Defining Breath

On audio here

To define breath
is like trying to write
poetry

Poetry is the wind
she is the ocean
lapping waves
smashing against rock and slate
dirt and Earth

She is the native tongue
of those who have come before us
who have fought and died
who have written of struggle
beauty
life 
and death

simultaneous

To attempt to catch
a solitary drop of rain
as she cries, the sky,
as eagles clash mid flight
scrying words
in cirrus
falling in ecstasy

is poetry

It is the ultimate sacrifice of the spirit
the selfless giving of the heart
the utmost altar
upon it
a cup of poison

To attempt to define
breath

is like writing 
 
poetry. 



© Susan Marie 2013 


[Thank you Theron]

I Am Kashmir

On

The News Tribe [Pakistan]

We Speak News [India]

© Majid Pandit 

Dedicated to Shaheed Tahir from Baramulla

AUDIO HERE

a
rat
a
tat
tat

ya hear that?

another round
locked, and loaded

where boys,
are forced to be
men

and women
are raped

and children,
throw
stones

until a bullet hits the skin
piercing within
the gentle flesh that God made

My skin is worn
my heart,
heavy
and my mind,
must constantly evade
the darkness

Yet I am light
and my spirit

it IS strong

it flies with the midnight moon
chasing stars
supernovas
faster than the speed of light
stronger than the wind
more powerful than the sun herself
shining

celestial majestic divinity . . .

Aged.

I am

Kashmir.


© Susan Marie 2013


* CNN yanked this off of my professional media profile today. This young man, Shaheed Tahir died in Indian occupied Kashmir this week.

 

Quietly, dying

- "The world is a prison for the believer .  .  ." - pbuh


There are times
i awake
and the day
she greets me
naked
pure

In all her wondrous glory

And i am grateful
for solitary breath
for limbs
that work perfectly
for the sun
when she shines
rain as it falls
and for birds, 

endlessly trilling
outside my window

And there are times
when i simply wish
to close my eyes
to sleep eternal

A most peaceful rest,
one of absolute divinity
where i need not think,
eat, nor breathe

An existence
where i am truly one
with all of creation

Where i am more than energy
more than the speed of light
stronger than the sun
wind
moon
and the stars

as they shine their weary smiles
upon me now.

Gently.


I wish to be the Great Frontier
its grasslands plenty
horses, wild, free
trees, untouched by man

My spirit,
the heartbeat
of wild buffalo

This place exists
in my heart
and i am
a sentient being

Human. 

Quietly,

dying.




© Susan Marie 2013 

Birth of a Poem

Audio Here


it seems
as if
i am
screaming into the void
when i
stand
sit
speak
or mention anything remotely
rational

it seems as if we
are that much more
deaf, dumb, and blind
and anything positive
is
pointless

it seems as if
i have woken up -
told myself to:

"shut off the brain
and to never engage
in thoughtful discussion."

it seems as if
i am dreaming

dreaming of a place
where people practice kindness
and compassion

where people stand together
in solidarity
not apart

where ribbons fly in majestic colors
representing us all
as one

and in this dream
there is no hate
no borders
no nations
where leaders corrupt
no media
to corrupt
no people who allow
their minds to be corrupted

by anything
but

love.



© Susan Marie 2013

And the sun, she shines

How does one define the universe
revolving, continuous, uninterrupted
lone spheres of energy
like galaxies and constellations
made by the hand of God
placed in the midnight sky
shining as diamonds to the naked human eye?

How does one state existence
the beating of one human heart
the diaphragm as it lifts, then lowers
sending oxygen to arteries and veins
a lifeline, a network of all networks
one that gives life
sustains mind, body and spirit?

How do I explain a connection
similar to the universe
her constellations, the galaxies
the human heart, beating?

It seems no such words exist in human form.

I have attempted to define
a most rare bonding
yet no words compare.

They fall cold and meaningless when spoken.

It is as if one must look above
to the great eye of heaven
and below
to the silt and dirt of Earth
and to the side
as the wind whispers secrets with each breath
and to the night, as she arrives
like a lovers embrace
a shared understanding
that all that exists is alive
and within this world there are people, rare
who, like the stars
shine for a moment
an hour
a lifetime
bringing each of us exactly what we need
at the hour of utmost human suffering.

It is at such times
it is impossible to defy
that God places lighthouses for us, ships out of port
an SOS back home, through one another.

And you, my brother, my love, my friend
are indeed a diamond, a constellation
a blade of grass, the whispering breeze
the mighty ocean, the silt and dirt of Earth
and the prestigious eye of heaven as she shines.

It is your spirit that has greeted mine
although miles apart, in this lifetime
you are right by my side
and I am no longer alone.

It is you, a part of me
where there is nothing left to define
no language necessary
an immense silence that speaks
without uttering a solitary word.

And it is within this place
I have found you, and you, me

And together,

We find ourselves.


© Susan Marie 2013

Where Your Headaches Hide

If we we were to

make
love

we would make it in a way
that no being can ever comprehend

and it will feel like
pure
divine
energy

as that of God
like nature
and sunshine

a leaf
falling
in Autumn

I will place my lips
on your brow
and kiss away your worries
and then upon your eyelids
where your headaches hide

And this union
of two souls
will be a most grand masterpiece
that can never be shown
in any gallery
nor sold
at any auction

For this work of art
made solely by four palms
shall be melded in clay
as two bodies
sculpted as one,
eternal.

An artists epiphany.

Creation.


© Susan Marie 2013

Of Stained Glass and Paintbrushes [for Nathy]

Whenever I feel
confused

I go to the library
or a bookstore
sit and read for a
long
        time

I watch movies
listen to music
go to the park
to nature

and I sit in church
when there are no people there
when it is serene and incensed
with white candles blazing
filled with hope, lit with love

and I lie flat upon my back
in any pew
and gaze up at God
and the angels
dressed in palettes
of stained glass and paintbrushes

speaking Latin into my thoughts

words -

I thought I had forgotten. 



© Susan Marie 2013 

Thinking, this day, so low, too high

 

My skin is scarred and hardened 

from the unrelenting onslaught of life.

I do not fear that which is behind nor before me,

Yet my spirit retains the virtuous wonder of a child

sketching rainbows and mountaintops upon a naked skyline.

Dear Lord, why have you made me unyielding and frail as fleece?

Vociferous and raging

my predators 

scatter -

and when I retire, lazy and exhausted,

I am met by birds, chirping, in far off forest glens.

Why do I care if the sun rises, that the birds sing sweetly or if leaves once again return to their berth?

 

 I do, Dear God, and you.

 You made me this way. 

And as I stand here now, gilded in the most holy armor

I do indeed feel 

                                    a magnetic pull 

towards something 

                                much greater 

                                                         than I.

Something more than

                                              this.

 

My heart is alight, blazing inside of my chest 

and my sternum expands to compensate

as my ribs crack to dust from the weight

and there is nothing I can do but breathe

and pretend

                            that I feel

                                                    perfectly fine

like everyone else

and that this day

                                     is like any other day

and that I belong

                                       right here

living 

         this 
                   life


blankly staring

at those who seem to pretend

that they do not understand

                                                             my voice.

What greater purpose is there for this undeniable notion that I am indeed quite insane? 

 

What if I am the only person

like this

                        so low

too high

                        thinking

madly?

 

I must be

off

      kilter 

for I cannot define:

my skin, scarred and hardened

no fear,

and my spirit  -

retaining a most virtuous wonder.

 

Sketching rainbows and mountaintops upon a naked skyline. 

 

 

© Susan Marie 2013 

 

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

of precious dawn

we sleep inside this realm of being
living while dying
alive

such fragile creatures we are
human

we take flight each eve 
as birds of precious dawn

oh, this fine hour

soaring above sweet cirrus
far surpassing realms of glory
worlds where we are all equal

i see this in my dreams
in my eyes
in my sight 

this sight  


My Lord, why were I born with such a soft heart? 


i sigh for the leaves 
as they leap from the limbs of Mother Nature
one by one they fall to untimely deaths
empty breaths

her children

yet she remains silent
sentinel 

unable to mourn

preparing for the frost.




© Susan Marie 2011