Progress

The ancient nation in its original form
was softly shaded brown and gray;
shaped by solid rocks, cut tombs, temples and coastal lines.

Lithe, dancing female figures moved reverently before a remarkable view
in an acropolis built for their gods,
who lay calmly undisturbed behind their fortified stone walls.

Now, in its unwilling modern form, the nation is lit
by a rainbow formed from the bright globes of the night market
and the electricity used by tourists in sprawling brick hotels.

Rich strangers move along the sea;
ignorant of the simple lives of the ancients
who fell prey to unappreciative tourist companies
that advertise the spectacular view, but forget about the city’s original vision.

Today, when dancers slink along the overhanging rocks
it is in reverent mourning for the loss of their land’s simple beauty and gray innocence
as even their gods are now neglected beneath their crumbling temple walls.

Writer’s Block

My creative mind is volcanic;
Spitting out molten words that form
An inferno of phrases which sear
My pitifully untrained hands.

Though burning I keep fighting
To slow the eruption and
To capture and solidify the
Sharp consonants and aesthetic vowels.

The eruption, however, always cools
Into a sea of black stone and I am
Left with a few rare glass gems but
No memory of what they mean or how to use them.

I continue to write only because I believe
That somewhere beneath the dark, glossy surface lies
A manifestation of my genius:
A gem, perfectly created.

Beneath Its Bones

It was a normal day for the affected students;
Beginning with math and english and history
And ending with one fist to the teeth
And a head through a window.
On the second floor; shattered glass
Spread at the feet of a crowd
Who scattered as the blood began
To flow from above someone’s left eye.
To students and staff who know nothing else
The consequent spitting out of teeth and the
Bright red trail from the window to the ambulance
Was like a scene from a movie watched too many times:
A repetition, boring and meaningless,
Failing to disturb its desensitized viewers.
In such a way the realities of lasting hatred
And fear embedded in hot blooded veins

Are brought forth regularly and laid out
In drops of blood on high school stairways.
They scream to remind us that we are not doing enough;

That we are only scratching the surface of this monster called violence
And that we will never end the fights unless we reach deeper
Beneath its skin; beneath its veins and into its bones
To find the origins of the diseases that allow
This hatred to thrive and survive.
But these blatant exhibitions are conveniently
And consistently ignored.

If such young bodies can regularly
Burst through barriers and break open the skin
Why can’t we?
What is stopping us from recognizing
Our own fingerprints in the blood left on the walls;
From admitting our role in generation after generation of failure?
Why do we shield our eyes when the injured are led away
In handcuffs, spitting out cries for help
In the form of angry words and empty threats?

Just as there are layers of veins and cells
And bones beneath the skin
There are years of pain
Abandonment, confusion and ignorance
Beneath these brawls.
In these stale scenes a solution waits to be found;
Begs for us to dig deeper and try harder;
Pleads for an end to apathy and a
Stronger commitment to healing the diseases
That make violence a chronic part of life.

Fight to Focus

We are two children on an old see-saw
Displeased with its constant rise and fall
But refusing to move. We fight against its natural movements
Passionate for balance and stillness.
Every push from our worn legs creates a change in position
Draining our strength as we struggle against
The gravity and our feet pushing against gravel
Are leaking fuel

So we fight to focus on the future

When all of these nauseating see-saw moments will pass
When we will plant our feet firmly
When we stop the falling movements
When we kick the fulcrum from beneath the wood
We’ll lift the board and shoulder it together
Move it to packed ground and lay a foundation
We’ll cover it with concrete and paint
We will create a shelter or better yet, a home

Our old fruitless struggles against gravity
Will settle like concrete into a sturdy slope of steps
Shaped beneath the strong feet that once constantly
Pushed against a plane of unforgiving gravel
The blurry far off vision of climbing the stairs to
Our front door built steady on a static floor
Keeps the blood flowing to my fatigued muscles
As my feet hit the ground once more.

Memories

Fragile they are,

These memories we hold.

They reflect through the bends

Of a jagged prism;

They change with the flick of a wrist.

And different pasts for different eyes

Are born from the shards of the prism.

One sees the rainbow

And one sees the glass;

Where you see the picture,

I see the glare.

Bare

Last night I stared down

At images of cover girls

Lying on my bedroom floor.

The wide eyes staring back at me

Spoke of fantasies fabricated

For lost personas and empty minds.

With growing agony,

I listened to their message:

It was a tale of lies

That filled holes with concealer

And cracks with mascara.

They painted the ideal image to completion;

It was polished to perfection.

That night,

My rough hands and narrow eyes

Tore their images apart.

Bright shine and even lines

Settled around my feet like heavy snow

As I replaced their unrelenting deception

With my beautifully imperfect

Simple honesty.