Red Ink in two parts – or freedom when it comes – or North Korea

I.

A guy was sent from East Germany to work in Siberia.

He knew his mail would be read by censors, so he told his friends,
Lets establish a code.

If the letter you get from me is written in blue ink,
it is true what I say,

if it is written in red ink,
it is false.

After a month his friends got the first letter.

It says, this letter: Everything is wonderful here,
Stores are full of good food,

Movie theaters show good films from the west,
Apartments are large and luxurious but,

The only thing you can not buy is,
Red ink.

This is how we live.

We have all the freedoms we want,
But what we are missing is red ink -

- the language to articulate our non-freedom.

II.

So then I was moved.

The pink and yellow bundle in the mothers arms,

-cut from cold, barren concrete
wind howling, lamp flickering-

Three figures pushing through the city snow,

Husband and Wife and finally mother,
Cradling newborn,
United in Seoul.

Frost on every breath,
A tight escape.

Soup will beckon around the table because,
Mother knows the pain of birth.

The raft did not fail this time and she came in a,
Yellow scarf,

Happy to learn the new ways,
Of feeding children soup.

 

♦picture – Googe image at HeadScarves – Out and About Africa and Best of U fashions

evocative short poetry – words move

Where do socks go?

 

The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,

Pieces,

Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

-whether or not they resulted in a steady boyfriend,
Or a hang-over-

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

A wayward sock appears on top of the
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

And as was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

♦picture♦ - Environmental Protection Agency 

evocative short poetry – words move

“Ten of the Best!” – short poetry (August 2012)

August 2012 (caution – strong image!)

evocative short poetry – words move

Aphrodisiac

why don’t you?

lift your arms and
heal yourself

stand taller than you
were made

be stronger
than fear

mould dreams into
rainbows

why don’t you
set root and

paint the world
green with envy

you are alive

simplify your needs and
grow wings,

or stand still,
and skin lizards,

decorate yourself
with war paint,

shake off the dust,
why don’t you

uproot yourself and
walk a mile

in any direction you like,

you must at least
try,

To rage against
this idea

that you cannot

and perhaps
the sweat off your brow

will seed
fertile ground,

coat handsome men with lust
for life

become
aphrodisiac

♦photo -webstockpro.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

The falling man – 9/11

 

I will not die by your hands.

I will exercise my freedom,
To draw close to the Sun.

And should my wings crumble and,
Fold,

And fear,
Knock at my heart,

I shall wrap myself in joy,
And laugh,

Laugh as a father would laugh,
Who’s had it all,

Laugh and release my breath and
-falling freely-
fly.

Freely falling, fly.

 

See – The courtyard

♦photo – Richard Drew at Esquire.com ♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Exile

 

Long ago under a large Banyan tree,

Or could have been by a Mountain,
Or surrounded by Aztec Aliens,
Or nestled amongst the pyramids,
Around a crack in the earth,
Called the Nile,

Clans
-like arms to the body or toes to the feet-
would meet.

“The village is hungry,
Who will go?”

Men would gather and wait.

Those with sight,
Would step to the precipice,
And hand over brow,
Describe the land,

Others would record,
Curious creatures with furious breath,
Clattering battles and victory.

Together, shaking charms and crying-
Hayanga! -

hey would race across the plain,
Some, left into the scorching sun,
Others right,
Into wind and thunder -

The footage broke as Mayan mothers bathed their naked babies,
And husbands flung arrows at loggers.

A society will die without its exiles,
Thrown out for some way of being,
Its pioneers leaving for lack of oxygen,

Shunned as Westerners,
Too,
Rich speak poise,
Too,
Down through the nose,

Yet -

If all we do is reach backwards,
Only backwards to find ourselves,

We find ourselves freshly raped,
Just raped,
Always raped.

 

See Immigrant
♦photo – Harry Benson at gettyimages.com & Juan Medina for RUETERS at totallycoolpix.com♦

evocative short poetry – words move

Grow

 

Hey child,
Let it be.

Free
Float
Down
If you have to,

Up,
If you must,
Just,

Try not to fight this free floating feeling,

This life don’t have to be kneeling,
Don’t have to beg for relief,

It’s yours,

Belief comes to us all
If it must,

So let it be,
You don’t have to fight this,
Free floating feeling,

You don’t have to live life right.

 

See – Nothing breaks forever pt.II
♦photos – David Niblack, ImageBase at http://imagebase.davidniblack.com/main.php♦

evocative short poetry – words move