Meanwhile (In America)

Léa:

I’m late in reflagging this but it would be a mistake not to share these words!

Originally posted on Dark Matter:

In America

In America

In America we get
mud wrestling and drive through liquor stores
In America we don’t get
many reasons not to leer or drink

In America we get
bales of weed washing up everywhere
In America we don’t get
enough drugs to kill all the people we put on Death Row

(I’m sure we’ll figure it out)

In America we get
a good feeling about this next scratch ticket
In America we don’t get
enough cash for water or even enough water to buy

Meanwhile, I’m thinking…

In America

In America

In America we know
exactly how much our dream costs
In America we don’t know
exactly where to find that dream 

In America we know
how many malls it takes to bury all the dead Indians
In America we don’t know
how to talk about a live Indian or even where to find one

In America…

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bonté

“Always be a little kinder than necessary.”  – J.M. Barrie

“I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet, strange, I am ungrateful to those teachers.”  -Kahlil Gibran

“Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”  – Mark Twain

     *

bonté

kindness is genuine

it cannot be measured

always freely given

from a heart

with intimate knowledge

of life’s joy,

sorrow and pain

        *

pain leaves scars

just because you

cannot see

don’t repudiate

their existence

built on a foundation

of ignorance or denial

           *

those who enslave

insist on your ignorance

yet the first to deny

responsibility

scars became malignant

conscience decomposed

replaced by anger

its appetite insatiable

           *

striking out

injures the innocent

the guilty take umbrage

constipated cognition

toxic input, toxic

as it strikes

a predatory response

       *

bonté

can be contagious

spread it around

perhaps slowly with some

glaciers can melt

in the presence of

sustained warmth

unless the heart is stone

             *

bisous,

léa

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Sonnet for You and On Waking

Léa:

If you haven’t been introduced to Glenda and her poems, now is your chance!

Originally posted on Spinning the Wheels:

I’ve decided on these two poems for my next post because they’re about that old, favourite haunt: love. These concern the one who has my heart and makes it live. They had to come first: they’re not the only poems that I’ve written about us, but they are the most naked. Hope you like.

I am in the process of upgrading my computer, so if you post concerning these and I don’t get back to you immediately, please know that I’ll be trying my socks off to do so just as soon as I can.

Sonnet for You

When thoughtlessly I turn to meet your eyes,
The ripest recognition floods me through,
In blind and helpless love, my old world dies,
Calling to question things I thought I knew.
The new life sucks us in, we have no choice,
No chance to mull “could this be my true love?
How…

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Mirror, mirror…

 

“Mirror is my best friend, because when I cry, it never laughs.”  – Sir Charles Chaplin 

“Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.”               – Camille Pissarro

If only our eyes saw souls instead of bodies how very different our ideals of beauty would be.”                   – author unknown

“People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within.”
-Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

                 *

Mirror, Mirror

I embark on a journey

To find out just who is this person

Buried inside my eyelids

The one who lurks in front of the bathroom mirror

As I blow-dry my hair each morning

She mimics my movements

While I brush my teeth and short reddish hair

Thank you Clariol

Or is she mocking me?

We share a wardrobe

It is debatable whom the clothes fit better

I prefer to think the mirror is the one

Telling the tall tales

A mirror should never be believed

If it were kinder

Perhaps I wouldn’t avoid its glare

*

Bisous,

Léa

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Just the facts…

Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
– Oscar Wilde

Just the facts…

You are the brightest point of the candles flame

The dandelions in my clover

The first bite of cheesecake

And the solstice of my summer

*

You are the oasis I’ve searched for In my forty years wandering

The checkered flag and hurrahs

At the finish line

You will never be the chip in my teacup

The croutons in my salad

Nor a frog croaking by the pond

*

And you are not the stapler on my desk

You are the warmth of the fire

Chasing away my chill

And the conductor of the symphony

Spilling from my harp strings

*

Perhaps you are the lavender sachet

Tucked beneath my pillow – scenting my dreams

The rhubarb in my pie

And the vibrant oils layered on my canvas

*

Did you realize that I am the foam

Riding the crashing waves, spilling across your rocks,

Pilings and coastlines

the chocolate in your milk

And the peanut butter for your jelly

*

I am the wick for your lantern

The molasses in the gingerbread; full, thickly sweet

With a kick

And the firefly when you lose your way

*

But more than all of this

I will be the suede patch on the sleeve

Of your tweed coat

Hoisting a pint at the Everyman Bistro near

The Mercy River while Beatles on the jukebox take you back in time

I will be the Eleanor Rigby of your memories

Bisous,

Léa

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blocked

“Ideas may drift into other minds, but they do not drift my way.
I have to go and fetch them. I know no work manual or mental to equal the
appalling heart-breaking anguish of fetching an idea from nowhere.”

– A. A. Milne

“When asked , ‘how do you write?’ I invariably answer ‘one word at a time.”                                                     – Stephen King

blocked

will tortured lines appear
stuttering fingers tremble across
the keyboard
an exercise in hit and miss
the empty mind hopes
perhaps the laws of probability
would be kind
smiling in verse

fingers shudder, spasm and freeze
from a distance, grey matter bounces
thought and metaphor
till they coagulate
in cerebral jelly
synapse arrested
white pages glare
laughingly at me

Bisous,

Léa

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Transformation

Léa:

If you haven’t visited Christine’s blog, you are missing so much!

Originally posted on journeyintopoetry:

A warm summer’s evening,
the kind of day when
bedtime forgets it’s name and
little ones refuse to tell.

You wore a denim shirt
tucked in, but not quite,
to your trendy knee length shorts
like a cool teenager.
You were chasing a balloon
with your big brother.

When did you stop being a baby?

Was it one night last week
while you were sleeping?
A mysterious unfolding,
a sudden beating of wings,
a flying off into the unknown,
into the boundless landscape of
your very own pure and precious ife.

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