solace to warm up his frail, battered body, his only comfort in his state of wasting away to the shell of the man he once was. Soon the sweet sun was quenched as he was engulfed in the shadows of a soldier standing before him.  

There was nothing left in him, no more will to live. He was done. No more fear flooded his mind, only thoughts of nothingness that gave him an actual period of relief.  If he was still alive—he had thought—the best thing to happen would be that the soldier now in front of him end his miserable life with a bullet to his head. What once was deemed a horrendous fate now seemed like a welcome surrender

"Hey there... sprechen sie Englisch?", the man asked him. It was the worst German accent that he ever heard, but it might as well have been the voice of God.  

Did he speak English? Oh, yes, he did! "Ja…Englisch", he managed to utter, in sheer bewilderment. He struggled for words to say, but they could not leave his mouth.

The man crouched down and said, “It’s okay now. You can say whatever you want, buddy.”

Abraham still struggled to speak. "That is yes...I...I... do....I do...and Hebrew... and Yiddish... German and… a bit... Polish", he answered with a parched, throaty voice.  Abraham had enough strength left to place his quivering hand up to his eyes. He simply cried as the light went on in his mind. The rumors going around the camp were true! The Americans had come!

Tears are for little boys. The image of his father, scolding him for crying as a youth, dashed into mind. Abraham tried to contain himself. Weeping was one satisfaction that the inmates wanted never to give to the Nazis. Only the irrevocably broken ones begged for mercy, wailing uncontrollably as they were laughed at, mocked and scorned by their enemies.  Conditioned to show no emotional response was one up on the Germans, the only control and dignity that a man had left.  Self-restraint meant you were never owned by anyone.  

Soon a slightly cool cup of water was placed upon Abraham’s shaking lips. He slurped at it—getting more on the ground than in his mouth—like a man coming out of years in the desert. Oh, how precious was that water! He could have drunk it by the gallons, splashed in it, played in it—danced in it!  If he could only stand and be given the chance!

"Easy now, buddy”, the American advised. "My name's John, by the way". The young, freckled-face private smiled proudly, stating,”John Dunn from the good, ole USA—from Jersey...New Jersey, that is."

He was only the second soldier that Abraham ever met in this entire ordeal of brutal capture and madness of war that had a heart. The soldier was rare sight in that he showed him even an ounce of kindness. John Dunn reminded him so much of Otto Brumler that he began to weep, again. He didn't know he even had it in him, for he had stopped crying so long ago that it was as if he had forgotten how.  Lately, there just weren't any more feelings left—not even hate. Oh, how he used to hate! There were only numb movements of a dead man walking about. The tears felt cleansing upon his dry and ***** face.

Otto Brumler was a rare anomaly. He just didn’t seem to make sense in this sea of insanity. A **** guard, he liked to talk with some of the inmates, discreetly giving them gifts to pass around—some cigarettes, chocolates, cheese, bread and sausages. How peculiar to be coming from a German soldier!  Some of the inmates were suspicious that he was a spy that was out to trap them and feared him even more than the most loathing of the guards. Abraham was one of them who at first thought the man was purposely trying to get them in trouble.

Trouble abounded in the camps. If the men couldn't work hard enough, they were daily beaten and tortured, so badly beaten down that many could not get back up again. If it wasn't an act of harsh aggression, it was starvation and disease that got them. Herded up like animals, the filth from their ****** fluids and human waste was an ever noxious presence, their ragged clothes soiled in the foul mess. The stench that was once unbearable eventually became to define them as trash to be thrown away, and they had forgotten what a clean existence smelled like.  

Abraham would sometimes wake up in the morning and find the one next to him had not made it through the night. Sometimes, it was on both sides that dead bodies had sandwiched him in-between. If not those succumbing to the horrible conditions, the weaker ones were taken away while alive, never to be seen again. And some would give up the will to live by refusing to press on, passively taking a bullet or a fatal beating. Then there were those who would end their own lives as the only means of escape. It seemed one less triumph for the Nazis, to deny them the sick satisfaction of killing yet another, wretched soul. Yet the Nazis always won the victory of a victim’s life ending.  Regardless of how the death of any of the undesirables occurred in the camps, it fed their ideology of superiority just fine. Many of the prisoners lay awake at night wondering how this barbarism could flourish and go unnoticed.  When would it end? Had the whole world gone mad?  

"We survive and that’s how we win”, one of the Polish prisoners, Jan, encouraged some around him. "We make it to the end because they will be defeated. They cannot last forever. You mark my words!"

"And how do we do that?" “a doubtful Jewish teen, Eli, insisted. He once was so spirited, and he had great plans to travel the world one day. "I lost my whole family. I'm the only one left and it will just be a matter of time before they get me, too. We are all doomed!" His gaunt face and hallow eyes spoke for themselves.

Abraham needed to believe he'd have even a glimmer of hope to be free one day, or he'd have lost the battle by now. His sanity would not hold out. Many already had no hope and that was like a death in itself.  Most of the men knew that to hold on, they'd have to defy logic and hold out for hope. They'd pray with each other, regardless of being a Jew or Christian or even the agnostics, sometimes losing the meager hope that they were had. It grew as scarce as their rations of crusty bread. Nevertheless, they prayed.  

One time, Abraham was grabbed by a guard by the throat and hurled to the ground for being too slow. He had been dumping out human excrement from the campgrounds. The guard berated Abraham as he kicked him over and over again while the poor man curled up into a ball in helpless submission. Protecting his face and head, he soon found himself sheltering his groin, writhing in  pain in that sensitive area that had been attacked by a heel of a boot.

It was Otto Brumler who astounded him. Why wasn't he like the others? As a Jew, the disgust the Nazis had for Abraham was as obvious as the gloom hanging over the camp. Hatred defined Abraham’s world ever since ****** took power and convinced the people that they would be better off without his kind.  Otto was looked upon as being too soft on those he guarded, reprimanded for not being too tough and rough on the prison ****. He did not go above and beyond his duty, nor did he take pleasure in anyone's pain and suffering.

"My best friend was a Jew", he confessed to Abraham one night, sneaking him some salve for his cuts and abrasions from that last beating, providing him some meat to satisfy his longings to fill his stomach.  

Abraham actually showed a real emotion that was a rare sight these days, a slow expression of surprise. "So why are you here at the camp?" he asked him.

Otto puffed on his cigar and passed it to him. He laughed a little, replying, "I think ****** is a little man...but a big bully. I would have gladly be no part of this greedy thirst to devour other nations, but I was forced into it." He looked at Abraham and smiled a bit with sad eyes. It was quite the contradiction of mirth. Otto had a ruddy complexion and dark blonde hair. In his youthfulness, there still an air of innocence about him, a kindness that the ugliness of the war had not killed in him.

"I love my country", he admitted.  "I just hate what they are doing now and how blind we have become. It will be to our ruin."

Abraham admired his honesty. "I guess there are a few good men in this world", he admitted. "My father taught me that it isn't where you come from but who you are that counts."

"That is true, my friend." Otto patted him on the back and added, “My old friend, Avi, had saved my life."  He was speaking of his Jewish friend from childhood. "Many years ago, he rescued me from a lake in my hometown. We went there to cool off from the summer heat.  I couldn't really swim, but I became overconfident and dove in like I was the best swimmer in the world.  There, I found myself in water over my head and didn't end up so well.  I would have drowned without Avi rescuing me. Unlike me, he was fearless."

"So now you know we Jews aren't devils." Abraham remarked, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.  

"Of course not! Avi was like a prizefighter, a real proud kid. He never backed down from a fight, and there was always a challenge for him..He had to fight off the boys who picked on him for being different from most of us—for being a Jew. So he learned how to stand his ground. I was a fat boy, and Avi would defend me from the bullies who picked on me, too. He was a good friend to me. I know a a bully when I see one, Abraham” He pointed his finger all around, “Bullies everywhere, but they are not men…just weak, little boys who need someone to kick around to feel better”

Abraham knew he had a genuine friend in Otto. “What happened to your friend?”he asked about Avi.

Otto just shrugged his shoulders. “I hope he hasn't lost the fight. I wonder what has happened to him quite often...if he is alive now…if he has made it this far."  

It was nighttime, but it seemed even less secure to come together like this than if mingling in plain sight.  There was never a time where anyone could feel safe, not one minute. Abraham knew this encounter was risky, deadly for sure if caught. He talked about his lovely, young wife, Rivka, and how she felt she was not blessed with having a child. Now it seemed like it was a blessing not to rear up a child, not to have it cruelly ripped away from them and mourn the aching loss and its tragic demise. Rivka was already dead, herself,. Women and children were often the first to go. All Abraham had now was her memory, the image of her sweet face in his mind. Otto talked about his young sweetheart, Gretchen, and his dream of starting a life with her once the war was over. He still believed in a bright future.

That wish would never come true.  It wasn't long before Otto was found out about for his secret encounters with some of the prisoners and shot before a firing squad as a traitor. When Abraham found out, he wanted to weep over the loss but the tears wouldn't come. They couldn’t even come for his lovely Rivka. They only came now when Private John Dunn had given him water, mirroring the same kindness that Otto had once done, redeeming him from an animal to a man  once more.  

Abraham was eventually placed on a truck with other survivors and transported to more humane conditions. Allied soldiers were fully in charge the camp now, and there was no going back to that hellhole ever again. At last, he was truly a free man, though a heartbroken one who was not the same man as he arrived. He had not died—this was not just a dream—but he still was not convinced he would have the will to go on. The breeze on his face felt wonderful, the sun in his eyes, miraculous. That held some shred of promise for him. He passed by trees and mountainous views that he was never convinced he would ever see, again.  No more smell of death, but even the most fragrant flowers could not mask the memory of the horrible stench of his war-torn memories. Some things did just not die away that easily. Memories had a stink of their own that could not be masked by beauty. He had seen things that few could bear, much less go on to tell about it.  He'd never forget being penned up like pigs for the slaughter and made to have no hope. But by the front of the truck, there was Jan, the Pole who once said that the Nazis would be defeated and everyone could mark his words.  

Abraham looked at him until Jan's eyes met his and they both managed a smile. He had come too far to give up. He would not win the victory if he did not survive. He owed it to those who did not make it—to his people, to his fellow inmates, to Rivka, and even to Otto Brumler.  He had no clue, no answers of where to go or how to conduct himself in the world, again, but he would continue to hold onto hope that he would make it.

It suddenly dawned on him that his wife had a few cousins in Chicago that she grew up with. His mind was alerted with the remembrance of Rivka exchanging pictures, postcards and letters throughout the years, All he had of her was robbed from him in the war—everything. To lay eyes on her image—once again—and the possibility of maybe holding her actual words in his hands began to overwhelm him. His imagination could barely contain the thoughts, and he began to weep yet again. As once, crying was weakness to a man, the tears just now meant he was alive. To be counted among the living—to belong somewhere—it was the closest thing to pure joy. Thoughts of America started a small spark within—just enough to start a little fire in his soul—to lead him on to a path with a hopeful purpose. There was no turning back now.

M IS FOR MAYA A WOMAN OF GREAT RESPECT.  SHE HAD A WAY OF COMFORTING YOU, UPON BEING UPSET.
A IS FOR ABILITY SHE USED TO WRITE POETRY, AS IT CAME INTO HER HEAD.  SHE NEED SOMEONE TO CARRY THE TORCH, NOW THAT SHE IS DEAD.
Y IS FOR YOUTHFULNESS, EVEN THE YOUNG PEOPLE CANNOT HIDE.  JUST TO BE AROUND THEM, PRODUCED HAPPY TEARS IN HER EYES.
A IS FOR  AUTHORITY THAT SHE POSSESSED,  AS SHE PROUDLY WALKED BOLD.  THERE WAS NOTHING ABOUT MAYA ANGELOU, THAT CAME ACROSS AS COLD.
ANGELOU IS HER LAST NAME, EVEN THE PRESIDENT RECOGNIZE.  SHE WAS THAT TYPE OF WOMAN, HE WOULD HAVE STAND BY HIS SIDE.
BY, SANDRA JUANITA NAILING

Born to say "**** it!"

Cleanse it all,
Wash away the innocence.

The eternal party rages on,
We could never subsist.
Driven, haunted by youthfulness.

I enjoy the way the pink spring breeze
grazes my rouged cheeks.
Though a little chilly,
a thrift store sweatshirt squeezes
back against my body,
shielding overwhelming brisk.

Jermaine's voice trickles between my eardrums,
but I pause a moment,
words of howdy, hello,
"Oh," I breathe, "yes, I couldn't
remain inside another minute!"
The hey's and hello's,
those are the chords of C, of G,
and, strange though,
how sometimes I prefer a flat or sharp.

Some chords though harsh at first taste,
they stew on the tongue,
relinquish sweet, succulent juice at last;
sweet reward,
satisfying relief.

I feel the grin stretch, slink
across my canvas,
the reverberations of a cackle,
boisterously beating against
my far-from-hollowed chest,
for full it feels,
full it is,
filled with filling full
of warmth, light, fulfilling fulfillment.

There is merely of tiny moments
a collection,
most prized,
as if I had begun many moons ago,
knowing did I do before I knew,
gathering each grain to
make a beach,
each blade of green,
making a lawn of bluegrass,
with a sprinkle of a flower or two;
deep within self,
collecting,
gathering
to now feel stillness,
& admire that treasure.

I gaze intently ahead,
streaks of magenta, a citrusy jaune,
(yellow of course),
juicy orange,
dripping into a soft
periwinkle,
reminding me of play dates,
chocolate chip cookies,
only the special, secret recipe
on special occasions,
today, could you be one,
every day, an occasion
to taste the secret recipe,
soft chocolatey, dangerously delicious,
melting into my tongue?
This sunset,
tranquil spring night,
oh how it tastes,
smells of the endless possibilities,
special occasions.

So wise, rich with knowledge,
how the recent past has left
me
saged with experience,
yet energy & zest,
of youthfulness,
I sigh outwards,
hard;
breathe in the wonder.

Family, friends, lovers,
neighbors, coworkers, classmates,
father, mother,
sister, brother;
the world uncoils, unfolds
like watching from the outside,
yet exploding within,
I burst outward.

My mind, oh does it race,
faster I am sure than
any body could carry.
It bends, twists,
molds, sinks, festers,
bubbles,
boom, pop, trickle,
it goes.

Creating art,
that is all we do.

I hear that sweet voice,
a melody of its own,
whispering secrets of past pain
and future plans;
I hold them all dearly, as
dearly can exist.

Strum my emotions,
pluck my thoughts,
slide down my dreams,
pick my desires,
bellow my fears,
harmonize my anguish,
release the echoing,
play the notes found
in the deepest chorus,
the sounds I can make
from the beating of my own heart,
the rhythm of heavy breathing,
giving birth to a story.

Still I am writing it,
but of course,
black pen smudges against
my tiny fingertips;
Mother always did tease,
for how I hold my utensil for
words, well, "That's just like me,"
she would giggle right now,
if she were to see,
that giggle just like the one
someone loves
coming from me.

A pen to a blank page,
again I go,
in due time the world will know,
and back to me will It boomerang.

Where there was once a sense of
apprehension,
the way this slow, meticulous wind smells,
tastes,
feels as it strokes my face,
all I may now ponder
is a simple, tasty desire;

The journey, how delightful it is.

There are tunes to play, sing;
oh how there are jigs to dance.

Mouths that can open wide & scream loud, but not shrill,
toward the heavens.

Smells to create with fresh baked goods,
peaches to burst open with teeth
hungry for its, their juices.

Flowers yet to bloom,
more in the tender April 'noons ahead.

Steps to stomp on a run in new kicks.
A soft pair of lips to kiss.

Jokes to be told.
Laughs to be shared.

Lines to cross.
Fast pulses to feel.

Claps of thunder to steal the blue sky.
Silent tears to slip down cheeks
worn from years.

Philosophies to analyze.
Friends to meet, greet, make, take; bonds to create.

Games to play.
Long, strung out giggles
from little ones,
innocence so pure & poetic.

Dreams to make realities.
Loves to have, but loves too to lose.

CIties to visit.
Language to speak, share,
stutter, misunderstand,
exchange,
accomplishing dialogues,
communicating in hushed
whispers,
sweet nothings nuzzled,
brushed
against my ear.

I've got some living to do;
living with me, but also
living with you.

I will not call you my baby,
Until I can be your only baby.
You maneuver around a subject
With the litheness of a danseur.
Though I would like to love you,
If you would let me love you,
Loneliness has never been what drives me.
It is love to which I answer.
I can see the youthfulness,
And much more, for my sleuthfulness.
Are you seeking any other than me,
Who is eager to applaud as to centre stage you bound?
For just a while more, I wait for first frame.
It could be so grand to see how you move your frame.
I have wondered if your dance would be as spry
As the clever way you manage to avoid.

Oh, that (SHE), who once aglow
And lithe with youthfulness, would know,
That years must come to take their toll
Drape tiny fractures on the doll
Whose porcelain, once flawless smile
Now framed in tiny lattices, compiled
Of wrinkles, faint to puckered lips,
(to complement the shapely hips),
Which, when worn with grace of knowing years
Dispel all arrogance of tears,
Allowing, (SHE) to strut her style
Confounding raised eyebrows, awhile.
Allowing (SHE) to work her plan
Of adoring this discerning man.

M.

We grow old everyday and when we clock the Age 50, we begin to count our days and deeds as never before,
Though old age may not show in our faces,
But the experience we have had all the years, are our medals and awards
Who would believe I am above 40?

I have been blessed with the gift of youthfulness

Graceful Suffering
By Ursula D. Jones
Palindrome Poetry (Mirror Poem)
November 6, 2023

Suffering gracefully is always giving in gentleness,
Smiling cheerfully in enduring pain and grief.
Learning wisdom in silence and loneliness,
Pensively guiding and directing frivolities composed of youthfulness.
Only healing for longing, wounded, and lonesome hearts,
Friendship offered and taken. Never returned companionship.
Suffering graceful, with happiness for all, never jealous, nor spiteful.
Peacefully—
spiteful, nor jealous. Never. All for happiness with graceful suffering,
Companionship returned never. Taken and offered friendship.
Hearts, lonesome and wounded, longing for healing only.
Youthfulness of composed frivolities; directing and guiding pensively.
Loneliness and silence in wisdom learning,
Greif and pain enduring in cheerfully smiling.
Gentleness in giving always is gracefully suffering.

Trapped in a world where the weak can't survive
where the voice of the poor can't be heard for afar,
where one's dream falls apart and reaching for it
seems impossible, where the tears of a man can't
resolve any obstacles.

Only thoughts of fright cross your mind all day long,
feeling like your heart has been ripped from your
soul, looking to your side and no friends you can
find, trying to figure out how much longer will all
this last.

Words like humble and sweet are effaced from your
mind, while anguish and affliction become examples
of your daily life, you won't hear the kind remarks
that might be said about you, for you can't appreciate
what your heart is not accustomed to.

18 years you have lived yet your beauty has
faded away, your innocence has been stolen from you
and the're many suspects to blame, there's no point
trying to fix what has what has already been destroyed,
your genial smile was erased and your youthfulness
came to a stop.

There's no mountain you can climb nor a path you
can walk, nor a forty miles ride you can jump in and
go, nor a train you can board or a plane you'd come up
to, that will ever even lead you to accomplish your
dreams and goals.

Searching for a way out, even though out you are,
four dollars is all there's left, to feed the kids pay rent
and try to survive, blindfolded you are, you won't
see what you want, putting your aspirations to vanish
into a thing of the past, why are you simply living
the life that you're told t? why can't you for once
live the life you always desired to?

In a time where the corrupt owns it all and much more,
where a man's state of frenzy is irrelevant even to the poor,
where the lion hunts the deer and its flesh is torn apart, where
words like "finally I did it" are only said by plutocrats.

The mountain was to high for you to climb it all, its height
was to extreme, you fail at going up, there weren't any
guides that showed you how to climb, or give you any tips
at how to safely survive, however there were signs at every
place you looked, which said that at some point a fall
you must endure.

Time is fleeting, time is fair, and if it were a maiden; her beauty none dare compare. Her youthfulness in spring, and calm eloquence in winter, like a rain drop on sea as mighty as is gentle.

Emergent through emotion
In a sychophantic way,
Thrilling through my system
In recall of teaching’s fray.
Those years of inspiration
As an aspirant of they…
That concrete mass of youthfulness
Wherein I spent my day.

Each hour of nervous questing,
Each confrontation stored,
Each shred of indignation
When the master plan proved flawed.
Through gyroscopic reason,
Through footless halls of pain,
An exultation’s bright explosion
When that child said... “Please explain?’

And the myriad of starburst
When the sky came crashing down
When, as if, by touch of magic….
Realisation there…profound!
From within that mass of granite-ness
Poured enlightenment as gold
And hot jewels of satisfaction
Flowed within this soul… untold.

M.

One more recess
and I depress the lever
then laying prone
with a metronome  that ticks away
like a clock that's gone awry
I lie and close my eyes and listen to the steady beat
tick
tick
I lick chapped lips and wonder where the balm would be
inside the conservatory
or in the kitchen drawer?
My lips are sore
my life's a bore and so, prone upon the bed
I step outside of this weary head and wander through the passages
remembering massages and brief encounters
steps on which I've stood and wept
stairways crept up fitfully
just to see what was up there
and now
I come across the bare light
the coldness of the moonlight
and the howling of the winds that bite and harried me along
for I in fear would not delay
to welcome in another day and welcome out the night
polite is always best to be
never know when you might see or need a darker place
so just in case
I go that extra mile put out a charming smile
and all the while
my insides churn
my body burns
twists and turns and
in turns I see
the metronome that laughs at me
and what a waste then it would be
tick
tick
never as sick as when you're well
too much heaven down here in hell.
Then rising
realising that I'm back at where I started from
is like someone has dropped the bomb
and I am just collateral
a colony of flattery
and a sycophantic man I'll be
until the evening when I see
that no one stands alone with me.
In this saturation
this desolation spiced up with my perspiration
I don't smell so sweet
another timely beat from my friend metronome
ticks the box and I am home
tomorrow I may lie prone again
tomorrow just might be the same as if in this never ending game
I do not go to jail or collect my bonus from the bank.
Why So Serious
well Frank, the Government sponsored failsafe think tank
said to me,
'drug free is the way to go and then he went'
leaving me with bones so crooked,bent I can hardly stand
A helping hand that helps itself
to dreams of youthfulness and health
I see
or rather cannot see
what is the point and what's for me
but that is just another lie
tick
tick
my how time does fly.
Why
I don't think I'l ever know the answers that I seek so
dearly
I'm not nearly bright enough.

So we hold the camera,
Face the lens, and give
Our sweetest smiles.

Knowing that time and
Youthfulness fly together.
Leaving the unchanged

Beings in us, and longing
For the changed moments
For us. Nothing in this world

Endures.

But we both know that it is
Never the years that count.
Counting on each other

Is what really counts.
No matter what.
It does not even matter.

You pause the sewing machine, listen for any sounds other than the machine; there is none. It is oddly silent except for birdsong from the garden. You gaze out of the window in front of you, see the trees, the flowers, the children playing in the garden next door, and smile weakly. Your daughter would have been playing out there now if death hadn’t taken her, if things had been different. You can almost picture her there, her fine black hair, her deep dark eyes, that small smile about her mouth that seemed ready to break out into a laugh at the slightest thing, but the image you try to bring to the scene fades, is gone. You start up the sewing machine again, push the dress through with your fingers, try to drown out the thoughts and sound of children playing, of their happiness and joy, their youthfulness, their innocence. You look up again at the vase of flowers on the windowsill, at the potted plant that Bruno bought for you. He wants more from you than you are willing to give, wants more than you can give any more. Since Kitty’s death, you are unable to respond that way, unable to let his touch feel your flesh, touch you anywhere. You have not made love to him since that dreadful day; have not even thought about that side of things with him anymore. You think of being away from him, going away to the coast, staying with Sally in her house near the sea. You stop the machine and stare at the dress on the table. It is a child’s dress, one you are making for a friend’s daughter. To know Kitty would have been that size now, she would have loved it, would have fitted well inside the cotton dress quite well. Tears swell in your eyes, you bite your lip, you want to cry out loudly so that the entire neighbourhood would hear, know your grief. You wish Bruno would go away, divorce you, say something harsh, something real, but all he does is attempt to make things as they were and it cannot be that way anymore. You will go to Sally, will stay with her, will share her bed as you did that summer of Kitty’s death. Warm, safe, and a completely new lifestyle, a different approach to love and ******* that you had not dreamed existed. The thought cheers you slightly, makes your groin tighten, brings images to mind you thought you had left behind. And Sally will say, Jane, you are all too pale, too thin, and warp you in her arms, kiss you and you will dissolve into her and her love and bed, and Bruno will be gone from you as Kitty is, but she will remain in your heart and memory, will be there beside you smiling, playing with her dolls, singing those songs she sang, as you and Sally drive away the dark days. You start up the machine again, gaze at the trees, push the dress through eagerly to its near completion, watch as seagulls linger over head, calling the welcome of sea and a safe haven, and Kitty’s touch on your arm, ghostly, but near, so near.