The sea is turquoise ships are white as
summer clouds. On the dock headless
dolphins lie side by side and there is music
in the air. Children have fun slide on deep,
dark blood. Shouting buyers and sellers,
listen to the great cacophony of humanity.
Bless this day… this moment, god is good
here is food for all.
In Pakistan bombs fall, explode and artillery
shells whizz through the air, burning building
and dead children, all this happen when I sit
listening to a program about abortion.
It strikes me that those who are anti-abortion,
often are for capital penalty and do not dither
to drop rockets on villages in the mountains of
Pakistan or Afghanistan.
In a garden filled with venomous snakes, and wild beasts,
A motionless light peaked through the rising prickled trees.
As I approached what was lurking in the shadows,
There she stood tall and delicate as a snowflake touching ground,
Peddles as red as the blood that flows through my veins creating my life,
Broken from grounds of lifeless origins,
I embraced her as she rolled through my staggering hand,
This is to be held in the midst of a heavenly queen,
That in this life will one day be seen.
Lack of Rain
As evening began to fall heavy clouds gathered,
rain tomorrow the meteorologist said, a nice girl
about twenty five years old, and dressed in red.
So the clouds will be hanging about blocking out
stars till the next day when the girl gives the order
for the downpour that will turn into drizzle.
Heavy fighting in Pakistan, didn’t see any rain
though, but billows of black, oily smoke fearful
people trying to flee and a tough talking general.
When morning came it was sunny but quite chilly,
village dogs sat facing the east the meteorologist
had married and wanted a dry honeymoon.
Sex and the Medical Profession
I’m sitting in my car waiting for my wife who is at mass
I find it impossible to believe in any religion, but I say
nothing it is important for my wife to believe in a merciful
god. Paris, and agony, my wife prayed but did call
an ambulance. Battling doctors, how young they are, I felt
like a low paid, reluctant actor in a hospital drama, one
who has to play the nurse when he really wanted to be
the famous heart transplant surgeon.
The doc asked if I smoked. No! She looked sullen since
I didn’t, it is so easy to blame the fag. I said I had smoked
15 years ago, she looked relieved and told me to keep up
the good, work: she removed the catheter a lovely pee
Is better than sex, if temporarily, now I feel like making
love, my wife tells I’m deluded, I say nothing but bid my
time, keep a blanket in my car in case I should meet
someone who is equally barmy.
Alexandrian’s docks and Flies
Butterflies, the insect, often appear in poetry
flies are black and grey Alexandrian flies are
bloody annoying, that is why no poet writes
and extol the virtue of the common house fly.
But one day a fly landed on my nose looked at
me with eyes that held intellectual thoughts,
it spoke to me but I could not hear but I’m sure
it was an appeal to understand its predicament.
And I said to the fly, before the vibration of my
of my nose scared it away: “all you have to do is
to not bother me and I will not try to swat you.”
The fly smirked sarcastically and said: “ Why do
you go mad when I circle the lamplight and climb
on walls this rusty ship needs a lick of paint.
A Man’s Alexandria
A woman came into the living room looking sideways
she brought ice cold beer and snacks, Alexandria, this
this was a modern Egyptian his waif’s face not covered
by a veil, the skin of her face was poke marked. I heard
voices in the kitchen it was of his daughters but I never
saw them, and that was ok, I do not know how to talk
to children. When we left the house they all had
disappeared into grey shadows, my Egyptian friend
shouted orders to no one in particular. Nightclub and
belly dancing, my friend disappeared with one of them,
I had been the stooge, but all bills had been paid, so ok.
Walked back to my ship alone, packs of docks along
the docks didn’t bother me; I had met a culture I didn’t
understand my Egyptian friend said that he didn’t had any
children since he didn’t have sons.
Tired and PMT’d
that which only a woman knows
wanting to be so much more
than your functioning mum
peace is a quick fag at 5
before the potatoes and oven
tryna get tea on
peace is all I want
here in the trap
liberty is no where
baby is so loved
baby is liberty
change is near
written 10 January 1994
by vanessa rare ©
Mighty Amazon flood
Flows strongly towards the sea
Pauses by the delta
But now it is all too late
Reduced to melancholy
Sweet water blending with sea
And history is forgotten
A housewife in Alexandria.
The woman in Alexandria Egypt in her black chador
which mercifully hides a thin, body, lines up outside
a bakery she has walked six miles to buy bread for
the day. Her body could have fitted a Dior’s creation
snugly but as it is she has to haste home and feed
her children. She has been to the fruit market too
where rib cage showing mules with open sores wait,
their starvation have lasted so long that they are no
longer hungry but eat when fed. A rich woman, who
has never felt the pang of hunger, tells mule drivers
off for not taking care of their beasts and dispenses
salve on animals’ sores. The woman, with a model’s
body, is poor and blind to this, empathy with animals
are for the wealthy, those with time to care.
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
Their oblivious love:
So here we are my withered rose
We once represented beauty in comatose.
The heavens once believed we would bring peace
That we would share in our dreams,
Dreams of bubble gum and candy apples,
Dreams of streams that were never blue,
And heart shaped lilacs that were figments of our imagination.
They awaken from their dream:
I’ve been told that even the earth is an illusion through our eyes,
What we perceive and what we have been told to believe.
Look around at all the trees,
Are those really trees?
And the bees
Are they really bees?
When have words defined my feelings?
Tell me the truth dear rose,
I would like to hear the truth,
Why do you not respond to these questions?
Have I forsaken the moral aids of being a man?
What is a man?
Is he a towering object with emotionally destructive words?
Or one who is able to be alone to realize he is a man,
Perhaps a man is a round object approaching infinity,
Or a square with rough edges who can equally capture his feelings.
If you could tell me my dear rose before your peddles fall,
Please tell me before your thorns pierce my skin, and my blood begins to flow,
Please tell me about what happens in this life, before your heart lacks its soul.
She looses her gentle touch as she begins to wither, falling to the ground:
My rose please don’t lie on the ground,
Awaken from your unconscious slumber,
Here my words, feel my touch, smell my fear,
I will stand here soaking in the rain until you have quenched your desires.