What he sees, and what I write: CallaboMini

Anger notices nothing and blindness sees only what it wants to. Dangerous- but very true.
Energy has an interconnected demeanor, but we chose to see smoke&mirrors, to only question why at the end result.

Loud girl shouts to front and the louder she shouts the smaller her insecurities seem-
But when the silence is deafening who will hear your screams but you? But this is how you want the world to view you—overconfident so who will catch you when you fall?

Palestinian studies hard but has watery eyes. He fights in the states to make a living for his living but his living are dieing…is he striving for nothing? In two more years who will be left to send for…if there…there is constant war?

She will show you what is physical in attempts to show you what is mental. So she rips jeans to bare skin in hopes of connection do you see the error?

The other half can’t shake that he killed his other half so he thinks—and no one will change his mind. So he lives over half empty, never half happy because of the constant memory spinning in his head. Men in white, truck in white, casket white oak, white clouds, white angels…he was his brothers keeper.

The Death of Christ: Sestina

My brother and I were paralyzed with intense fear
After I desperately strained and stretched to catch
The basketball thrown by my stupid brother (in the living room);
But my attempts failed miserably and the ball hit the shelf
Disturbing no other breakable figurine displayed but Jesus
Brother and I watched with gaping mouths as He descended.

I prayed He would perform a miracle and take flight; but He descended.
Perspiration formed in every part of my body for we were both in fear.
We violated Ephesians 6:1-3; shortening our lives plus dishonored Jesus!
Brother accused with tearful eyes “man, it was your dumb idea to play catch.”
I defended my now, short life, “Man your wild hands threw it near the shelf!”
I looked around knowing that this was the last time I’d see this living room.

Brother sighed prophesizing, “You know we gon die here in this living room.”
Maybe we could fix him! But the garage door opened and our hopes descended.
We could say we didn’t know how it fell…”Hey grab the ball from near the shelf!”
Petrified that fool of a brother stood still succumbed with fear.
Gah! I cannot dare tell Mama that me and Ali were playin’ catch.
Maybe I can console her and tell her He’ll arise in three….”Jesus!!!”

Ma screamed when she saw our sovereign, dear, black and cracked Jesus.
He lay dismembered, disfigured, persecuted on the floor of the living room.
Her burning eyes saw the ball, “Y’all hard heads were playing catch?”
She walked to her room and we heard the belt as it easily descended
Off of its hanging spot. Brother and I exploded in tears overwhelmed with fear.
Suddenly I desired that it was I who in fact fell in pieces from off the shelf.

Oh Jesus you work miracles even in death! Mama instead walked to the shelf.
“Y’all getting to old for this.” she bent down and began to examined poor Jesus.
I looked at my brother and he looked at me. Bewilderment over rid our fear.
While Ma was in this weird state; should I make dash out of this living room?
I thought to soon and acted to late. Ma was up and her eyes descended
on us with such a gaze that the devil would not dare to catch.

But we were the devils that caught it, and were the idiots playing catch.
I felt the chilling audience of figure’s starring (almost smiling) from the shelf.
Dang! Out off all the figures why couldn’t the clown be the one who descended?
Now, upon our deaths we would be known as the sinners who slain Jesus.
I began to sweat profusely. It seemed that hell was now our living room.
Mama gripped the belt. I prayed: Ye as I…in the shadow of…I shall fear…

I opened my eyes and to my surprise Ma was gone. Whew, Jesus!
I walked over to the broken little statue that had fallen from the shelf-
Ma yelled “Wait till yo daddy gets home.” Wait!? Brother and I took off in fear.

Itchy Hands

she hides the itch in her hand
to write about him--
because if she writes about him,
he is immortalized...and he is no god
and
she
desires no memories, no presence to linger...and he is no rose
so she hides the itch in her hand
to write about him.

What he sees, and what I write: Collaboration Poem

The angry guy, in a striped shirt barely misses the the Kawasaki security cart as it zooms by. Both noticed the speed signs, but both hardly caution-the angry man walks blindly, as a loud girl in a yellow shirt booms to insure she is noticed-only to over-step the happy kid in his undies, skipping and whistling-secure unlike the loud girl, who wishes to crawl out of the bushes like a depressed alligator, looking for his hole. She won’t let you see her quiet insecurities; she’ll talk louder to drown them out. She has learned that if she appears taller than the brown pointy tipped lamp light, no one will notice how small she feels; she will be this way for the rest of her life. An international man has a demeanor of a flatten cigarette. With watery eyes, he points to the bushes where a torn up Doritos wrapper lays which teeters softly as the wind blows. Something tells me that the Dorito bag isn’t the subject of the man’s watery eyes. A man rides by in a yellow bike letting the wind hit his face instead of the memories in his mind and the emotions in his heart. He eyes the blue bike leaning against a light-pole, free and Blue, like the sky- but the angry girl who walks past without saying hi, has let the memories take over—she’s angry because she couldn’t say goodbye; she doesn’t have closure. The black bag rolls across the pebble stone like tumble weed near a tall brown building where cheer leading practice takes place, because it wants to belong too. A girl makes her statement with the entire front of her jeans ripped bearing skin. She doesn’t understand yet that this won’t connect her to someone like the glass tunnel that connects two buildings that she is walking under. But she doesn’t care right now, because she is reborn, slowly like the turtle crawling out of a spitting fountain, she bears more flesh everyday. Giant killer ants attack a boy as he sits on a dirty bench kicking branches and bird feces stained leaves. He sketches in his notebook as the golf cart drives by. He notices that golf cart didn't have seat belts; he remembers he didn’t wear his--he remembers the men in white pulling his twin out the car, he remembers the closed casket. It should have been him, hell it was him, damn, he wants to be where the other him is. He tears the sketch out and the tosses the torn up notebook in the trash can. A bright red bird flies across the sky to sit under the tree with the dingle berries on it as the curly hair girl smiles at the cool albino boy.

jshereice

e-po

Odd Opposite Poem

Black/White. colors don't fight, but people do.
War/Peace. can it ever be achieved? even poetry requires some tension.
Live/Die. some say those words are synonymous- a cycle.
Open/Close. depends on the mindset. everything has door, some people just fear opening them.
Man/Woman. they are said to be the same, but there is the argument of sex vs. gender.
Light/Dark. sometimes we need to search for the shades of grey.
Outside/Inside. relevant to the eye of the beholder.
Abstract/Concrete. Most times I just don't care.
Beauty/Beast. I think the blind see truth.
Bills/Change. it’s better to give than receive, so in church, I give 3 dollars & 6 dimes.
Adult/Child. some say those words are synonymous-so why are they always switching roles?
God/Woman. that one is for the feminists.
God/Man. this may be fact rather than truth.
Love/Hate. some say they are synonymous...just a cycle.

Uninspired (Organic??) Frustration w/ writers block.

I really don't feel like I want to write.
(Ima take this thing a line at a time,
you know tweak it until it's almost right--
but my brain is too dead for friggin rhymes).

"They" say exercising forms is a great
excercise, but i am really lazy.
But, this is 4 my academic's sake...
so, I guess, you know, I should get busy.

Hm. I guess these are things that poets do--
makes scense, poets do write poems and things...
I better hurry cause this is soon due
and I am like, behind in STUDYING!

I did atleast plan to write a grand end--
Nah,just josh'n, I'm puttin down the pen.