Tag Archives: helplessness

The Decembrist Wives

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These were not common, these camp followers
these devoted few women of those sparse survivors
sanctioned so to live or so as cold Sibir awaited
them and theirs to harshest toil and
they themselves impoverished aristocracy

among them none of those five hung – and three hanged twice –
for wanting just to see the end of serfdom’s slavery
made for them the hope of somehow being
in the farthest east Yakutsk or yet perhaps Nerchinsk

the rough and crude, abusive solitude
this callous rule, this cruel administration,
ruthless, tsarist exile could not cause to waver
yea, could not unhinge their fealty

these dedicated brides of brave but doomed men
tho’ sickness and starvation caused to perish those
who could not make it through the bitter winters
these were women of steadfastness, loyalty and ardor

local folk, admirers of the ones who would not swear,
assisted as these women swept their mud floor huts and wept
their husbands hushed and placed in chains in mines
the utter desolation kept at bay by dint of love’s hard labor

no, these were not common, these camp followers
these devoted few women of those sparse survivors
sanctioned so to live or so as cold Sibir awaited

When Daddy is a Gunslinger

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he says he has no father
you know that’s not the case
his dad is not at home
and you can see it in his face

his papa only comes around
to bleed the fam’ly dry
then leaves again for them to mend
their wounds – the tears they cry

his daddy is a gunslinger
and violence is his calling
intimidation, confrontation,
bloodshed, guns, and brawling

how many men in prison
have young boys just like him?
who want to love their fathers
but the prospects seem so grim

and all those men who roam the streets
they ply a deadly trade
those boys who need a father
grow up weak but unafraid

his daddy is a gunslinger
he’s doomed to do the same
or break the chain that’s preordained
don’t become what dad became

when he says he has no father
and you know that’s not the case
don’t blame the boy for anger
or the anguish he must face

his papa only comes around
to teach him how to cry
in a social class of broken glass
where kids do not ask why

when daddy is a gunslinger
when momma’s all alone
give this young man what love you can
try and treat him as your own

The First Step

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The geese are heading north
A long cruel winter passed and now
A time for rebirth
Is upon us
Yet
A fallow mind is waiting
Hanging back
No thoughtful schemes
No sober propagations
Cloud this wistful dormancy,
This blissful paradox; a
Vague, translucent soul
Is tucked away

The geese are heading north
The time has come
For planting
Yet
The dormant field
Cannot control
What grows within
This envaulted ground
So nor can this disparaged
Intellect select it’s crop
Though fertile, rich, it
Cannot choose which path to follow

And so as the geese head north
And farmers ready fields
For planting
Yet
A fallow mind is
Hanging back
Unable to accept
The first step forward
Sitting out another season
Waiting
Fallow

Johnson Street

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Your mind’s been blown
in thick pink clouds of rancid hue
from smoke and silt and residue
which left your brains in acid stew.
The film that stains your clothes dull green
lies in shadows kept unseen;
emits to us the raunch of what we see.
It keeps you dead to us ‘unknown’
and makes you perpetrate and groan
your want. It’s yours alone.
You pitiful sad thing,
you . . . you wanted everything
but now you’re left to feel the sting
and let the needle cling.
It’s done its deed.
You’ll lie in slush and let it bleed,
consuming wants with all your need.
It’s sad, indeed.