Saturday, December 15, 2012

Four Poems - Four Friends

The Arts


Halfway to Nowhere
by
David Roach

Why do I understand?
The written code of the superman,
The mathematics of a brutal  hand,
Society's making of the monkey man,
The industrial revolt in every man,

Why don't I understand?
The simple ethics of being a man,
The soul essence
Of who I am,
How love can die
At the turn of a hand,
The lies and deception
From one of a kind,
The tears I weep,
For the one who left me behind,
The abyss where I keep my mind. 


*****




Help
by
MeSeh Dat

Help me
Take a couple of steps back
In search of a simple path
I must have passed
Along the way.
Help me
To let go
So that I may freely flow
Along Life's streams
And unite again
With my dreams.

*****




The Hand I Was Dealt
By
Ric Couchman

And so began the game,
The outcome already obvious,
For by the cards predisposed.
No chance of a pair or two,
Neither full house nor straight.
And forget about the flush,
Even of the straight or royal kind,
For I hold a father incarcerated,
Dispatched by the Blindfolded One
To end his years behind cold, grey walls,
Four and twenty days before I arrived,
On account of an unbridled temper
By heated passion ignited,
Consigning to oblivion him he called friend,
The lusty blade driven to its hilt in his chest.

And holding also her in whose womb
I found sweet solace for seven months,
She who her sorrows drowned
In that over-powering, fiery liquid,
And oft making cheap sale of sacred flesh.
And so until ten and seven
Those two I held, playing the game,
But becoming none the luckier.

And as you watch the game
While over my shoulder you stand,
The three others you will observe.
One, our dwelling place these two years past,
Better than the previous two,
But still a refuge for stray dogs and cats
And excluding not the emboldened rats
Scavenging among uncollected garbage
Adorning the rabid streets
Where rap music and gunshots combine
To provide a surreal musical backdrop
For the interplay among shadows,
Niggas, dealers, and bitches.

Another, those with whom I hang,
Every night way past midnight,
Talking about nothing,
Thinking about nothing,
Aiming at nothing,
Filling our lungs with the plant’s happy fumes,
And an occasional forty sharing,
While reminiscing of friends long dead,
Claimed in the prime of their youth,
With the strong likelihood that any
Among us might be next,
Felled by bullet or knife.

And then there is the last card,
The one from which all the others
Is the obvious and logical corollary,
That I am of that fatal hue,
Through the ages connected with evil
And oft used to describe the negative.
I am Yin,
I am the color of witchcraft and death;
I am the color of the underworld,
The color of violence and mourning,
The color of inferiority.
I am of that color that damns me,
And in a game I seem destined to lose.
      
[Photographic Art by Ric Couchman]
*****




Demon Lover
by
Monika Dahl-Irvin

Snarl at me demon lover,
Force me to see you,
Your eyes so weird and wasted 
And full of fire and ice.
Skin I have touched, 
Triggers off memories of evil.
You,
Me,....such strange people...
Such wild nights, so much pain.
I felt the impact...panic stricken, 
Full of dread, I howled into the darkness, hoping.
You saw, but you would not save my soul.
You devoured it, burped, and walked out of the door, 
Well fed.

[Photographic Art by Ric Couchman]

*****