Archive | November, 2014

headship

14 Nov

headship

my loving father, ‒

who claimed no authority

‒when my mother lamented

at the ones

in the congregation

who lay guilt on her

for not driving to meeting

through the drifts of

heaping , slicking snow

told her,

just tell them

your husband

said no.

an answer

that they dared not question.

a poem for wordpress

13 Nov

a poem for wordpress

 

poem for wordpress

 

image description:

image is a screenshot of text organized into a poem, each line indented to a different degree to add an artistic visual effect. Text of the image reads as follows:

 

you have taken
the art
out of my art,

severed
the poetry
from my poetry.

no longer can i use
the gentle spacebar
to punctuate
a line–
give
beautiful form
to my
beautiful work.

why
the fuck
have i been
deprived of the
formatting freedom
that i once knew
here at wordpress?

why is every
new
poem
edited
without my permission
upon the instant of posting
to remove all
seemingly
unnecessary
spaces?

please return my
prized artist’s autonomy.

best,
autisticchick.

disintegrate

13 Nov

disintegrate

deathpoem

image description:

image is the original, unedited poem before having indentations of verying lengths automatically removed by wordpress upon publishing. Poem reads:

 

death can have no friends.

death can have no intimacy.

at his disintegrating touch,

every lover dies

instantly.

 

death

does try to love

but only

steals their breath.

 

death is lonely.

but he feels

no regret

at what he is.

 

only sorrow.

reflection on death

13 Nov

 

reflection on death

 

death,

my old friend.

you weren’t supposed to take her.

 

yet here you are,

as much

a shock

as always,

 

crouched by her bedside.

waiting for her spirit

to let go.

 

death.

my old foe.

bitterly i have fought you,

until i came to respect

your place

at our heels,

firm hand holding open

the final gate.

 

death…

i know you.

i know you well.

know that

should i come to face you,

your jaw will burn

with the acrid

same bitterness

of my fight

that you have known.

 

death,

o death,

though i know

i must make way,

i won’t go

without digging in

my heels.

we may grapple

more than twice.

i hope you don’t mind.

i know

you must be used to it.

few go quietly.

 

death—

take me kindly,

not too soon.

not that you discriminate

or deign

to hold the prayers of the vain

too close to your

devouring heart.

 

death,

whom i hold in my bosom,

whom i know

into my bones,

owing to your

unwelcome visitations,

our long hours together

have taught me much.

please don’t visit

anytime soon.

i’d prefer you

simply write.

 

death,

you old bastard,

you do your job well—

but not every invitation

needs to be heeded,

so stop showing up

when you’re called to visit

a child

or a young mother.

 

…or…

well, you know.

a father.

 

and don’t attend

every needlessly

brutal

occasion.

just send a card.

 

i don’t miss you, death

—yes, i know, you’re

all around me—

though i know

you enjoyed

my company.

i’m a bitch like that.

 

death…

death.

i really feel for you.

i suppose

the Who

had it right

when they said that

no one knows what it’s like.

i can’t say i envy

being humankind’s

universal foe,

nor

holding the weight

of that unpleasant task

which must be done

if there is to come

new life

in the place of what was—

 

the gruesome task

of cradling a life spark

as you stoically extinguish it.

every being you embrace,

you must smother.

 

yet,

even so doing,

you nurture new life,

make the earth fresh

for its arrival.

i know that

must be paltry comfort,

death.

 

i suppose

there isn’t another way,

else we wouldn’t be

calling you

death.

 

o death,

hated antagonist of every masterpiece,

skulking specter,

dutiful assassin.

bosom brother of father time.

ubiquitous servant of mother earth.

black sheep.

though i curse you,

i embrace you,

regretfully,

with respect

with resignation

with a sigh.

 

oh,

death—

don’t wait up for me.

 

and if i don’t return your calls,

take the hint.

 

A Poem For the Last Day of Summer…

10 Nov

Something great from Dante Basco.

Dante Basco: My take on life...

So I freestyled this poem on my instagram last week and my friend Paola, wanted to shoot a little video for it. So I recorded the vocals and she went out to the beach with my brother, Dion and they shot this on their iPhones!

I think of this as the perfect little love note to say goodbye to Summer… Hope you had a good one…

View original post

expression is not existence – again (and again and again and again)

9 Nov

This brought me to tears. Tears of sorrow and tears of beauty, and tears of truth. Tears of love.

a diary of a mom

london-mccabe-youtube

{image is a photo of London McCabe}

I tried to write a post in the immediate aftermath of London’s death. I sat in front of the blinking cursor as time ticked by. I managed one sentence before I had to surrender.

I am so tired.

It was all that I could write before I melted into tears. Again.

I’m tired and I’m angry and my soul is shredded for this beautiful little boy and for all of the people who loved him and all of the people who would have done anything in their power to save him had they understood, had they possibly been able to see that he needed protection from the very person whose job it was to protect him. This little boy who loved hats and his iPad and the beach and his stuffed lion and all things fuzzy. This little boy who was all…

View original post 2,047 more words

ability to love: presume competence

9 Nov

Tears. This pulls at my heart in every direction. We love.

love explosions

photo is of a school age child kissing a preschool age child.  The text reads:  “These children are really unable to be in a reciprocal relationship and the moms don’t really experience the love that comes back from a child — the bonding is mitigated,” she told NBC News. “That is one of the most difficult things for mothers.”  False  Dee Shepherd-Look

I went offline for about 24 hours and came back to another true story about a mother murdering her Autistic child.

And right now, I can’t regurgitate the same things I’ve been saying every other time an Autistic child is murdered by his/her parent.

I just can’t.

What I can do.  What I want to do.  What I need to do is unequivocally deny the claim made by Dee Shepherd-Look regarding Autistic children.  In an interview with NBC News, she said that she was surprised that Autistic children are not murdered by parents more often and, “These children are really unable to be in a reciprocal relationship and the moms don’t really experience the love that comes back from a child — the bonding is mitigated,” she told NBC News. “That is one of the most difficult things for mothers.”

She’s an expert who runs an “education group for mothers…

View original post 267 more words