July 4, 1981

March 12, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

in the grocery cart you find the frogs down by the river

bending in the light to where

the Pacific Bell poles rot at the bottom

in the creek where all the vagrants pee

it’s not lady like to see those things

but i guess i can learn faster to just look

lucidity in their feet as the cops roll bye quietly

looking at the river grounds

“shut up shut up shut up!” the mantra of the

prophetic invisibles fighting to stay in the

black hole

by the river Frog-town groans and the little fire fluffs

spark here and there like in Gustav’s serpents

but Chavez’ Ravine bullies the twilight with a salute to

the liberation on the fourth

and we are all out of innings

by the tower

March 12, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

harmony clashes

pounding through the drums of fate

floating messages

on the wings of lonesome doves

pennies for the angels’ breath

trepidation

March 11, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

blazing to the highest heavens

but how can i measure

i’m ill equipped

i am not God

touching my way on the ground

just like one that lived before

the Psalms were written

i do not know how to swim

out of water

Mohawk street is not the same

the houses are familiar

in the vagueness of my name

teacup roses are all now full of moss

the churches are different

than when i was knee long high

i cried out as silently as i could

is the world changing

or am i

picnic 1975

March 10, 2019March 9, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

so he said don’t look up

little darling or your pistachio

eyes will turn to coal

so i said no they won’t

but i did not believe my words

although against logic

i looked up anyway

so can you see stars and lines

or dark dark bubbles on the car

doors my little darling

your eyes are red

no i said so i can keep

looking unbeknown to him

i really wanted to burn

my eyes out to stop the future

from charging me

so listen my petite

devil i cannot let you

look up anymore

so place this hat upon your

head and know that God is always

above you

i know i am beneath

but can i have an orange

oh no no i want a pickle

with pastrami instead

i could not see but i lied

anyway

so you think you’re

hungry? we have food

in the car follow me

but don’t look up and if you’re

good we can roll down the

hill together

the wind at 6 a.m.

March 10, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

i guess now i have to haul

ass on my own. my dog, my tree,

my home, my life. all put away,

in the chambers of my heart.

damn it woman. how can it go on?

i chase your scent, the ring in your

sound. the laugh in the rain, the pound

in your heart. and there i stand.

though broken i am not. i never said anything

to this thought. but you who made me whole,

when i said i could no more. you made me move.

in a direction in front of me.

the wind walks on rice paper. no trail of

you i see. footsteps in the river of

forgiveness washing me free, today and forever.

this is what you left for me.

as i sit alone in this bed of

my own humanity. i feel your touch of love

and there is a 6 a.m. in every hour. you are

in the sun, the moon, the stars, the fog.

you are in the laughter of my

sons and the tenderness of my daughters.

your steel of spirit in the doves on

city cables. in the potted sage.

put me in my proper place,

when you receive me in His kingdom.

until then coffee and cigs;

6 a.m. in life unrepentant.

-to Jane and Hank-

the pebble

March 10, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

i keep the pebble in the hand
as a testament
to the revolt of feelings.
mere electrical currents
in the brain.

sometimes the pebble is placed down.
its weight can crush if the
heart is flighty with thoughts
and fancies void of substance.

as the pebble is looked at, it stares
back. forever with no smile
or frown or indication
other than it is a creation
of God.

borrowed from the universe
the pebble does not need me
as much as i need it.

Call For Submissions for But You Don’t LOOK Sick: Battles we fight with invisible illness – an Anthology

March 9, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

Indie Blu(e) Publishing

Indie Blu(e), the publisher of We Will Not Be Silenced, is now accepting submissions for an anthology of writers and artists who live with a chronic but invisible illness, or who care for someone else who does. The focus of this anthology is revealing the honest experience of living with invisible illness. We want it all: your humor, anger, grief, your survival stories, coping strategies, and your journey to carve out a new life after such a life-changing diagnosis (if you are lucky enough to get one!). We know so many artists who struggle with chronic illnesses that are poorly understood and we believe that your creative expressions can enlighten, connect, support, and heal.

All interested writers and artists can submit up to three pieces of creative work. Submissions can include Poetry, Prose, Essay, Short Fiction, and/or original Artwork. Pieces of writing should be limited in length (under 1,000 words.)…

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The Way Pollack Paints Hope

March 9, 2019March 9, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

Thank you for showing up at the venue from where the gambler tosses all they have
onto a table set on a busy street.
Thank you for putting on display a beating heart pulsing with angel’s fingers on that dirty boulevard.
The rose now a beloved queen to a lost traveling soul aches for a few moments of respite before the end.
Thank you for tossing laughter as a hopeful crowd tosses rice at the bride’s feet when the rain will inevitably wash the marble clean.
Thank you for spinning from the air a gentle reminder that all is salvageable.

bowing out

March 9, 2019March 5, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

the electricity is shut
and gone forever.
the eyelid dried out;
no more light will filter.
and the laughter lost
in a cave far down from here.

time was not enough dowry
to change the unchangeable.
i must be content with
having failed.

i, with no wealth of any
particular blue bloodline
could not offer you
anything other than
what God saw fit.

in the chasm
of the voices, it does
not really matter.
don’t employ any foreboding
on dejected smiles.