melissaahowells
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now UN-SEE THIS:
ten people standing in line waiting for bread-- obliterated this is not a poem this is oblivion a nightmare Hieronymus Bosch here one moment and what? gone the next inconceivable?... but YOU MUST conceive of it marinate on THE BLOOD until the reality seeps into your psyche can you do it? is there enough empathy left in your pinkie in your pre-frontal cortex in your reptilian brain in your worst imagining to wrap your NEEDFUL concentrated thought around IT? I see ten mushroom clouds EXPANDING I see spontaneous combustion AND TEN INDIVIDUAL POOFS I see ten memorials and malingering remembrances AND AN ENDLESS CLOTHESLINE OF DAMP HAN-KERCHIEFS I see Pale Grief in her flesh-tone gown and Death with his scythe cutting down the chafe and the wheat no harvest for this year not for ten who were simply hungry.... and no bread CERTAINLY no bread for those who ONCE hailed from the Bread Basket Of The World and whose bodies hailed all over the broken coffins of ground. Are you quiet now? Do you have any words or images left? (whispering: Where and what is peace?) LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER/POET MELISSA A. HOWELLS AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPY-WRITTEN AND REGISTERED SITE TITLE: MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD Vote for this poem |
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