Anne's mediocre poetry

I too, don’t like it, this entry
into the subterfuge – I know
there is a laugh, a smile beyond
what my eye can see
and I long for return
to a normalcy of seeing
all of it – whether smirk or pout or goad.

This is where knowledge
is taboo
only in dirt does
survival depend
upon un-learning
all you know
whether Confucius
or gravity’s pull
release them to
the atmosphere
never more to
meander here.

Their shoulders carry us
as we strive for heaven’s door
the age of colossus
is passing the time of
giants gone how
the righteous leave us
with our grief filled
songs. But those songs
will carry us
like shoulders do at
heaven’s door.

Today I’d like
to try you on
I think your
sweet hello
would fit
just fine
the perfect glove
for a withered hand
that used to
shake mine
in the days when
we connected
those days are gone
today we must
be content
with virtual hugs
and yet
your sweet hello
is what I need
it fits me like
the summer breeze
when heat waves
linger deeper than
the lungs can sweep
the air and then
I’d like to see
if tomorrow I
am still here
can we resume
our talks and dreams
I long for them oh
yes I do I miss
you friend do
you miss me too?

first voice history 

beyond the scope of corners
a man is standing there
a wink and a grin he renders
and a most diabolical of stares
as if i wasn't there no
as if i wasn't there

ignore me noble master
do not see my bones
when leather reaches skin
i know i am alone in
breathing all that is foul
this is the fate of bones
that are always alone
the all-knowing of
loneliness and being
alone since my family
you have stolen
you have left me alone
like a black-headed gull
blown free from eastern home
this distant shore a marvel
the cruelty of loss
when gobbled by a market
bent on a growth at
human cost of skin
and bones so alone
i am
ever alone
i die alone

second voice modern

it is such a manly thing to do
to prey on those
less hirsute than you
and lie about it as you do
with statues and statutes
that is what you do but no
it will not erase what the
eye can see on her skin yes
on her skin her mother's rape
is evident for all our eyes
to see her is the monument
of our country's wealth the
eye does not lie when it
chooses to see not like
the mouth how it never
ceases to justify that which
cannot hold when justice
rises beneath the light
shine on little light oh little
light shine on and tell
the truth erase the lies
erase the lies all the lies
erase them

I watch them from shelter, this glass so
wide, protects me from the
virus seeping, through porous molecules,
the cough in air, but the robins are
there building a nest with twig and
grass and grit they perceive how I listen
to song, this melodic thrush brings
everything avian into the haunting. Then
comes amusement when the chortle fills
the air, this bird so common for all to see
is bemused when I mis-identify as
he flies- the sky brings confusion to
this human eye.

The edge of my memory, so
long in writing is so short
when read, just flitting, 
flitting by like the house wren in
my garden, taking time to scold
then seeing to this business of
life, each babe waiting for a juicy
morsel, and this is why we need
insects, to let the babies eat. Alas
the potato beetles are eating my
plants as I walk along the row,
squishing until my gloves are
stained red- this is a sadistic
pleasure. Wren, wren where are
you when I need you? Gallivanting
it seems.

Out on the dike at Nayanquing
Point there is a hootamaganzy diving,
the dip and the rising like
a bowling pin downed in the
alley - I have a love for the name,
merganser of these inland seas. Make
a fool of me when I confuse you
as the breeze lifts your feathers,
making me believe you are
unusual. But no, just casual as ever
it seems. For some things we
can agree on, the strawberry
is better when it drips, the corn
picked and then into boiling water,
yes this is how it is supposed to
taste. And when the world is
larger than you want it to be,
and people let anger disperse,
I will take my cue from the people
who could fly, fly away to the
land of make believe, since it is
a land where kindness rules and
birds are flying everywhere.

The power of a river
breaking free from dam
is an emblem washing over
me with life detained,
blue upon the seam
snuffing out the black
and brown and red so
unseemly in not
caring for life itself.
Oh river can you hear me?
Will you weep those tears
for all I've seen? Or will
you merely wash away
all the living
in your path?

The river washed away
everything I knew, from
city market and home and
hearth-the river did not care,
you have to have a conscience,
your soul must not be bare of
knowing your are human and
all blood is red and pours
like every mother knows
her children are of the earth
and when you break them with
your might, you thrust the joy of
living into mud and dirt.

Someday the might river
will wash us all away
if we cannot love each other
our time is up and saying
all this reminds me of the
ones who came before,
who with humility brought
injustice to the doors of those
in power and refusing to back
down, the seekers of justice
for the mothers who have
lost their sons
lost their sons
must never be dimmed by
a river that runs on and on
and on.

5/31/2020

The days of hope
They came and went,
and despair can breed
the worry of closure on
anything sweet – are those
days gone for good?

With blood in his mouth
and bone through his teeth
the heckler shouts tyrant
in the kingdom of fear
illusion reigns supreme
with false grandeur.
The love of a gun is
a curious thing at the
peaceful protest-
dissonance reigns.

By your deeds
you shall be known,
no escape from
the metronome.
These words may look
a familiar ring no
distinguishing but
Webster gives the language
with constitutional backing-
no to emolument oh no, no,
leave with what you came is
the only legitimacy you can claim.
And if you hurt it is okay for emollient
to soothe your ache. The English
language can heal or hurt so
listen intently for the saint and crook.

We must rock anyways to
bring relief to the teething baby
when mother aches to sleep. 
Stardust dissipates - streaking into
song, sing your heart out when the
days are long for dust to dust
we all end up, so we may as well
kick it all up.

The night drapes the sleeping,
conceals our souls in smoke,
when the dreams are open
relentless in all breath-
the gasp is what we search for
and welcome smile relief,
in my home town the people
forever deal in grief.
The forgotten soldier
who served in world war
he is now expendable
to talking heads-they implore us
to deliver him
closer to death’s door.
In my home town the swastika
has risen like a scab
we scratch and scratch
until it bleeds and festers
how did this happen?
And when?
In my home town the ghouls
direct our city streets,
they frighten all the children
whom mothers must hold tight,
against the constant weeping
with ferocity they strike.