Monthly Archives: September 2012

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The Clown’s Mask


 
Dear little clown, you bring such joy
A smile for some and others you annoy
Dear clown, you are so funny,
You make cloudy days seem sunny
Such finesse with your craft,
Tell me, who makes you laugh
Is there endless joy in your life?
Have you met any strife?
A constant smile on your face
You seem to fit in every place
Always up and ready to give
In constant mirth, you must live
But wait, little clown, I see something new
It isn’t obvious to all, but perhaps to a few
That your smile is painted, your eyes are too
The expression you have is not really you
Why clown of all clowns, what you hide is the truth
The truth of your pain and the memories of youth
I imagined you happy, full of good cheers,
I never imagine you would shed any tears
Oh sweet little clown, who makes you laugh
Have I taken from you and not given back?
You give and you give, but do you receive?
What you hide is your sorrow, this I believe
When the smiles and paint have all been erased
Who is the person who looks back at your face?
When you look in the mirror at the you who is you
Do you enjoy and cherish the person you view?
Sweet little clown, is there a smile that needs no paint
An expression of joy or love that is real and quaint
I hope little clown that the love in your heart
Is fulfilled and enjoyed as you give us your art
Smile for me, show me some teeth
Amidst all the paint, what I love is underneath.
 
Copyright © 2010 Alma Deleon. All Rights Reserved.

 

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Alma De Leon

bio:
 
Alma has hung up her stethoscope after twenty-two years as a registered nurse working with AIDS, cancer, transgendered, psychiatric, homeless, drug addicted, and jail patients. Since retirement, she been able to focus on her talents as a writer, actor, comedianne, performer, poet and photographer. She is currently in her 5th year of studying Shafaw energy healing with Master Healer Danadoost of Iran, and is writing her memoirs. She is learning to speak Farsi, and loves to cook Persian dishes.
 

 

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The Line

The Line

I walk a fine line in and out of a trail left by my people

This line is so fine like the hats of Great Aunt Clemmie

It dips and curves like arms akimbo of my grandmother Lela

This line is like lightening striking to illuminate the unknown and to wrap

its rays of protection around me

I imagine the lines my great great grandmother used to escape the tangle of oppression

Or the lines my grandfather used to seduce my grandmother

This line goes way way back

Back to the center of the world the beginning of the beginning

This line is the first sound on earth that was my ancestor that was your ancestor that is me
 

Copyright © 2012 J. Phoenix Smith. All Rights Reserved.
 

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Resurrection Bumper Stickers

 

the greatest sacrifice is pride / humble / isn’t easy

he haunts my steps / every bit of him / a lie

if the water is too hot / to jump in / stir it with a holy stick

if I’d only known / you are not who you think you are / I’d have walked away running

till you do right by me / your life / is motionless

my fragrant petals / unfolding / waxy in the moonlight
 
 

Copyright © 2012 Sharon Elliott. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

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I May Have Made This Up [again]


I may have made this up [again]

1

the earth quaked
yesterday in the Bay Area
as manatees and sea turtles huddled
in the southeast as never before seen
cold, chilling as tundras
beginning their descent
into meltwater jettisons,
seized a tropical paradise

and what of the great MisiZiibi
and what of the great MisiZiibi
will it die along with most of its fish?

a voice from out of the blue…

but that’s all
blim bam flim flam
ole ms. hotty toddy
you can’t believe
anything you hear
about anything
to do with weather
or anything about
anything at all
for that matter

2

boy looks up at the ball ring
while rulers stare down
from the stands
he’s watching them
watching him
the game
he bumps with purpled hips
as he slips and shifts the ball
his destiny
the crowd prays loudly
for the winners and losers
thinking of that saying about
how losing you win
here winning, you lose too

3

flamboyant tree
seeding the wind sounds
roots the sticky threads
that bind us

chipped or stained
or waylaid
imperfectly perfect those
mistakes right themselves
in the rivers of spirit lines

old gardens look better from afar
their newly fallen pods percolate
with promise of new life
there are so many hues
from brown the color
of roasted coffee beans
to terracotta the copper
color of your skin

4

we refuse to be ant food
we rattle and shake
make the sign
of protection
of the four directions
imbed it skin deep
while thinking
O anthros
O linguistic mystics
you still trying to decipher
the wind?

relinchan pero
siempre son cerebros
hinchados, la mayoria
malcriados

pay with a coin toss
from the 1960’s
that’s just hitting
ground n ow
it came
spiraling
down
from
the
Himalayas
just hours ago.
 
©/s Odilia Galván Rodríguez, 2012
 
notes: 1. MisiZiibi is the Anishnabe or Ojibwe name for the Mississippi river.
2. ball ring refers to the ring that the ball had to be hit into in the Mayan Ball game which had ritual aspects – for more info. see: http://www.ballgame.org/main.asp
http://www.authenticmaya.com/ball_game.htm
 
Have a listen to a performance of this poem by author Odilia Galván Rodríguez, on Sound Cloud, click on link below ✿⊱╮♥.
 
http://snd.sc/OreYNe
 

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Empire Tattoo

Empire Tattoo

let’s tattoo the empire
as the rains roll off the tin roof
matching the rhythm of the needles
empathizing with the bloodletting

blood rain and ink
creating art
symbols
on skin

a street corner in oz
welcomes both
cowardly lions
and homeless girls

I want a frog
green
Amazonian
with red popeyes
sticky toes

engraved on the back of my shoulder
next to a Haida moon
a bata drum
under a wave

we’re not in Kansas any more

Copyright © 2012 Sharon Elliott. All Rights Reserved.

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With Wings To Fly 

With Wings To Fly

A woman
    with wings
to fly
    she does not know
why
    she can not
seem to
    extend them 
to take to air
    all around
seems stagnant
    she fails
in all heaviness
    to remember
when she
    enabled another
was clipped
    to the point
she forgot her name
    was shrouded
left with only
    a thin line of mesh
for her eyes to see
    only him
she was grounded

but finally one day
    an eagle flew over
freefalling
    calling
    calling
Quetzalli
    Quetzalli
is that really you
    what's happened
what's happened
    what's become of you

your beautiful wings
    shorn restricted flight
throw off those bonds
    set yourself free
take to the air
    no more despair

in small steps 
    she began
to forgive herself
    to remember who she was
not who she'd become
    everyday more feathers grew
first in little nubs  then in sprouts
    as if by magic
her wings bloomed anew
    her muscles retrained
after many crash landings and falls
    Quetzalli took to the air
stronger in every way
    never to be grounded
again
 

Copyright © 2012 Odilia Galván Rodriguéz. All Rights Reserved.
 


Vuelo Imposible
All rights reserved by FLAVIO DIAZ

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There Are Many Kinds Of Water ~ Anat and Rosanna

“There are so many kinds of water”  Anat said to Rosanna.  “Look at this picture of where two seas, the North and the Baltic, meet.  It says here that they are different densities so will never merge. They were sitting in the Doctor’s office with Rosanna’s Ma and stepfather, the big classroom clock on the wall said 2:44 as the red second hand jerked its way from dot to dot until it reached the number 12 and the minute hand moved up to the 9.  They had carefully timed their trip to Daisy’s 2:45 oncology appointment so Rosanna’s Ma wouldn’t have to wait too long.  It was the first time all winter that Daisy had been outside of her apartment, and it would be the last.

Daisy had settled gingerly into the waiting room chair, reclining a little against the bed pillow that Rosanna had placed at the small of her back.  Anat sat on the other side of Rosanna and picked up the National Geographic which someone had left open to this page.  Daisy wore her usual turquoise blue house robe.  Never one to stand on ceremony, she hadn’t changed clothes, saving her energy for the outing.  She breathed gently through the pain caused by the tumor in her stomach, as she radiated the grace of a Queen loved by her people.  The normal everydayness and the extraordinary side by side, were like the two seas in the picture.

“You’re my favorite kind of water” Rosanna whispered and winked at Anat.  Rosanna isn’t water at all Anat thought to herself.  She’s air.  She’s like the sky in the picture, full of stormy clouds and snowy mountains.  Roseanna smells like water because of the droplets of rain and sea spray that splashes when dolphins leap out of the waves to breath.

Copyright © 2010 Malke Singer. All Rights Reserved.