I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
“Love you desperately, all of you, my little babies!”
Now they were different. They were much bigger in size. Love was pouring out from her.
There was a lot of love for them, protection for them, food she would provide, and a lot for the little ones to learn from her. They were like little tiny balls of life staring into her eyes, making baby-like sounds as they walked around her. It was nice weather for them to come out of their den. Winter was over.
She did what she had to. She was learning herself, she was learning for her first time to be a mother. She was very strict and a little intense, for now. But her senses told her differently. As a loving mother, you had to cherish them, as they are your blood and they are your trouble and responsibility.
Winter had faded away and spring was blooming all around them. They were coming out of a deep sleep and the little balls of energy were facing the real world for the first time.
She was a brown bear. Now, after coming back from hibernation she didn’t look anything like it. She was thin and weak, but she would gain her weight with time. She had gotten pregnant last summer and while asleep, during winter, had given birth to two beautiful cubs. When they came out, they were small and hairless. She wiped them off with her tongue and put them close to her belly, she knew that they would figure out what to do. And they did.
Now it was spring, the forest was turning green; snow was melting quickly, leaving only the tips of the mountains white and the bases darker and darker every day. Rivers were floating downwards much quicker, dispensing thousands of gallons of water with tremendous speed. Even if she couldn’t find anything substantial on the ground to eat and feed her cubs, she would go to the rivers for help.
We were all much younger, happier then,
And untouched by heartache, sadness;
In dreams, we go back again and again,
And bring to our hearts gladness!
From Grandpa Frank, father of the Fields,
And Miss Pauline, who married his boy;
The hand of fate's no longer concealed,
As countless descendents live the joy.
We were supposed to do a job in Italy
and, full of our feeling for
ourselves (our sense of being
Poets from America) we went
from Rome to Fano, met
the Mayor, mulled a couple
matters over. The Italian literati seemed
bewildered by the language of America: they asked us
what does "flat drink" mean? and the mysterious
"cheap date" (no explanation lessened
You want to be in a gang
And shoot up everything with a bang
You say they'll have your back
But education is what you lack
Education is the key to life
And not getting stabbed with a knife
Education will lead you to great heights
And not to everyday fights
Education will help you excel
Not lead you to a county jail
If this was 1634 It would only be just me and you except all of our little ones to, we would help you with the farm and on days with no work sale our goods in the village. I would be your favorite gypsy girl and you my favorite renaissance man. Take the long way home, walking thru the poppy fields.Continue reading
i had a dream about you,
before I knew.
it was short,
and so were you.
nothing has changed,
but I wish it had.
And I will think of you
with every cigarette,
just like I always have,
but probably not tomorrow
Of all the moments I've lived through,
There's one memory that always shines through.
A day of pure joy and happiness,
A day that fills me with nothing but gladness.
It was a summer's day, warm and bright,
The kind of day that makes everything feel right.
I was with my family, and we were all smiles,
Together we laughed and ran for miles.
She also cried as a newborn, and felt light shine through her eyes. Her favourite colour was ocean. Her lungs moved with the tides.
On Fridays, she'd make bread with her dad. Four floury hands. Two smiles, soft and wide. It was a ritual they’d complete each week, between prayers, and stories, and feasting. Sometimes, she’d take a ball of dough and eat it raw.
On Saturdays, she'd dance among ancient trees, who were too sage to take any side. This is where Alma would find freedom, with swirling scents of cedar, thyme, and pine. Below, gnarled roots met her feet, above buds and branches met her moves. Sometimes, she’d sing a song, made up on the spot.
On Sunday, Alma died, due to a paradox and plague: 'Holy war' they call it – this vain game of trying to claim the sacred. The stars, and those paying attention, saw that in the flash of the explosion, everyone's heaven was lit bright, just the same.
The ripples are still rippling. Mother is weeping salty tears. This is an old story, and fresh. Over the kitchen table and cups of chamomile tea, she asks tired and patient questions to nobody and to me. Questions about peace and breathing bodies at ease, and why we keep killing and reducing each other to less than tender, and place each other further than intimate, when all are babes here, fleshy and intricate.
Mother's there, her eyes are bright,
Papa's beaming by her side,
And in her arms, a bright delight
Baby brother, little bro.
A picture hanging on the wall
Band-Aids plastered after a fall,
Mother's there to cure it all,
And baby brother, little bro