Poems from Mom

when it all goes
.

to hell
in your hands...
.
when the world's
hounding you,
.
soiling your soul,
nailing down your shadow,
stepping all over your heart...
.
when you need
a strong shoulder
and all they say is
suck it up...
.
when they tell you
smile,
smile,
and all you want to do
is scream,
one time,
until your voice breaks...
.
when the hurt is
so deep
that the tears won't come
and
all the words
to tell of it
have escaped you...
.
when your honest heart
is met with
indifference,
rejection,
dissimilation,
and outright lies...
.
when the gladhanding,
bullshitting
sons-of-bitches
keep winning
while you're treading water...
.
when you've become
numb
to the sweet kiss
of the moon
on your skin...
.
when the soft song
of the stars
falls on deaf ears,
.
and all you can hear
in the deep watches
of the night
is the echo
of your own
heartbeat...
.
face yourself.
.
you have two choices--
.
to build from grace
or
fall from fear.
.
walk on.

.
.
alw, all rights reserved, 07/2008

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The proof,
.
.
they say,
is in the
pudding.
.
huh.
.
Neck deep
in inertia,
.
slipping blindly
in ennui,
.
yet they'd,
every one of
them,
.
apathetically
protest such an
accusation
.
if they
only knew
.
what I mean
.
when I say
I've done it all--
.
while they were
eating,
sleeping,
working,
fucking,
sweating,
watching t.v.,
exposing their
pseudo-intellects
on opiate internet,
.
I've done
everything
I ever wanted
to do--
.
accomplished
great things,
in light of
my ignominious
trailer trash
beginnings...
.
I just never
ever
let anyone
.
convince me
it couldn't be
done
.
by someone
like
me.
.
.
alw, all rights reserved, 01/2009

_____________________________________________________

Untitled
(for Miles Davis)
.
Brown prophet,
preaching untold gospels
with the brass,
.
wrenching forth
hoarse Hallelujahs
from awed throats.
.
Sweat pouring out
like
sweet, heroin scented
bullets.
.
Notes drip
slow,
thick,
golden
as honey from wild bees.
.
He was
THERE.
.
Right
there
in that place
where even the Soul is
fatherless,
nameless...
.
Centuries of blue ghosts
moaning
free at last
from his unchained
horn and hands...
.
He was
right
THERE.
.
Man,
that cat could
wail.
.
.
--alw, 2006, all rights reserved

__________________________________________________________________________
Mes Mains
"…the poem will save your ass from madness…"
—C.H. Bukowski

Man hands.
I have
Man hands.
Big, huge, rough,
Calloused,
Chapped, cracked,
Scratched, cut,
Man hands.
I look at these hands
Regretfully
At least ten times a day,
And somewhere
Inside my brain
The sweet little
High heel wearing
Hair primping
Clothes changing
Girl
That I sent long ago
To a little room up there
Weeps forlornly
Every time she sees
These hands.
But I tell her,
To justify,
And just to shut her up,
That they are
Good, strong hands,
These peasant hands;
They make our living, these hands,
And the strong arms
That they are attached to,
And the broad, strong
Shoulders and back that support them.
These hands make
The money
And the meals
And fold the socks
And pat my sons
On the back.
They are competent hands.
That word makes the
Little girl shriek.
So then,
I whisper gently,
They also write
These poems,
These sweet poems,
These lovely, lovely poems
That save us from
All sorts of
Intellectual black holes
That would suck
The soul right out of
Both of us,
Darling girl.
They save us,
These hands.
And she whispers back,
They ARE good hands,
Aren't they?
But not pretty.


all works, all rights reserved, Anita L. Wynn

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