Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

A Poem for America on June 26th, 2015 (rough draft)

Today we march.
All of us, here and gone.

You Ancient Souls,
Bones brutalized by
torch and noose and stones and
worse,
Hearts brutalized by a nature
unnatural to a
narrow mind,
Rise Up, Ancestors;
Your long evaporated tears being
now the blood in our hearts:
Today we march.

You Masters of Deception,
Lives
painted in shades
of the perfect white
  - collar
  - wedding
  - picket fence
  - House
your fearful pallor mistaken
for prestige,
Rise Up, Hopeless;
Your long silent tongues
now lead the choir:
Today we march,

You Martyrs of a Cold Country,
Minds and bodies weaponized
in defense of an All American Dream
then rendered sleepless by secrets,
Rise Up, Sacrificed;
what blood you bartered
for only half a freedom,
now strengthens our hands
clasped:
Today we march.

You Slain by Neglected Disease,
a virus mistaken for righteous,
a plague mistaken for justice,
a hospital bed made colder by shoulders
that should have been there for crying on,
Prejudice never killed so cleanly on behalf of it's Parishoners, but
Rise Up, Wronged;
the silence that let death creep into your body
breaks under our rallying cries:
Today we march.

You Battered Spirits,
cut a thousand thousand times by the first, worst
weapon of the human tongue
unmatched by any configuration built of sticks and stones,
tortured by
what thoughtless minds perceive as cuts too small for paper
(because society's gone paperless)
tormented by
the infections those lacerations allow to access
heart and mind and soul,
Rise Up, Enduring;
the thin balm of a promise that it will
Get Better
is now the mortar for the bricks beneath our feet:
Today we march.

Today we march
down the aisle.

Today we prise wide our mouths
to utter oaths
at last older than fear.
Today we make naked our wounds
and bandage them with bands of gold
more powerful than hate.
Today the wedding bells
and the bells of freedom
are finally one and the same.
Today, at last, we march.

- Z.D. Gladstone

"We're all mad here."

      A poem for you today. Because poetry is awesome.


Sometimes, when I lick my lips,
I taste hints of Madness.
It lingers on the edge of my words
to be caught and brought on an intake
of breath,
savored and mistaken for a
sought-after decadence.
Only my teeth, snapping in sentences,
rearing in laughter,
grinding as the guardians of my mind
ward it off--
make it lie naked on the page for my
acceptance or dismissal.

Except in sleep.
In sleep, sometimes, my lips part:
an unconscious sipping of the darkness.
Then sometimes Madness
which lingers on the edge of my smiles
like a particle of dust creeps into my lungs
blood
brain
and dances forcefully in my dreams.

To the Great

            On Wednesday, May 26th, Maya Angelou died. She was 86 years old, and had lived a life rich in words, wisdom, and people right up until she passed—may we all be so blessed. She was a poet, a singer, a dancer, an actress, and an activist. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was her first memoir, and it was groundbreaking both as a social piece and as literature: powerful enough to inspire, and also controversial enough that it prompted many school districts to try and ban it (my kind of book). She was one of my heroines, a true lady and great artist, and she will be acutely missed.
            I had the great pleasure of seeing her speak in Seattle a handful of years ago. She came to the Paramount Theater, and I had tickets way up in the nosebleed section; I had heard recordings of her voice, but never seen a picture of her (I tend to be oblivious to media in a lot of ways), and I honestly had forgotten how old she was, so it was very striking to see her live on stage. To this day, seeing and hearing Maya Angelou remains one of the most powerful experiences of my life. It inspired me to write the following poem, which I share with a certain amount of frustration because this is the original, raw draft—I have a refined finished version somewhere and I can’t find it. So this is a rather pitiful tribute to a great woman, but the emotion behind it is deep and sincere.

Having no photo of you
to prejudice my mind,
I created your portrait
from the template of your words.
With your poetry as my palette,
your cadence to suggest hues, and your
rhymes to offer shape,
I drew in my heart your likeness
to hang over my mental recitation of your work.
This portrait gave you
an Amazon's strong jaw,
and Athena's brow;
eyes like a Siren watching night blacked waters
the high cheeks of Justice
and the even lips of Mary, eloquent even in silence before the Cross.

Then a ticket and a concert hall gave summons,
which I would not reject.
Full eager and light I
came to adore my idol,
observe this face at last.
And there,
robed in red,
they
arranged you
seated before the curtain rose.
Your octogenarian limbs could not
cross the stage unaided,
trimmed your energy 
to scarcely an hour,
made lean your face and 
gray your hair--
Revealed my portrait as a fallacy.

But then your voice came
clear throughout the hall.
All images, real and myth, became as
dry leaves swept heedless before strong spring winds.
A soul so large no mortal frame could matter
Spoke.
When I heard you sing
I, Shall not, I shall not be moved,
I felt foundations of temples in my bones
my ears filled, welcoming all pieces;
and for the first moment in my life
my limbs stirred
in urge to kneel.


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