A Carrie Retrospective

[champagne1982]

Tragic (the 18th anniversary)

I looked through that gruesome
photo album on the Reuter's page
and saw the unholy artwork
painted with an evil brush

The ink of despair drawn on faces
dusty with the ashes of collapse
and loss, the deflowering of us all
by the strokes of madmen's pens

I remember how much it hurt
to draw another breath as the fire
turned stone and bone to atoms
blown by wind to heaven

I remember how for weeks after,
these images surfaced and then
too soon another one supplanted
it in horrible sequence of more pain,

more calm on faces, falling,
as their choices made
stepped across space to
become one with eternity.

How is it that a Christian world
would paint another faith so black
that though few chose destruction
all of Islam feels the hate?

How can worship lead to graffiti
sprayed on mosque walls?
Go home in childish hand
though we know it was penned

by brothers frightened by what
they cannot understand, by mothers
for their children's future though
they destroy another family's hope.

Fathers who believe their way
must be the only way and those
sisters who want so desperately
to believe that love has not disappeared.

I want to shake them all awake
to see the wonder they are too blind
to find again. It is not extinguished,
merely dimmed and waiting

for the sharp knife of intelligence
to trim the wick and the flame of justice
to ignite a fire to burn through the darkness
and show forgiveness and mercy in its light at last

 

[champagne1982]

I Am A Child of Disco

We turned plastic into lava bombs
by tying knots in garbage bags
and lighting them on fire.
But hey, this is the generation
of sniffing glue and dropping a lid.
And guess what? We're in charge of you!
This is the girl that disco threw out into the world.
(I dance like a drunk white girl - but yeah.. that's
what I was.) How did we grow up to become
women who bruise our skulls on a glass ceiling
that refuses to break?

We fought for equality and found that vision
distorts perception into strange ideas that feminism
equates respect toward women. Listen, all we want
is equal wages for equal work and a day off from folding laundry.
I burned my bras before I had breasts to put in them,
dealt with teachers who told me not to worry -
I'll never use the Theory Of Relativity anyway.

Well fuck you Mister! I kept multi-million dollar aircraft
flying and all that time applying more physics
than you could ever teach me.
And yes, I did use those theories you told me not to worry
about, even though I am a mother and love domesticity,
I was first an airwoman.
Though I still dance the hustle and mess up the steps
I learned that a more important skill is to juggle all those
things that make a woman more than equal to a man
and bring success to the generation of this millennium

 

[AmericanTrash]

More Carrie poems, please?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

More Carrie poems, please?

Seconded.

 

[Piscator]

Thirded - Damn that last poew needs more light

 

[champagne1982]

Sashimi Crab

I ate sushi in the mountains
and explored the summer noon
tastes of Asia in the moonlight
while we chop sticked
in the heat of midday

We soaked our toes in Appalachian
cascades of Crab-Orchard Creek
and upland slumps held in place
by gnarled roots of ancient oak
and Carolina piney woods

Soothed our sensibilities
with dappled pathways to softly
washed beaches at the foot
of waterfalls and rocky spills

Then let our adventurous spirits
lead to incogruous lunchtime
experiences of Asia
in Presbyterian communities,
inland seafood, and you and I
eating sushi in the mountains.

 

[champagne1982]

A Treehouse For All Seasons

Truth was, we never worried about falling
all we wanted was to sit up in the leafy shade,
surrounded by cherries and bees all summer.

Surrounded by cherries and bees all summer
the drone of insects and snores of adult slumber
reminded that the lazy days would end too soon.

Reminded that the lazy days would end too soon,
our shady solitude became cluttered with frenetic
cousins and siblings, fighting for space in the tree.

Cousins and siblings fighting for space in the tree
pushed the younger kids to play in the rocks piled
near the edge of the field or in the fresh cut hay.

Near the edge of the field or in the fresh cut hay,
the little ones would watch for the day
when the bigs went away on the bus to school.

When the bigs went away on the bus to school,
we'd climb to the platform and feel
The frost changing the emerald to amber and gold.

The frost changing the emerald to amber and gold,
heralded the first winter snows to limne the leaves,
and signal us to abandon the tree til springtime.

 

[champagne1982]

Bathsalts Bliss

I never counted the jewelled waters of the Caribbean
as a place to live. So far from my northern experience
that the closest I've come to the warmth of those waters
is in an enamelled bathtub - deep, and scented with ocean
salts and seaweed balm. The soothing ripples lapping
against my thighs and shoulders as the natural sponge
soaked up more water than what the unsuspecting bather
would surmise by looking at its dry and withered skeleton.

Such bliss as all those shore-filled memories flood back
with the release of water from the sponge pressed
against my cheek and neck, trickling down into my cleavage
to pool in the hollows of scarred sternum where clavicles
meet. The suppressed giggle escapes as I remember
the touch of bottle-nosed dolphins in pretend kisses
and tolerant swimming rides circling the aquarium enclosure.
But then I remembered that those places exist in subtle
cruelty, trapping offspring on the wrong side of netting
and keeping the dam close for the pleasure of tourists.

Barricades to the unpleasant thoughts slam down, blast-
shutters blocking hurricane winds and debris from pummelling
tranquil moments afloat. Once more the salty scents assail
dry sinuses in a moisture laden denial that it is so far
away from my chilled autumn as to bring recall of a more
recent time spent in quiet evening conversation and watching
night fall in a glorious blazing sunset. The freshening breeze
from the west pushing the tide in as the sun said goodnight
to the Americas and good morning to Japan. All I could do
is pull the plug and remember your caresses putting me to bed.

 

[champagne1982]

Molly In The Sky With Her Barrow

Obla di. Obla da. Time
goes on and on. Desmond
is hardly a name I'd choose
to label a cross dresser
with but, maybe he just
enjoys skin products.

I mean, if Molly is a singer
in a band, and Desmond
has great skin, la la.
Life does go on. Even
in my bra. Which dances
when full only to find
Gideon's bible. Would
Rocky Racoon and Desmond
get along or would they both
get assassinated all for the love
of their beautiful women.
Lil and Molly are probably just 'hos

What if Desmond were really Lucy?
Would he ride the sky
and have kaleidoscope eyes.
Diamonds don't seem to be Molly's schtick
and would she let the kids lend
anything if she ran a jewelry store
rather than a barrow?
I know my diamonds are in my children's'
eyes, they sparkle and shine
and I remember the constellations
of stars that are found
in those kaleidoscope skies

La di obla da... Just nonsense?
Lucy wouldn't think so,
she'd just sing along.

 

[champagne1982]

Nervous Whispers

Take your vile defamation and file it between fear
and ignorance! My accusations must ring true
with you to raise such meanness as to twist
my voice into witchcraft and curses. My prayers
for mother Earth to heal her wounds accuse
mankind's disregard for her protection and provision.

Yet you, the leaders of this generation, take it personally.
So, you scream, "Burn the witch!" Or shouting call for trial
in the press, owned by your brothers, paid for through sweat
and deprivation of mute children and gagged mothers.
You have no room in your hierarchy for a feminine body,
you fear my power to bring forth life, my tears that move
the world to fight, my strength to persist in calling you out.

You don't want to be accountable so you hire artists to paint
a prettier picture, to make the world's face beautiful, at first
glance. Stop lying to your sheep! I will continue to advocate
for my mother even as your torches pass fire to the masses
and ignite their fear to burn as violently as magnesium.
Yet you deny that my femininity is what frightens you.

They burn me because I make you uncomfortable.
My truths take away your clean conscience and disturb
your sleep. Do I keep you awake at night as you think
about the world you leave your grandchildren? Do you
imagine that wealth will feed them even when
there isn't any food, anywhere in the world to buy?
Won't the scars you leave on my body bother you
as much as my words make you mean enough to poison me?

I am not a witch, but brother, I can be a right nasty bitch.

 

[champagne1982]

Time (a ghazal)

So many places where we could have been don't ask me how
so many times we should have met, even sooner than this now

I wonder where we would have loved, surely not Atlanta town
but that is where our first time hearts fell in, before this now

I wanted you when I was twenty, single and available, the fun
was deep within my bones, much stronger then than here this now

Then time took off and too soon I married, had babies with a man
I loved truly, still, you were missed in my arms, before this now

My soul is gladdened that here I rest beside your loving heart
I hear it beating contented measure, we're together here in this now.

 

[champagne1982]

Somatosensory Passion

I have researched the names of nerves
and sensory transmitters. How do we make
the mechanics of that become passion?
I want to explain how the feedback
between two people touching explodes
into something beyond contact.

When your tactile receptors there,
in the most densely packed
tissues of your body, discover
an answer in mine,
do you forget to breathe too?
I want you to know why I smooth my flesh,
expose my delicate skin, that shelters
beneath follicles and thick dermis.
Those nerve endings freshly denuded,
telling me where your lips press,
where they slide, or pause delights me.

When your tongue joins in, sending me
those signals that tell my body
how much you enjoy my passion. I answer,
with an endocrinal reply, to the signals
those densely packed nerve endings send
coursing through the ganglia, up into
that part of my brain screaming pleasure
at dopamine and endorphins. Raising
each miniscule hair on my skin, then crossing
the barriers of flesh and space to create euphoria.

The flower of love blooming, in an orgasm
of confusion. Tactile, thermal; together
overwhelming those unprotected processes of
pull, push,
stretch, fold,
heat, cold,
brush, pinch.
The joy of passion breaching the confines
of fear, and shaking loose a response
to your senses proving your love to mine.

 

[champagne1982]

More Carrie poems, please?

Seconded.

Thirded - Damn that last poew needs more light

Somatosensory Passion is very hot, in that it's fresh out of my brain. I just wrote it for my Second Life poetry open mic. Tonight's prompt is Passion.

 

[champagne1982]

April 12, 2020

Whine of a Self-Isolator

This isn't so bad,
I have time to just relax;
time to sanitize and bleach
and time to search out all the facts.

Yesterday I went to the store
to buy the things I'd need.
I couldn't find wipes and toilet paper
but I found all kinds of bird seed!

I fuelled my car and checked the oil;
shovelled snow from all my walks.
Went out and got the last bit of mail
and finally locked my locks.

I'm now shut in with games and books,
streaming video and social media,
all the liquor and junk I really don't want,
and steady trivia from Wikipedia

I tell myself (and the dog when she listens),
that this is really working well
but, when I stop and let the truth come in
I can't hide how the world has gone to hell.

This isn't so bad,
I'm much better off than some.
It could get worse and likely will, you see,
I'm locked up in here with Mom.

 

[champagne1982]

May 8, 2020
(also posted on the "Let's Hear It Poets" thread)

Love In The Time Of Covid-19

This distance we share, in part by choice,
more by circumstance, has made love
stronger in ways that constant contact
never could. Imagine the pain of young
emotion when their love stands
just outside their touch, when
defiance leads to a kiss of fingertips
and a press of these extremes together,
just to know the warmth of adoration
and longing surging through their senses.

I know the tears shed in empathy of touch
denied, of the pain of a barrier between
the living and the dying, between vigor
and decline and the folly of wishing
you could embrace, "One last time."
Now every conversation ends with words
of love and patience. They're aged
and frail and in step with passing away
as we all mark time, rest in place,
in prayer that this can't mean the end.

Where is the reward for obedient
compliance? Like victims of abuse
we are isolated, we are locked in,
chastised for living life rather
than merely existing. Do the powerful
understand fear? We shiver in uncertainty
as our blitheful wanderings are brutally
slapped into awareness by the realities
of illness, the caregivers' exhausted
faces plastered everywhere we look.

The silence of bus terminals,
train stations, airports, of all
that means industry smothers us
with an efficiency more virulent
and painful than this sickness.
To love now, in this time of Covid,
means to love from miles apart
and trust that we are loved from away
as much as we are denied the touch
of a love seated two yards away.

 

[champagne1982]

May 31, 2020
I'm Sorry

(to the people of Minneapolis who need to hear the police admit they made a mistake in the murder of George Floyd and during the riots that follow.)

I’m sorry

I never wanted to vocalize
how much white privilege
nauseates me. It seems exhausting
to need to argue with people
who can't see the power
of Caucasian complexion, of fair
soft hair, of decent jobs,
and housing in communities
that are safe. Where the biggest
concern, since the start of COVID
distancing and lockdown measures,
is where the homeless are sleeping.

I'm sorry

I don't understand the hardships
people of colour face outside
of their own carefully bolted
doors in communities
where neighbourhood watch turns
into neighbour watching purely
because we are too damned afraid
to step out the door and say
"Hello. Let's get to know each
other through our similarities
rather than hide from our differences."

I'm sorry

I'm so damned sorry that the only
weapon I have for this fight is poetry.

I'm sorry I get so upset that my words
disappear behind tears of sorrow
and apology and frustration
that so many bastards out there
have no empathy.

If we are not apologizing, we are wrong.

We are wrong because those of us who
don't live with the reality of being
chased down and away from the place
we call home won't do anything
but question the motives of the protestors
who just want to hear one fucking authority
say I am sorry, with genuine apology.

I am sorry that I cannot empower an entire
population of society to insist
on that apology. I am sorry. I am sorry.
I am sorry that my Canadian apology
does not come without being ridiculed
for it's Canadian-ness. Maybe, just maybe
if everyone on this planet learned
how to be self-effacing and apologetic,
there would come a time when truly,
fervently, and hopefully an apology
will be enough. I'm sorry.

 

[Enchantment_of_Nyx]

May 31, 2020
I'm Sorry

(to the people of Minneapolis who need to hear the police admit they made a mistake in the murder of George Floyd and during the riots that follow.)

I’m sorry

I feel you.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

I'm sorry to hear
there's no superior calm to soften the fanatics' yells
but the oil pumps that spread the fuel
onto the land that cannot breath
underneath historic layers of grease
the match already, always lit

I'm sorry to feel
there's no balm to soothe the pain and wounds
but whips to press the numerous voting class
to further feed the few overeaten wallets
that cement the power of elites
born and raised by incest of bank accounts

I'm sorry to say we've seen it before
three generations have passed
but we never got immune
to the virus that slept
in our hearts,
our minds

I'm sorry to say the plague of inhumanity
has reached a critical mass once more
replacing the critical with blind followers
muting the free voices by isolated patriotism
locking up hearts with the chains of chauvinism
blaming minorities to agitate the silent mass
morphing once political opponents into public enemies

I'm sorry to say we didn't told you
not loud enough
but mumbled our quiet apologies
not often enough
but stayed quiet so many times
not clear enough
but hid behind half-hearten attempts

I'm sorry to say
that we succeeded in exporting German cars
built in perfection, free from human mistakes
industrialized like the murders, inhuman, once done
that we failed to export
the 'Never again'
the solidarity experiment
the dream of people, all equal


I'm sorry to see it happen...again


I'm sorry for those that raise the stick
but hope for these that raise the voice
I'm sorry for those that run the blood, cold in veins, hot on the streets
but hope for these feed the warmth of open hearts
I'm sorry for those that love the fence, offen[c/s]e and defen[c/s]e
but hope for these that tear down the walls, in the land and our minds

I hope...
...to hear
...to see
...to feel
...to say
Welcome friends
not just once
not just at last

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Just saw a video of of women and men in police uniform in front of protesters that 'take a knee'...and protesters doing the same and to applaud them...a supernovaic heart-warming moment that evaporates the ice around one's heart that almost crushed it.

My endless Gratitude and RESPECT for those that stand up to go down,
29wordsforsnow

 

[Piscator]

May 31, 2020
I'm Sorry

(to the people of Minneapolis who need to hear the police admit they made a mistake in the murder of George Floyd and during the riots that follow.)

I’m sorry/QUOTE]

Unlike my millennial children, awesome is not a word I often use. However this poem and Love in the Time of Covid-19 are awesome.

 

[champagne1982]

May 31, 2020
I'm Sorry

(to the people of Minneapolis who need to hear the police admit they made a mistake in the murder of George Floyd and during the riots that follow.)

I’m sorry

Unlike my millennial children, awesome is not a word I often use. However this poem and Love in the Time of Covid-19 are awesome.

I feel you.

I'm sorry<snip>
I hope...
...to hear
...to see
...to feel
...to say
Welcome friends
not just once
not just at last

Thank you, EoN, Piscator, and 29wds. You're response to I'm sorry is appreciated.

One thing this lock down and fearing for my family's well-being has brought me is a few decent poems. I'm glad I've shared them. I have more that I'm hoarding for potential submissions to journals etc. These are 2 of my best but I felt they scream to be shared somehow so that people can see them and maybe pause a moment to think.

 

[champagne1982]

A Few Words About Kittens


1.
They are so small you feel like
a titan. You could snap a leg
as easily as you snap your fingers

2.
They are so fluffy you wonder
if you wore them like a scarf
how warm you'd be at twenty below

3.
They have eighteen tiny needles
used to climb your lower legs
as if you were bark, not flesh

4.
Their tongues are as efficient
as an adult cat's at ripping flesh
from bone but so incredibly pink

5.
Their play rivals that of any
toddler. They are more fascinated
by the wrappers and boxes than toys

6.
Did I mention their claws? They pierce
even the thickest padding to sink into
your foot as if they pounce on a rat

7.
They are so sweet as they try to catch
butterflies in their paws and then they chomp
them and you remember eighteen sharp claws

8.
You see the blood dripping down your shins
and the cries of surprise and pain are barely
quieted when you whisper "Awww" at their sleep

9.
Two ears to hear every rattle of kibble in a dish

10.
Two eyes to see you as you try to tiptoe away
to bed and shut the door on their play.

11.
Five needle sharp claws, sheathed, as one nose
boops yours and one paw gently pats your cheek
gaining enough attention to be scratched and petted.

12.
Eighteen strong sharp claws and one mouth full
of strong pointy teeth gripping your hand
as you scratch them in the wrong spot

13.
A new understanding that now you are no longer
the titan. Instead you are meat and prey.
Kittens are predators.

 

[champagne1982]

Good Things Do Grow On Rocky Ground

It once made me cry to think
about the grinding, bone
cold winters with wood heat
and outhouses. When we
put newspaper and wore
bread bags in our rubber
boots, counted ourselves blessed
when we enjoyed the warmth
of a felt insole that cost pennies
but took a month to save up to buy.

I can only imagine my older
siblings, locked out of relative
affluence by a father who begrudged
every one of the 10 dollars a month
he paid to my mother and who heard
and understood the expletives
growled at her when she was told
not to use it for me, the bastard.

It once made me cry to consider
how life may have been different
if he'd cared enough to protect
his children and loved my mother.
Would my sisters have enjoyed
longer days of innocence?
Would my brother have avoided
false escape in drugs and booze?

I see success now, I have filed
those memories in black folders,
uncreased by frequent examination,
pristine but nearly forgotten
behind brightly coloured hues
holding hope and goodness.
I keep the dark though,
for without these pains, sure
our lives would be different.

Bu would I have found faith
without experiencing false
Christian morality that vilified
a divorcée with the same face
that forgave her ex-husband
for worse sins? Without this wrong
where would the joy of playing
unfettered games with children
who never cared about status rest?
These days, I cry in relief that I have
found my "as good as blood" siblings
and know the complete happiness
in love and celebration of being family.

 

[champagne1982]

Crush

The times are dark and oppressive
their weight presses so heavily
on my heart. I have felt the cruel
squeeze of the incompassionate fist
on my neck, crushing out complaint,
crushing hope as it struggles
in the pit, cold and shadowed.

The governments of the world blind
and inept in so many ways
but only so because, in their ignorance,
they obstinately bull through difficult
decisions and turn the road broad
and straight, a pathway to hell.
Crushing logical stairways and narrow
hallways of thought like a wrecking ball,
not considering the importance
of details obscured by the smut
and smear of fear and greed.

Speak softly, avoid cutting off those who
have calm voices with your loud caws.

Step carefully, look where you're going,
don't crush the sprout beneath your clown feet.

Seek fervently, sincerity in your questions
move teachers to educate rather than lecture.

Most importantly, band together in your mildness,
the meek shall inherit the earth, but not before
they silence the noise with their quietude
and crush the foolish with wisdom.

 

[champagne1982]

Wolf Song

My guts turn to jelly when
the low song roams through
the birches and around
the trunks of pine and tamarack.
Imagination is the father
of uncertainty and spawns cold
fear in the soft flesh of a beast
whose head is too large
for the infant to lift, whose body
has few abilities to survive the wet,
cold, and violent wild alone
So soft and weak, yet
when the wolf hunts, this prey
takes refuge beside the forest
destroyer, the bringer of pain
that comes with light in the night
and turns snow to rain.
This beast is not worth braving
the fire for, better
to encircle the exhausted stag
and wear it down until it sags
and sinks to its exhausted
belly and falls to fangs
ripping and rending muscle
and sinew until the life
bleeds away and feeds the pack.
Then settle beside the den
in the shelter of brush and stone,
replete, sated and glut
grooming each other. Cleansing
muzzles of blood and gore,
safe and warm and let the low
song roam far from this place
and encircle the hearths of men.