colours

grey.
the road i walked.
black.
the clothes i wore.
white.
the sound of his voice beckoning me.
"come my child. your wrong has been made right by my blood."
i looked and behold.
red of the darkest blood, shed for my grey.
yellow of the light cutting through the darkness.
blue of the royal clothes he gave me. a sign of the beautiful inheritance i receive through the red, the yellow, the white.
and the colours. the beautiful hues woven throughout the scenery.
i saw them all. I saw their individual importance.
I saw the colours of his forgiveness and mercy.

Alarm (for 5.28.2013)

They ignore me.

They persistently ignore me.

They hate me.

Consistently thrown into the corner. 

It’s not my fault. I’m made the way I am.

Sure, my voice is annoying. 

But without me, you wouldn’t remember anything.

Sure I interrupt you when you are in your happiest moment. 

When you’re sleeping.

I’m sorry, alright?

They hate me. 

They throw my body across the room.

They slap me about til I’m quiet. 

Til not a sound comes out of me.

Yet day in and day out I’m here.

 Waiting for my time. 

Waiting to speak in that annoying voice you hate. 

A Heartless Winter (for May 28 and 29)

The winter is here again.

The faceless cold that steals children from their mother’s sides, that brings disease, and death. And the snow. The snow that leads the trappers astray. The swirling, plunging, cold, blinding snow. It freezes limbs. It blinds all who try to venture out in it. There is no pity from the wind here, no hope to be spared from another cruel winter. A mother can only pray her children be spared from the harshness of winter and the snow does not lead their husband to death while he is checking the traps he so carefully laid.

---

The snow swirls outside the window. Brightly burning candles illuminate the bedside where a mother is sitting. Her children lay on the bed, snuggled together for warmth. A faint whimper draws her attention to the cradle by the fire of the one room house. She knows it is dangerous for a babe in a winter such as this. She rocks her infant son to quite his cries and prays a mother’s prayer that her baby survive the winter, her older two children remain healthy, and the snow not lead her husband to death while he is out checking their traps. 

a fan letter

Dear Harold,

I watched your show the last night and I just wanted to add my well wishes to everyone else’s and say a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY! It is so awesome that you are now the oldest living avocado. I mean wow! A whole century is a long time for anyone to live—let alone an avocado. I love hearing your life stories—you’ve lived through so much. I especially like the ones about your wife and how you survived the wars. So inspiring!! I hope someday I can have as many amazing stories as you!

Sincerely,

An Adoring Fan

I Don't Understand

Here in the darkness under an enemy roof

With death strapped to my chest beneath this uniform

Surrounded by a hundred perfect copies of me

Same green eyes, same radiation suit

Same kind of man with a past just like mine.

What turned you into murderers?

Was it when you were stolen from the fire?

or back when the sky first burned and the law burned with it?

or when they melted you and turned you into captives?

Is that why you hunt us?

Or is it for the very same reason that I’ve come here to kill you tonight.

Sixty Years

They were celebrating sixty years of marriage that day in the park, complete with cake and ice cream and great-grandchildren.  The sunbeams filtered onto the partygoers, spotted and speckled, light and shadow.

They smiled at each other, over the heads of their family members, gaze meeting in the middle, softening their worn faces and crinkling the corners of their eyes. And he walked over to her, cane supporting his slow movements.

His hand was spotted with age. Hers were bent and twisted with arthritis. But they clasped them together. And they were young newlyweds again. And love made them beautiful. 

Social Justice

       “We must do this for the poor,” you say. When have you ever encountered the poor without a look of disgust, without a complaint afterwards? “I can’t believe they let homeless people on the trains!” you say. Who is “they?” The same people you expect to take care of the poor so you don’t have to dirty your hands?

       That gentleman who had the audacity to sit near you? Did you ask him if he’s eaten today? Would you offer him the cheeseburger you bought to treat yourself after a long day walking in the city?

Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite.