Synthesis

It can be disputed,
that the dying breath
of man
is composed solely
of flushed, angelic breeze.
 
It can be disputed,
that such temperate breeze
resembles the joy felt
upon hearing an infant’s first wail.
 
It has been proven,
that ones last breath
is nothing more
than carbon dioxide
and nutrients, dispelled.
 
I have seen more death than life.
 
I embody the bile
rising from the cities sewers.
 
Vomited,
from the cracked and bleeding mouths
of our forefathers.
 
The gutters ejaculate, stinging my skin,
pricking, as needles.
 
No matter how I try,
I cannot be scrubbed clean.
 
I dispute,
that death is anything pleasant.
 
For the living.
 
I have seen more death than life.
 
And I braid its bony fingers,
within my own.

 
~ In memory Joseph Jacob

Pieta

I have always envied Michelangelo.

Not that I have met him
but in my mind's eye,
I see David

standing 
in all his glory.

His pectorals and abdominals 

 intact

and Mother Mary
cradling her son
frozen in time  

an ice princess.

No one ever noticing  

the woman

and the crows’ feet
that hide beside her eyes. 

This Is My America

Have you ever looked into the eyes of a homeless man? Caverns, deep and knowing. He sat, humbled beyond comprehension, child by his side - 

I knew this man were homeless not due to attire, due to suitcases, 5-6, surrounding him on all sides. His child quiet, played with a toy -  

At this moment, observing, I wished I had something to write with so I could relay the beauty of this man and his child to the world -

You see, he were dressed in a 3 piece suit. This man, now homeless, had more dignity than those of us who reside in luxury -  

How utterly helpless I felt bearing witness to Father and Son, waiting in line, their number to be called, eventually, like all the rest -

Life is a conundrum, placing us precisely at the exact unexpected moment in time, slow, like molasses, to teach us lessons -

A number called, finally. I held great hope hidden deep within my throat for the child, homeless by circumstance, never once complained -  

And I overheard, "We are unable to help you, sir. You need to have an address to get aid."  The man never rose his voice, the child, still - 

"I just lost my home",  the man replied. "I came here because I have nowhere else to go. My child is hungry." -  

Yet the same monotonous response came from behind the bullet proof glass. "Sir, you must have an address in order to receive aid." - 

He rose then, man and child, no home nor food and grasped the hand of his son. The child understood. Both of their eyes, showing signs of no sleep -  

They walked out of the door dragging all they owned onto the frigid winter streets of Buffalo. I never saw them again, this man and child - 

I hoped he were "just visiting' or that the clerk had made a mistake, but no. This is my America. Man and  child, 3 piece suit, and the cold -  

And even now, safe in my home, I envision them both, Father & Son, begging for things that should be given and I am ashamed at myself - 

Ashamed for not walking to him, for observing, ashamed for not whispering five miraculous words: 

How can I help you?

Susan Marie 2012  

Alive in a Time of Dying

The days meld into nights into days of unrest to rest, my voice. I'm guessing the full moon rising, she may speak on my behalf.

SisterMoonChild shall bat her eyelashes spiderlike to each constellation as they sparkle and dim upon the backdrop of this grand stage.

This place we call Earth, it is a Hell birthing breathing dragons of denial and greed and in between, beauty. The blooming of new life.

The irony that existence is dependent upon black vs. white, good vs. evil, night vs. day, man vs. woman, sun vs. moon, and you vs. me.

Where are the ones standing and speaking for us all, we're outnumbered. Where is the golden chalice, my cup of poison, the holy altar?

I shall gladly drink my share to elevate me from a state of betrayal. Hand me a crudely chiseled cup made only by the hand of man.

Bring it to my lips, love. My eyes shall close, breathing cease, yet my spirit shall soar as pure divine energy.

Oh, what silly creatures to dream a dream upon dreams that may or may not exist according to each of our own waking states.

I shall attempt to reach a state of being and non being, of living while dying alive, of pure esoteric flight, of thinking without thought.

How grand it is to be alive in a time of dying. 

The fresh buds shall bloom when the frost sleeps during Springtimes coming of age. And Summer shall welcome Fall, prepare her for Winter. 

Drink, friends, this cup of mine is yours. 

It is sweet, oh.

Yet it is bitter.

© Susan Marie 2012 

lines finely sketched

On audio here

I raise both palms in supplication to that which is more immense than the feeble human mind and cry as thunder for the ills of society.

Voices reverberate in my skull bones causing me to question:  Is it I, solitary human, that has fallen backwards on her own insight?

It is an easy task to question if one is stark raving mad or on the brink of divine enlightenment, for the lines are finely sketched.

It is no surprise that all who are and have been deemed insane are and were brilliant in nature of mind, body, spirit, and creation.

 

How dare another attempt to deem one sane or insane, for it is all perception. How pompous are we, humans, to think otherwise?

Are we all not sane and insane? Are we all not greater and lesser? Who has the absolute right to judge such a notion? 

Such answers elude me. Raising my weary and shaking palms to the fiery boisterous sky. Waiting for answers only I have the answer to.

The thin line that separates us all is oh, so very fine. Like cracks in fault lines, the smallest disturbance, a chain reaction.

Today, I ask that social insanity cease, an illness worse than the plague. One of apathy and no remorse. One of no morals or manners

Where have we gone wrong to sit so far on one end of a balance beam tipping it extremely left or right so that we have become blind?

 

I seek answers to questions that have no answers. I must be insane to imagine that fine line, erased, and the middle way, my berth.

 The Valkyrie's Vigil (1906) by Edward Robert Hughes

© Susan Marie 2012

Nightingales Perched Upon Knots of Mother Nature [ For Syria]

ON We Speak News [audio]

 

The dead speak in tongues known only to nightingales perched upon rheumatic knots of Mother Nature trilling: What fresh hell is this? 

Their voices echo in crisp cold eves, melding with wind's fierce breath. She welcomes them, wind, embracing martyrs, one by one.

Dear Earth, how short life is. We pay homage to those who travel to better places more so than precise moments of our own existence.

We cannot fully experience what death holds dear. Pure and absolute energy, alive and aligned divine with the universe, whole.

There's no reason to fear existence nor death. They are similar, yet this is the playground, the game board, the poker chip.

Each breath of ours mimics movements elsewhere. Do not think that you do not matter. For every fallen soul, there is birth.

Hassan Saad, 13, who fled Idlib in Syria, flashes a victory sign while walking outside the refugees camp near the Turkish-Syrian border in the southeastern city of Yayladagi, on February 16, 2012. Hassan said that his father was killed by the pro-Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad army five months ago.   

© photo Zohra Bensemra

© Susan Marie 2012

This is my blessing, this is my curse

My Lord, you gifted me with sight so that I may be able to close my eyes. This is my blessing, this is my curse.

The compassionate heart You have bestowed upon me, is coiled, ready to strike, as a rattler. This is my blessing, this is my curse.

The mind You have filled with wonder seeks truth within lies. It turns 'round upon itself. This is my blessing, this is my curse. 

These limbs, so frail. The voice You provided me with is thunderous. And yet, this is my blessing, this is my curse.

My back feels broken, God. It pains me to carry weights and this path is but partially spent. This is my blessing, this is my curse. 

This night, Your gift. The Angels sigh sweet slumbers. When dawn breaks, it will be silent. This is my blessing, this is my curse.

The spirit You have filled inside of this frame, I fear, is too strong for it's own skeleton. This is my blessing, this is my curse.

I wish to sleep eternal in wonder. It's lovely there, yet You shake dreams from my tresses. This is my blessing, this is my curse.

I know not any outcome of this existence, yet as I fall, I brush off, stand and keep walking. This is my blessing, this is my curse.

The Angels that sing to me now, send them to souls that never heard Your beautiful trills. This is my blessing, this is my curse.

I shall rest in trust and love knowing that what I write is read by you, Creator. For words are my blessing, and words are my curse.


© Susan Marie 2012