So weary of this war machine
where “They” and “Them”
“MUST BE DESTROYED”
when it’s THEM
THEY deserve it
Children, howling, slapping back
With all the rage and indignation of a God
all the bite and brawl of a rabid Dog
Heeding the seasick call of
an infrasound fear,
beating just out of reach,
behind our eyes,
beneath our hearts
in the slick, oily underbelly
the syncopated rhythms
of our own internal compass
Jarring our needles from their
HOMEward pointing cradles
spinning them, careening
towards a magnetic pole
that leaves us all thin,
dizzy and amnesiac
All less than our whole
Stretched and translucent
Far from community
from tribal unity
from our humanity
And just as senseless,
just as petty,
just as bereft of higher vibration
of true meaning
of THE purpose
An action so small
Four tiny letters typed on a page
A line, a circle, an unfinished inverted triangle, an arm encircling in half-embrace
Four letters (4)
To bring us HOME
to join arm-and-arm with fellow humans
not automaton politicos
or Wall Street thieves
or the grift of man-made marketer dreams
to leave behind all the gaping, ooze of want
(disguised as NEED)
to abandon our Corporate Overlords
to their empty marbled fortunes
and gristle-strewn lies
(All of them, long ago parted
from the heft and whisper of their 10.5 ounce fisted muscle,
aortic valves parched, cracked and curling at their edges
their barren chests echoing with the hollow reverberations of a desolate chamber)
Peeling back these crusty, wilted layers,
the greed-covered rot,
to find that better place
where those four tiny letters
To find us,
blooming in the Bedouin desert
hand-feeding one another,
feasting, on the honeyed milk-giggles
of OUR children
Vanessa Nix Anthony
June 14, 2016
and she clops
and she stomps
my neighbor, next door
But just in the morning . . .
and sometimes late at night
(when she’s most important)
or more importantly, when I’m adrift
wading through a dream or semi-wakeful state,
groggily numbed by the washed out sounds
of my white noise machine Read the rest of this entry »
They say walk a mile . . .
And it’s true
To gain insight or empathy
That’s what you should do
But to get to your dreams
I’ve tried to replace it (multiple times)
But none are the same
None fit quite like
that old hood of mine Read the rest of this entry »
it’s 9:17pm on a stormy Saturday night.
The house is quiet.
My kitchen window is open,
venting the steam from a pot of bone broth that is simmering on the stove . . .
and then —
“Is that a chainsaw?” I say.
My husband, in the next room,
pulls the earphones from his ears and says, “Did you say something?”
“Yeah, is that a chainsaw?”
A moment of uncomfortable silence
as he assesses the sound.
“Yeah, that sounds like a chainsaw.”
We both laugh,
but in a way that says, “Is the neighbor being dismembered?”
Then we laugh again
this time more heartily, because we know
EXACTLY what each other’s awkward laugh meant.
(But no one moves)
“At 9 o’clock at night?”
The sounds of a revving chainsaw punctuating the night air
and our conversation.
“Yeah, what could someone possibly be doing at 9pm on a rainy Saturday night — with a chainsaw?”
(– in an apartment complex?)
Still . . . no one moves
No one goes to a window, opens a door or even walks to the room (the kitchen) where the sound is nearest
More chainsaw —
for about 5 more minutes.
Make room for you.
What room is not yours?
What room is not drenched with your disposition?
Does not hang with the drip of your hot, wet wool?
(Let’s all check our pulses. Will we be allowed our joy today?)
does not brighten with the opening of your heart and eyes and ears and mouth and mind,
ushering in the light and air?
(Let’s all gather round, arms wide chins up and soak up the beam of this ecliptic moment.) Read the rest of this entry »