Forward

Said that I would bleed
rushing red
promised tears
and cautioned pain

I feared that future
dressed in hate and chains

and now I fear the
downcast eyes
the disappointed sighs

that your love would be removed
or permanently altered

but I'm not bleeding
because He bled for me.
and the tears which fill my eyes
refuse to fall
because He cried for me
the pain I was promised
He felt for me

I'm exhausted at the thought
It floors me
I'm so loved

I was terrified.
Now replaced
with worry and wonder

I question if you would still love me
But his love?
I don't understand it.
But this much I know:
He loves me.
And that's unchangeable.

Fills me up
and sets me to fly
It scares me
and frees me
That fabulous love

He took my pain. Held it in his hands and feet and back.
He bled. And screamed and ached.
So I don't have to.

Set me free
To bring hope
peace
would be too small
Love that propells
and excellerates
Your love causes me to move

If I could rewind
would I different do?
I need not linger there
because He loves me
and it makes me
run.

My bedroom floor

I cried until it was a carpet of soggy, snotty tissues
And breathed the silent, earthquake sobs.

I screamed to crack the quiet.
And prayed. But there was no miracle.

So I read. And consumed the words without digestion for something to fill my mind.

Now I cannot pause.
If even for a moment my mind was not occupied this vicious loneliness
would pour in and consume me.

And the floor would overflow, smothering me in my own used tears.
And the shaking sobs would separate my body.

I survive.
But surviving is far from living the marvelous life I was intended.

Once, I knew how to really live.
But the sorrow attacked my mind and ate away the knowledge.
I must re-learn how to be alive.
Until the lessons, I can only survive.

Block.

I misplaced my words
they were right there! At the corner
bold and deliberate.

So, either they have been
abducted
or they ran away of their own accord,
afraid of the future I'd planned for them.

I fear that they have run, for there
is no evidence of foul-play
or demand of ransom which would be typical

Perhaps it's for the better.
It may have been a waste; too perfect
in poetry can repulse and strip away that color

If you find my words- those perfect
phrases that may pop into your head
or dibble from your lips
and you just know they couldn't come from you

please care for them, but you
need not return them to me, because
they chose to leave
and I am not one to force my words.

but, if you can recall the phrase
they formed themselves into
I am curious on how they arranged
and what the finished product was.

Not that I wouldn't have loved them dearly,
but there are others.
I have an endless supply,
it just the distribution schedule which troubles me.

When we fight.

It started in the clouds
with tiny cottages
sometimes far-off huts or mansions
and as we grew
the dwellings became smaller, more compact

I was warned and
You were warned
and still we did not surrender
but held eachother more fiercely

Sometimes I cannot see the cracks,
only the bright house we've painted over our conversations
Initially, any clouds would make walls fall out
and the floors erupt
I would cry, and you would scream

And now it only seems that sometimes our hopes,
strung along the banister untwist
themselves
and must be re-tied
perhaps in different places

Or other times, one of us re-paints the walls
without consent
and the other clings to a bare patch,
although it looks ridiculous,
begging that it remain untouched

But the house no longer self-destructs and I feel safe to move in

I won't apologize, and I am not sorry
not for tears, not for the remodeling
No argument would I replace.
Leave your loud words floating in the air
Don't replace the missing steps.

No one promised ease, they guaranteed the other.
A move-in ready bungalow
won't equal what I've learned
when the door flew off
or the roof floated away

That night, after blaming eachother
we slept under the stars
and contemplated how to secure another.
The new roof is heavier
and no matter how strong a wind blows
it doesn't move

Our secret smiles and the softer kisses
only evolved from repairing the broken windows.
which took days
and made the neighbors question our sanity

I don't mind if we've dreamed a 'fixer-upper'
Or even if we damage it once-in-a-while
As long as we keep repairing every time.

We mutually imagined that we would buy our home,
instead, we're paying more
and building it from stratch.
It's unique, sometimes ideal and completely our own.

The award

yes, i've heard you
but always with assistants
could it just be enough
could it just be Alone?

you said it tonight
followed by a screaming crowd
please, just let it stand
it's so strong, so real when it's Alone

won't ask again
a silent resolution
for me.
for me Alone.

i said as clearly as i could
even said the very words
hope you didn't listen
if nothing changed...
it's better that you didn't hear

i've heard you say it
i've only ever heard it said
then followed with assistants
i wish it were left Alone

wouldn't re-word
not further explain
just leave a silence
so i don't question if you heard

have you listened to my life?
glanced at any activity or action?
bustling in requests of approval

a grin just slapped me
a little more free
wasted so much in waiting
to see
to really believe

for it to be Alone
no more assistants,
the sentence full of only words

tried to really listen
and fell asleep to many voices
awarding me the words
followed by no assistants
which made me absolutely believe

now...
i'm doing it for me.

Alone.

The Sometimes Children

find my way
following a slow trail of children
tripping water-carved ravines
in the darkness
their skin glowing like oil
despite the moon

path is dry
maze of empty ditches
would fill like rivers
if the needed rain
that friendly flooding
the pilgrims sleep through
or stand
lifting soaked newsprint umbrellas


two
hundred
children

arriving for bed
students gather and read
some just pretend
as the memories get later past
bedtime
the better the photo
to wrap the numbers
capture faces and army tents
solid even cement beds

i don't speak acholi or lango
or any other tongue
but they know
and i know
the bigger the eyes
the longer the scars
the deeper the pockets
(of those who read these interviews)
prying into people's lives
their saddest story best to sell

three girls select me with their smiles
ask the one who laughs
big and wide

to discover a name which defines-
grace hope
because somehow, she still smiles
takes her seat beside the stranger
tells me who's her crush
what subjects she likes
and what they call
her 'marks' in school
but what i'll not forget
(i thought about today
no reason to remember
driving in the rain)

the world-vision library
balanced on a wooden bench
carving her every word
into a notebook on my knee

three years ago
three years ago she was nine
slept in the bushes flat against the ground
waking in the grass to the sound of footsteps
and fear
before the shelters
when it was the bus park
filled with trucks and vans
and ruts
and rapists

once
she slept at home with her mother
the rebels: the children
that kill and steal
took her and her sister (who was hardly four)

but the words i can't forget
looking into the sweet
brown eyes
of a girl who could easily be my friend
who has my hobbies
and laughs like me
who, in her skin and school uniform
could be any normal girl
she calmly
a little more quietly said

"sometimes"

(my question
a question i hope
to never
ask again)
she told me her duty
as they tried to twist her mind
what she was forced
to do
to the ones who wouldn't work
or walk
(as i said.
its not my problem
not my war
other people; other children
if you want
i'll give

cant be so hard to stop an army
end a war
that never began)

amazed as
i heard my own voice
splintering the mumbled quiet
of fifty children studying
chatting before
they head for sleep
away from home family and
any resemblence of a bed

"did you ever beat anyone to death?"
and she quietly answered
“sometimes”

Rest in Peace

does he know?
the man who cleans off the graffiti
blue that slowly runs
down the side of someone's shed
screaming out the memory
of a boy-become-statistic

the sprayed epitaph
you walk past each day
to never let him go
to never let you heal

so we tell you to forget

wake up from loud nightmares
ringing in your ears
that mix with sirens
both remembered and real
leaves you screaming all alone
for years you've been standing in that alley
screaming in the night

so we tell you to forget

but you can still remember
the warm liquid on your hands
holding the last moments flowing from your friend

so we tell you to forget

the tears of bright blue blood
in the letters resprayed monthly
the landlord barks threats
behind the screen
too scared to step
because of all these gangsters

none of them are boys
the body of a member
slain between the streets
a lossless death, one problem gone

so we tell you to forget

sweat of your palms
hands shaking, as that one finger jerks
another shot, another scream.
forget.
forget the sound. forget the faces.

but we never showed you
and this is the only way you know
it's how the asphalt taught you to heal

sirens screeching to the pounding of your heart
and now, it's just you
for years you'll be standing in the cell,
screaming in the night

so we tell you to remember

remember the blood on your hands
so that you will change, be reformed
tatoo the crime onto your skin

the blue paint, slowly running down
forget
forget
remember
remember

The Red

"Running" doesnt always invovle rapid movement of the feet. Just after I wrote this, I met this boy's mother. I feel strange calling him a little boy- or even a boy.

those too-big shoes
falling off your feet
sucked into the the wet concrete
drowing seems so inevitable
by this tepid poision you are allowed to swallow

your angelic face with it's
perfect carvings, smoothened features
lies to say you are a boy
the shadows of wisdom you ought not to know
and lightless eyes that pretend to shine

who lets you swim through this grass and smoke?
who lets you dance in those red, red pants?
who diseases help and tutors you in marijuana?

little boy so grown up
never big enough to be head-over that stagnant lake

eleven
doesnt fail to make me breathe a little slower
eleven
keeps causing me to pause
try to swallow that slow growing stone
somewhere in my throat
where is the little boy in you?
oversized everything
doesnt even make you small

eleven
reversely echoes
growing louder and shaking in my ears
letters rewrite themselves
strangely golden, humming as they scream
eleven

eleven
just grows bigger and younger
eleven
eleven
little eleven year old boy

Paper Boys

The only name I can recall
Dehumans and destroys
Builds up an expectation
I hope he never fills

Where did he go?
the dirty shoes and smiles
just bones: elbows, knees
When 'rocks' were grey and solid
Before concrete, awful streets

Where is the boy?
He has hopes and dreams
Didn't run so easily
He thinks 'food' is to be eaten
What did you do with him?

I never knew this little boy,
but I know he must have been
i see it somewhere behind
the face- so feeling-less and masculine
now substituted with this pretend man

On a shelf of paper boys
who's names are almost gone
But there is him who knows the names
carved each into his hand

Looking for the stolen children
even as the world forgets the boys
and the men themselves
that someone calls them 'child'
and claims each as his own

I don't know each, or every
but those plams engraved
with whitened scars
won't forget the boys

The scribe is never silent
he pleads, not for the men
but for the boys,
the paper children
written into his hands

post its

the man beside me,
a little to the left
cripple in both legs
whispers softly, 'live'

the labels i write
titles i give myself
of what i am
or who i should be
refuse to stick,
keep falling at my feet

slowly growing piles
bigger words, stronger glue
and still they fill the floor

so now i'm writing on my flesh
carving into my arms
these names i want the world to see
the gospel which i share

look at the dried blood on my hands
from cutting words on myself
the battered man beside me
with blackened eyes
he's sworn ive caused

but the only thing i've done
is stood and screamed the words
the only one i've touched is me-
to make the lables stay

his swollen lips move, 'live'

my labels won't stay
these scars look awful;
diseased and spreading
my voice is cracked from shouting
tiny fingers brush my back
another label hits the ground

and still, the small, bent man
struggles to stand
pleading that i no longer beat him
only stain on my shoes is my blood
falling fresh from my cuts
my arms are sore, but my legs are strong
my voice is fading, but i have yet to walk

the last label almost stuck
but the little, beaten man plucked it off
blood spills through his teeth,
'live for me'

Dust in Heaven

Walking down this powdered-sugar street,
I hear it again,
The words repeat

Did it hurt to slowly freeze?
Did you cry,
Or die with ease?

Were you pushed from your chair?
Unconscious
Blood dripping from your hair

I hope you quietly fell asleep,
covered in a blanket;
snow that’s two feet deep

I sit beside your brother, who keeps shaking
it’s withdraws
and the sobs he keeps making

the addictions; over, finished, done
some might thing you lost,
but I say you finally won

who cares about streets of gold?
heaven is heaven
because there's no cold

people always talk about gates made of pearls,
but heaven is heaven
because it isn’t of this world

angels always mentioned,
but couldn't care if we grow wings
I don't think thats God's intention

Used to think of how I would fly,
but heaven is heaven
because we won't cry

Everything all shining and bright
maybe- but it's heaven and its glorious
because there is no night!

No more mustard and salami sandwiches
Heaven is heaven
For fullness, not riches

I could go forever, the wonders, the laud
Heaven is heaven
because of our God!

The beauty

How beautiful are rusty wheels
empty tables
and uneaten meals

how sweet a spare bed at the Sally-Ann
a drug-drenched rag
an addiction that demands

As I walk in the whitened blur
Remember your brother
Shaking as he slurs

telling of the dark of night
the freezing cold
behind an alley, out of sight

lay beneath a carpet of snow
quietly freezing
death comes much too slow

how wonderful is dying
how beautiful is heaven
there, there is no crying

every pain- diminished
any hurt, in justice
all of this earth- finished!

my arms around the bony back
of your sobbing brother
whatever comfort I lack

it's him who says:
"she's now with Jesus"
and in my mind it plays

as usual, a smile on your face
every scar, each wrinkle
gone without a trace

who cares about streets of gold?
heaven is heaven
because there's no cold

Will you even notice the gates?
all life's pain
has no record, has no place

in this world we cry, we fear
my father promises
to wipe away every tear

Gone from earth, this pain-soaked sod
No more sadness or sorrow
heaven is heaven because of our God!

garden in the desert

little red flowers
why won't you keep a nice, straight row?
you were to be yellow,
innocent, adorable
to know only so little
and never speak this story
but now,
your stems have been stretched
roots replanted
and your color is wrong
but time extends
and the evil only spreads
and more turn to red
the crimson flows to everything
spreading splashes even leaves
painting over the garden
somehow every flower is innocent
while brightly very red
everything is flecked, a giant brush above
freckles along the stems
because the earth is full of blood
and if it were to rain
the clouds would be a brown-ish shade
the perfume of thie bouquet,
strong, stagnant and still sweet
despite the bed
soil layers much too drenched
to think the red will fade
as the wind rocks your heads
banging you together
a well thought gesture to clump as one,
but this was to be yellow
and the other to be blue
notice the scent, the shape
you must look past colors now
as everything is bleeding

Spray of Gold

Bear-mace is yellow-ish brown when sprayed. It was mostly aimed for this person's eyes- punishment for saying too much.

i dont want the shimmering
me, who loves the stars
demand they cower in the clouds
murky puddles' silver rims even
shine too bright
basking in the darkness
walk ever slow
savor the damp cold
air, breathe in the comforting concrete

blue and purple no matter how
majestic, even if there's blood
still not drag down
tears compared to the sprays of light
heavy heart for all that paint
dusty, metallic

showered in all gold; shiny malice coating
running flock to join
to dance, to cheer
laughter fades echos back in grins
bouncing run to follow, set out this terrored custom

specks of light across
his back filling up the eyes
seem to fly, your shirt becomes a cloak
flapping behind as you run
across the lawn
dimming lights such hazy glow
this would be so beautiful
if there were no fear

LINES

this is not for anyone, just a way to voice my questions and plead once more for something clearer. The part about the angels was God's confirmation through a man at the park who's first words (in broken english) to me were, "You have very strong angels." and i still smile to consider that i keep my guardians in-shape.

draw the lines much deeper
carve close to the muscle
i want to see the fences

bright imagination; still too far
never dared these depths

the strongest shambles of armor
and firm assurance of body-builder angels

sorted out the 'if' and 'don't'
you must realize color
but i'm still waiting for definers
i am a woman.- i guess you already knew

how holy are bills in blood?
can you salvage the cocaine?
my list continues on

never doubt the people
or question humanity
i'm struggling with holiness
waist-deep in pig-shit pride

my pedastal would smash
if it was off the ground
instructors are the drug-lords,
thats enough in shards

i like the shocking titles
the glow it gives my face
but when its me and the four walls
can't pretend there is no 'them'

waiting on the borders
darkest black, please
and simple things; like do i feed the hungry?

i know where to stand on something like pawn shops,
but where is your commandment
on taking the gifts of a theif,
and is this so much different?

do my eyes scream loud enough?
is telling right or left crossing into sin?
when to be a friend is an alibi, do i walk away?

i don't want to live it
experience is scary, open-house for error
make a list- typed, so i won't slip
highlight all in bold

love and justice don't mix,
but combust with deadly fumes
how can i declare to care
grasp the hand who's twin sells the death
and really love that too-thin woman, fistfull of a wrinkled twenty

father; do i feed the hungry?

When?

for that lady who still makes my eyes fill up, when will you be ready? do you know you will never escape the streets, never rise above the sniff on your own?

talk is tiny and i'm no doctor
you’re bleeding on the floor
nod, re-fill my cup
act as if i understand
my four walls
often vary but they are always stable
honesty won't let me say its sympathy
clear strong words pulled from that strangled throat
“I’m not ready.”
i imagined last words to be quivering, shaking
“I’m not ready."
teetering between profound and real
your slow suicide attempt filling up my nostrils
head-ache in the making, successful to impress
history of broken bits and standing-up the ambulance
wonder how familiar paramedics are with 'no'

“I’m not ready.”
who told you to be patient?
who said preparation? cliff-jumping is exhilarating!
addictions are immortal
with lungs like infants, never give you peace
hope shouting, 'you can't. trash to try,
you will never be enough.'
look down at my own callouses
the bleeding, leaking sores
some so deep and cracked
mirror in my fingers,
so much lace we add, its hard to believe your logo is a pus-y blister
“I’m not ready.”
maybe its the same with all dying words
replay again and again until they lose their force
all the pauses in between, the question we both beg
the path isn’t far, just very, very long

Human

for that boy who kept showing up in my prayers all day, and made the sirens worry me. this poem was supposed to swing into something about changing your name and thus stepping into a new identity and future, but i guess thats for another poem, another time.

human
wide smile, white teeth
broad chest accompanied with belly
soft smell of berries blue
that shirt you wont dare leave
shy about your hands
but not for where you place them
that strut blends your limp
speak of respect confused with fear

sometimes words are easy
but names are always earned
never cheaply given

sister's blood still fresh
days of hunger dont forget
and all those nights of worry
sleeping in the jungle
thinking 'if tomorrow...'

tiny silver pieces:
money
death
destruction
guilt so far displaced
yet i cannot condemn
after all, you're human
or should i say for me?

wear a symbol
shout the title
can never see that first
a hero always forward
human in the mix

members slowly people
people always human
your gang is just a group
of hurting, hungry humans

and Jesus loves humanity
even the very human
in every one, us all

Big Brown Eyes

to my soccer buddy who is a tiny giant with malt-ball eyes and a funny 'fro.

blood running down the sink
in the creases of your fingers
pools in your palms

scars engraved
written in stone
can be
markings on the path
biased history

infront is not decided
don't draw the map so quickly
number 6 reverberates

just like bleach
toxic to drink
smell just rests in the air
burns so sweet
rusty red stains
made white
not the natural, still intended

clog the drain
discolor enamel
leave the faucet dripping

Blood is life
not added or included,
but the very bricks
its all about dying
the very reason, very breathing

wash your hands in The Blood
bathe in the flow of life
suicide?
perhaps
but isn't that the point?
its all about dying

sit beside those fancy doors
shadowed in the steeple
im mixing myself in
prepare yourself
The Blood is chasing you
that gun won't be enough
can't protect from this

water is inadequate
baptize in the bleach
brittle, fake skin seared away
red-shell diluted by The Blood

liberal portions in your person
crossed the ocean
all things new
now ford that bloody river
drenched clean the other side

not the future, nor the past
only answer
'Do not kill'
plunge into that river, dive into the death
its all about dying

She's Waiting For Her Bus

to the girl who is always teaching me, and so easily forgets my faults, i'm thankful for your friendship!

i'm the friendly one
i'm the...
the perfect one.
where do we begin?

he threw pennies at you.
im so sorry.
im so
sorry.

you made appointments
i just stood beside you
you got protection
i just took a breath

i made you face a fear
a tiny,
little fear pretending
I was with you
all the way

and I watched you
let you sell
yourself
what about reality?
you face that
every hour
I won't walk it with you
meet that one
all alone

I can't force you
to stop
but neutral is a liar
its a false-front disease

If I care at all I'll scream
I'll whisper
I'll mumble
Anything
is better than idle

I wont wish good luck
cant say
fare well
but I pray blessing
protection not in any rubber
form
God bless
not man
not boy
may you be in His watch
in the palm of His hand

how true you are a hooker
at the end
image still the same
onion-breath and all

New Best Friend

for that boy that dared to say and be so real. you dont know how huge your false confidence has been, i returned because you lied, if that makes any sense. hopefully one day, i will remember (even better, discover) your real name.

I coudn't help but notice
your thick wad of bills
how you tried to keep your cool
the authority you carry
the name you said isnt what they're shouting
or how popular you are with passing cars
I couldn't help but notice

I couldnt help but notice
that your'e just a little boy
that smile is of fear and nothing else
how homesick you are; waiting to return, back where you belong
Mabye its in Africa
maybe its in Florida
maybe its the loving arms behind you
maybe its the pleading, bleeding Jesus at your side

I couldn't help but notice...
and now I'll always remember