The Sound That Blood Makes

I am the sound that blackness makes
When it hits the pages of your thoughts.
It is recorded without your knowledge,
Without your help or guidance,
Without your approval. Such as it is
One day you will thank me.
Until then I am just a sound.
Just a hum. Murmur.
Like your head was upon your mother’s chest
And your eardrum captures
The reverberations of her heartbeat
Deep beneath her rib cage –
But she is gone, gone, gone.
And has been for years.
I am the sound in the blackness
That heightens your thoughts.
Perhaps it will return! The plague!
Your ignorance is what I have left to hold
In the darkness; the sound of blood,
Surging through organs to bring life.
You curse my lifeblood while gazing
Into the shallow sea of my eyes –
This cage, you hear the echoes.
But it is dead, dead, dead.
And has been for months. Yes, me.
But I am alive -- like her.
With your curses you spring hope.
My hope is what you aim to smother.
But fear not, I will not drown. Not now.
Not for you or for us, but for It.
I am the sound that your heart makes
When the blackness has left your pages
And your thoughts turn again to Blood
And It will surge through your hope organ
And play a tune so soft
That it will revive us
And we will live, live, live

Signs of Renewal 2.4.08

I want to snatch
Those signs that say
“Turn or burn”
“God hates fags”
And throw them
Into rushing traffic
Watch them crushed –
Smashed – destroyed
Beneath the wheels.
I want to insert
Signs that say
“God is Love”
“I’m sorry for
Not loving you
Like Jesus”.
I want renewal
Of old paradigms.
I want revolution.

My Initial Response to the Winter Poetry Slam

The judges are chosen
By random decision.
And the host reigns
In his supreme jurisdiction.
This is how the Poetry Slam runs.

Some of them rhyme,
Most of them don’t,
Many are quirky.
Peace! Peace! they promote.
A few stand out – gems.

One girls walks on stage,
Jeans skin-tight and boots.
"This girl dresses in sizes too small",
Says I. Who am I? I;
The self-proclaimed jury.

But her voice is strong,
And her words more so.
My ears perk to listen,
My mouth opens without words.
And my shame grows.

It is clear she is what Keats
Calls a “poet”,
What Coleridge would
call “a poet”.
And I belittle her no-more.

Criticism turns to applause
As goose-bumps light up my skin:
Proof of the timeless lesson
That I’ve learned within.
Strangely,

The finger that pointed is now
The voice that cheers loudest.
She might think I was a fan all along,
But she would then be the judge –
To assume me as a good person,
Would make us both bias judges.