Swine

You would think they are the solution. If all of the problems would go with them to the slaughter. Left on the chopping block or cast into the bottom of the sea--like sin.

Turn to Zion

I knocked before I entered
The room seemed large
I called your name
Faithful to me--You answered

Wilted Lettuce

I stood in line for what seemed like hours. Maybe it was the embarrassment of asking a stranger for help. Telling someone I didn't know and who I didn't expect to care about me.

The glass partition separated her from me and the world. Unable to touch my infirmity she was removed. Her eyes were glazed over as if she couldn't wait until lunch. The man behind me reeked of day old bologna and Old Spice. I held my application tightly in my left hand. My knees almost buckled. She asked, "Can I help you?" I answered, "No" and walked away.

My stomach growled from hunger. I swallowed and was full.

Whispering Wind

We stand in the wind as if its bite has no effect.
Daring it to knock us level to the ground.
We mock the naked trees and envy the tumbleweed.
Still the vacated cave can't stop its whispers.

At the end of the road we expect more than a bowl of pistachios. Something more to stand in place of our suffering and travailing. Anything just short of a parade where people line up and habitually wave as you pass by is an insult. After all you did leave your guts splattered in a ditch along the way--without complaint. Images regurgitated from the floors of our bowel duct display like old home movies played on reels revisit hoping to find relief. The bitterness is more than we can handle, but to release them would cause us to declare ourselves whole. This would of course require further action on our part. To let go of the written form letters we submit as excuses as to why we didn't and couldn't bring ourselves to turn the corner. The side streets are alluring but the Broadway is well routed.

According to the experts dreams are the creation of our subconscious. Whenever this body of flesh rest, the mind continues to work. If this is true, then the mind, a faculty of the soul, stores and records all of life's events and the emotions that come along with them. It is in the sleep that they are revisited and put on display like the unlocked trunks from the attic spread out on the front lawn for a yard sale. The soul is trying to rid itself, but sometimes it's hard for the mind to let go of it's memorabilia.

A Trip Home

The streets are not as wide or as long as they were before.
Manicured lawns, painted houses and porches
Once filled with the laughter of playing children, all gone.
Disappeared as if aliens had invaded and all the inhabitants had to flee to find refuge. Inhabited now by those who have changed the facade.
Left by those living there day to day by faith.
Faith that could be heard on every corner.
From the stands holding the singing birds and the pulpits that echoed.
These creatures only take, no mind to recycle the knowledge left behind.
By those who left their mark through garden statues.
Only now to be desecrated with the dung of pigeons.
The Main street once dressed for the parades resemble a ghost town.
Howling down the street faint voices of prosperity.
Resurrection needed for a place, of a time and of a people.
Crucified by poverty laid to rest in a tomb of rubble, waiting for an ascension.