In the weeds

Hugo Victor

In the weeds* 

Fathers then did all dabble in torture 
and so when I was whisked off for a whack
behind the house as consequence for some
childish hunt for adventure - skinny haunches
shivered with a thrill of the first promised invasion
of my soon to be naked flesh - And so it unfolds - He,
somehow larger than ever, hand circling my puny bicep
And then there we are, alone, in the shallow  impress of that
dip of dandelion studded weeds - a whoosh,  he pulls his belt 
through its loops, the buckle flashes in the fading sunlight -
a slice of his belly exposed for a flash - I see that his eyes
behind his glasses are stained with something irrevocable -
the knowledge that all will shift in seconds between us forever
and as I turn and wordless reach to loosen my britches - his arm
raises - rippled muscles of forearm whip the air beside my ear with
a skill of gentle deceit that neither one of us shall ever reveal as we
wait and then after a measured time walk back to the house our pride
intact -our love hallowed - our shared secret left in the whisper of weeds 

as I lower my eyes and let my shoulders relax under the weight of my unwhacking 

~

* this poem is fictional piece about a little boy that came to me from the wordle words it is in no way biographical :)

The Sunday Whirl

Light the light

clarita @ www.morguefile.com

Light the light

they sang long ago

in some far off place

the air humid and

heavy with the scent

of frangipani and sex

a bottle of wine on the

floor between them as

they leaned and sang

collected together as

bright spring flowers

tossed onto an endless

ribbon of ever brighter
tomorrows

~

Tattered

photo by: Ladyheart www.morguefile.com

Tattered

there in the morning light

at first look within I turn

and feel the torn shreds of

love shift and wave with my

slowly, dully, pounding heart

Personal Reflections Following the Viewing of the film Siddharth - "Do The Best You Can"

PERSONAL REFLECTIONS FOLLOWING THE VIEWING OF THE FILM

SIDDHARTH - 

by pkp 

(I would very much appreciate your comments) 

Just returned from seeing Siddharth (an Indian/Canada 2013 Fillm - in Hindi with English subtitles, a film by RICHIE MEHTA. Siddharth won Best Film (and Best Director for Richie Mehta) at the South Asian International Film Festival and is an Official Selection of Human Rights Watch.. It was reviewed as follows: " the spellbinding and gorgeously wrought tale of one father's journey across India in search of his son. Mehendra is a chain-wallah, eking out a living fixing zippers on the bustling streets of New Delhi. To ease his financial woes, he sends twelve-year-old Siddharth to work in a distant factory. When the boy doesn't come home for the Diwali holiday, Mehendra and his wife Suman slowly begin to suspect that he was kidnapped by child traffickers....." I'll stop here with the movie review. The film is certainly worth seeing but I do not want to compromise anyone's "enjoyment" of this powerful piece.

I did leave with my mind swirling - the depiction of poverty and the ultimate potentiality of heroism of the human spirit is pounding throughout me. I am no "saint" but I was raised perhaps differently in my earliest years because my father believed as he was told that his days were numbered - as a result I do believe that pre-memory he attempted to imbue me with a heightened sense of appreciation of ... well just about everything.. along with the clear sense that life and the ability to appreciate was in itself a finite gift. But, I digress - this film articulated the deepest echoes of what I believe to be the essential credo of each individual's moral mantra - "do the best you can" and live your life with both personal dignity and kindness toward others no matter how much or how little you may have. I am often confused and sickened by the way in which so many seem to disregard these simple credos and either ignore other human suffering as "too unpleasant" or perhaps, as I have been guilty of myself become too overwhelmed with the magnitude of suffering to believe that I can be of any help and so I am of no help. "Do the best you can," and if you know that you are not doing the "best you can" do a little bit more. Beyond this, there is absolutely no sane rationale for becoming embroiled in self-centered pettiness. Ever. We, are all so fortunate, and that means ALL with a capital "A" wherever we live and wherever the Universal lot has us cast - We may have absolutely no choice about our economic station or health or physical beauty or deformity but we do always have the choice to "do the best we can" and to not forget, ever, that we do not live in a bubble alone on this spinning blue marble.

I want to make it clear that it is not only in this country that we too often fall into our own self-involvement and entitlement and materialism .... although I will say that there is absolutely no rationale for any individual in this country (of such magnificent comparative riches) to go hungry or homeless - Ever. Art, is a wonderful human ability, many of us here on these pages, enjoy talent of various kinds - Today, I was in the presence of true greatness awakening a bright spiritual light - that illuminates and motivates my own need to "do the best I can" - as a mother I can only hope that when children were young I tried to instill this sense within them - but as a mother of adults, the wheel turns again and it is not enough "to do the best I can" by mothering or checking on my efforts - but by resuming a more active place as part of the human family.

And so, on this evening in NY, USA as the sun has slipped behind the trees and I sit in the comfort of my home with the luxury of such ponderings - I share my sense of gratitude for the vision of the film-maker of this marvelous offering and my gratitude for all I have, and the moral obligation we all share for this precious gift of life to "do the best we can" with the time we have. I know that so many of you here, reading in different parts of the marble, with the light and dark, playing differently, literally and figuratively ... I know that so many of you here .... understand and for that I am forever grateful.

Enjoy the closing of Sunday ... the Monday that has already arrived... Enjoy all that you have wherever you are and thank you for being there for me to share these thoughts. 

Motherblood

Djsanka+.jpg

Motherblood

there was magic at the birth of you

fresh from the storming forest of my

womb, without words you came in a

rush of water, consequence and creator

of passions past and future - now - the present 
hangs - while I, changeling-aging-creature, jump 
without a net into the black yawping hum of the abyss, waiting
when the thrive of motherhood is irrevocably, inconsolably ended



~


The Sunday Whirl

Disembodied NatGeo Voice From The Other Room

george+hodan.jpg

Disembodied NatGeo Voice From The Other Room

I hear you floating from NatGeo
speaking in crystal clear images
of far away places where you squat
with your camera and ignore a bead
of sweat rolling down your brow as
the shutter clicks
again and again
until you head on home
cameras slung in the overhead
sleeping until you record
in your chipper crystal clear
voice all that you have
borne
witness
to
Now a background sonata
accompanying the keys
beneath my hands

Just Leave Mame Out Of It

Lode Van de Velde

You could blame it on weather

You could blame it on dust

You could blame it on whatever you simply must

You could blame it on temperament or

hormones or such

You could blame it on apparitions

You could blame it on so much

It does not much matter the content

of blame

the fingers

will point

the intent

is to shame

which by the way

not a game- ender
as too many proclaim

us here on the spinning blue marble

that we all for a time share

too lately, too easily, slough off 

righteous shame we should bear

So forget the excuses the

the rationales the evasive

runs and the whining-on rants
if you are even a teeny bit to blame

put on and pull up your big girl and big boy

responsibility pants


clean up your shame

~

Model child

George Hodan

Model child

They dressed her in crinolines

took a shot on bended knee from the side

rhe lump in her four year old throat pounding

as she smiled her cheeky

smile

All dimples  "Again!" chiclet teeth flashing -

a sparkled twirling soul lackluster dimmed

"Hike up her skirt"

new Mother hissed, "it's all wrong"

She turns

toward her mother's voice

eemembering Other Mother

in the green park where

they picked daisies and

lied on their backs watching clouds

Far outside this closed room

where millions get manufactured

from stolen smiles of mannequin children

Closes her eyes for an instant and

watches as white butterflies

lift and fly above their touching heads

Brushing her cheek with velvet wings

carrying her

off back to before

That man ever said she was "pretty"

back beyond the eclipse of honor

caught in plastic gilded trophies -

each holding a piece of her shattered heart

~

The Sunday Whirl

Lost

Lynn Greyling

Lost

Ah the ghosts of my blind love-image

run with arms akimbo flutter-fast-flailing

beneath the flapping of the blood-cape,

once wrapped shroud pure-light-tight

now assundered-torn, dragging-heavy

dark-drenched in filth

Ah the ghosts run until ragged, desperate

for a candle to light their mission to regain

the hill of simple-spun  unconditional love

upon which they thought they could

they would, rest -  in the soft rain of 

forevever

~

The Sunday Whirl

http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2014-april-pad-challenge-final-results - 1 poem - Split Lip - selected ! .... :)

Upcoming PAD Challenge Anthology 

Since you split my lip

I learned that blood

does taste like copper

pennies and that it is

possible for you to cry

copious tears in my lap

as I hold your hand and

notice that your knuckles

are swollen around small

cuts where my teeth hit

Since you split my lip

I dry your tears with a

dishtowel – suck the

blood back down my throat

and get you ice for your

too fast fist

and – No, there

is no need for sorry

because I truly do

know that this time

will

be

the
last

~