In one crystal-clear moment
I watched my soaring spirit
Reflected through the purple
twilight-tinted
mirrors of my mind.
That golden mist
entered enchanted realms
Only to find
The Grim Reaper's
Voice of Woe
Wailing through those shredded
Threads of memory.
Its radiant glow
Faced the crimson tide
of Dying embers
As the shadow of death--
That spectral ship...
Dwelt
On the lonely days to come
With the knowledge
That it was
Now an Alien land
Drenched
By the light and the truth--
The beauty of
That heavenly sphere.
Oh sweetness
Of that soaring spirit--
The veil has parted
Its essence
deserves an eternal sleep
So rest my spirit
Rest.
My father flares
at the thought of
shattered glass on the carpet.
It is a mind-waster.
He flares
At scattered minds
wandering Across
Courtyards and Deserts.
Tip-toe past the gates
They are closed forever.
My father is
Ashamed of climbing fences
And falling
into nowhere.
There must always
Be a Somewhere
At the ending.
He is afraid of beginnings.
So he slips
into darkness
while waiting
For a steady stream of light
That never shines.
Help Wanted
We seek
Elephant assassins, pygmies,
Gnomes and Unicorns.
We must
Rid the world
Of Writers who think.
This is a dangerous thing
Hazardous to
Our very Survival.
Contact any Bush Camp
in your area
Or
Call your Local KGB Agent
Care of any American Embassy.
No Problem.
We have their phones tapped too.
We'll get the call.
I know you're reading this poem in Triage
Already sore feet propped up
Against an old government issue desk
Its three a.m.
Fourth hour into your shift
There's been a fire
You've ached for the man
Who's smoke-filled lungs
Now breathe in agony.
There's been a death
No one's fault of course
But why was an 80 year old man
Living in a rented room without electricity
In this New York January winter
His icy corpse won't be warm
Until the cremation.
There's been a birth
A beautiful girl
Born into an ugly life
And no one will be able to save her.
But I know you
I know you sit reading--waiting
For that next breathless whirlwind moment.
I know you're reading this poem
In an empty building
that's yours to watch through the night.
Doors all locked. Building shut up tight
Full of lifelessness and equipment.
You'll put this down
During your next walk-through.
Fifteen Minutes on your feet.
But you'll come back
Just to sit down
And read this poem.
I know you're out there.
I know you're reading this poem
Netscape configurations
Not on tonight's list.
There are no more calls expected.
The network is up
And running on its own
Very well without you
Thank you very much.
The old comic books
Are open...stretched out across
the length of the desk.
But you aren't reading them.
lights blink
across the board in tandem.
You are not needed.
And in that moment
I know you are reading
this Poem.
Maman:
Not much time left now
But I wanted you to know
I found him.
The dreams Maman,
They were true.
I saw it happen
Not once but twice.
Our Timothy...
He was so very brave
On the battlefield.
Not once
did his drumbeat falter.
No note
wandered out of place.
It is true Maman.
Our Timothy
Is gone.
But the one who killed him...
The one who killed him
Was just a boy himself.
I saw his fingers tremble
As he squeezed the trigger.
I saw Maman,
But I was too late
To stop it.
The boy,
The killer of Our Timothy,
Suffered so as he struggled to
Pull the trigger.
I watched
as he dropped the weapon
And ran from the field.
He is already punished
more than anyone deserves.
But Our Timothy
Is gone,
And I have His Drum.
Our Drum.
It's my drum now,
Maman.
I will play as long as I Can.
An old lady watches
from a house of white oak
giving off an unseen glow
in the gathering mist.
An aging Alligator
stalks the Carolina swamp
Too old to chase
Even the tastiest morsel.
A boy and girl
traverse this magic river
in an ancient canoe.
The river's regular pattern
of life
is almost non-existent.
The boy notices nothing and
rows on.
It was the girl
who felt that first
sliver of fear.
The Magnolia Tunnel
began
with the sickening sweet scent
of over-blossoming flowers.
There was no sound
No movement save the tiny canoe
floating slowly, but surely
Into the trap.
The girl shakes her body
Willing the terror from her.
They see the movement
Of the alligator.
The creamy mist
of the middle swamp
hides much of the movement
The gator has the canoe
in his sights.
the old woman
looks on and smiles.
She Lights a lamp
that casts its glow
Across the swamp.
A final chance
to escape the ever increasing
danger.
The boy rows
Toward the white glow.
For him it means hope
in taking the risk.
The girl trembles
Without knowing why.
They near an outline.
Maybe its solid.
A House.
The boy rows toward it
but he rows alone.
The girl stops
sensing safety
in distance.
Too late.
Now there is no swamp
only thick heavy mist.
Where is the house?
Does it exist?
Dry land surrounds
an ancient canoe.
Two more souls are lost.
An old lady
looks on
And smiles...
Her victory complete.
The chill in the air
runs cold thru every bone
ice-frozen pants
glued to numb legs.
why are we here?
The stench in the air
Stops the whole procession
Move on, Soldier
Move on.
It's the enemy
A man (boy really)
dangling upside down
one leg missing
if you had the guts
to take inventory.
Dirt splattered
On a round baby face
gray sweat-stained tattered t-shirt
On a body
That no longer needs it.
No longer worried
About the cold.
Move on, soldier
Move on.
Blood-caked grime
Clings to a lifeless body
now unidentifiable
SOMEBODY CUT HIM DOWN.
Move on, soldier
Move On.
No sympathy
for the enemy.
You're here to kick ass.
Don't just stand there soldier.
Move On.
I wake up every morning
After coming home so late
And listen to them tell me
Why life is so damn great.
They tell me how I'm doing
In this new police-like state
I should be proud
I work two jobs
both of which I hate.
I should be proud I'm barely
making it...
that I live in this great land.
Proud I'm free
Or at least faking it
I should be proud to
live so grand.
I should be proud
to live my life
In this new police-like state
I should be proud
I'm barely living
Aren't I lucky life's so great!!
Red room
full of anger
tearful eyes
sit silent on the couch.
Why would she say that?
Can't she see?
Doesn't she know?
Where were you?
I prayed you'd be there.
Where were you
when I ran away
And he bribed me to come home.
Where were you
when I wanted nothing more
Than to see him dead.
And now
Without knowing
You take his side
It hurts more than
the pain he was capable of.
And I feel shame
I want to hurt you
to hate you
But I can't.
You sit in that chair
Oh so Righteous
You made the adult decision
Siding with him.
But what would you do
If I told you?
Would you hate him
As much as I do?
Would you want to kill him
...or me?
I sit silent
On the couch
And
See only Red.
I've heard
people say
murder
is never good
never right
never necessary
But I disagree.
Maybe feeling that way
Made it easier
for me to kill him.
Don't feel bad for him.
He was told over and over
That if he
didn't keep his hands
Off that little girl,
Somebody in the family
Would kill him.
I just beat the others to it.
The murder--
It was murder you know.
It was not
An act of insanity.
It could never be described
As
That momentary insanity
That drives all thoughts out of your mind
And
Forces your body into action.
That's what they are trying
to say now
but
That's not the truth.
This murder--
This calculated murder
was
An act of sanity
Carefully planned
And
Systematically carried out
To Cause
the most amount of pain
for the longest time possible.
And when I did it,
I was saner
Than I've been
In my entire
Life!!!!!!
If you have enjoyed pj leslie's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at bbrinker1940[at]yahoo.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of pj leslie's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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