cycles

HUMAN BOOKENDS

It is here
in this bottle-necked existence, locked
into days captioned by ticks and tocks,
where time resides in each of us
until it stops,
rotating the same hands
inside the same third dimensional clock;

it is here
where every breath exhaled is a universal kiss –
it is simply one moment and
the space in between this
that binds together our journeys, which,
as uniquely defined as we feel each is,
are all chapters of the same book
we write to reminisce,
primed and painted with the same theme we
create to self-exist,
scrawled by the same pencil, held
by the same hands as we persist…
each of us artists
with the same precise and leather-bound twist

It is here
where we long for real purpose or true faith –
to believe that something
‘other’,
external,
or
majestic
awaits…
but in nothing we trust
yet, cry blame for our fate –
each a different monologue of the same hate;
the same distracting soul state;
the same periodic and prolific bait –
God would not want us, at any rate

It is here
in darkness, arms around each other’s back
that war hangs overhead in stasis,
circling, cycling on a track and
wearing thin our patience
while it leaks like yolk from all our cracks
(we watch it drip indifferently as we huddle tight within our pack)
S
I
L
E
N
T
L
Y
preparing
for the next surprise attack:
we, like wolves, insane
and seeing red with every flash –
our lonely pain inciting hunger,
our deep abyss as black

It is here
in this cosmic explosion,
and it is now just as it was then,
that peace is nought but a tragic parody
of the dreams of passing men,
and nothing changes but the theatre of stars
in lines, in queues, end to end,
enemy to friend to
ENEMY
for decades once again,
consuming pain like greed as our bellies all distend,
living every angle of the lie like it is money we MUST spend,
the broken tales of each of us
portending, true, our end;
dangling one more burden
like a dog-tag for a past we’ve penned
at rest beneath a headstone
in a yard of human bookends

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 14 April, 2017

MOTHER AND WIFE

 

Bear witness
for in this river of flesh
I carry souls ashore
where countless numbers of
babes become men
become monsters and then
become thrustly
and greedy
and desperately famished
of reason but too fat with ease, and
too brittle and fractured
of heart and of sense
and, thus, absent of care
to repent or ascend
but instead,
so depend on their
wafer-thin skin to protect
their descent
into watery storms,
– into tangles of nets –
– into womanly curves –
and the blue, blue eyes of breasted streams,
ungodly fresh sin,
and purposeless dreams

Bear witness

as I birth these farmers of filth
as they strangle the earth
while I patiently wade in
the knee-high abuse
and the ocean of seed
to stand watch by their graves
where the no-longer-babes
– the sailors and cowards
and bastards that dribble –
are caught in a wave
of stone and soil ripple,
– are anchored and drowned –
without sight, nor intent,
but the passage of life
for a time
– once less lived –
due the freedom
I selflessly lost
but to generously
give

Bear witness:
I swell with the waters of life
– the mother and wife –
for an endless such blight;
yet, still, I exist, swept aside,
and, despite.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 10 August, 2015