Bunker Hill

wombs of my mountains

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

wind you know where i am alive and unforgotten time and i walk through the valleys and canyons made by trinity God Spirit and the son of woman wind you know how my throat wails in melody somber prayer joyous praise to you the wind that batters me uprooting my seedlings pulling sacrifices from the wombs of my mountains wind after birth soother cleansing sin away your breeze sister gentle cool draped in the blue of sky anoints the lips of the child with psalms and holy noise if only she could remember to return home

mbrazfield (c) 2022

our picket signs for St. Peter

/ mbrazfieldm / 6 Comments

infinite is the same color gray
stones upturned not a smile they bring
the bulbs of spring red will be
blessed are her feet
they carry a soul to heaven’s gates
wings await to offer flight
descend your faith into our light
on the corners where the orphans fade
a glance will do from eyes of gold
our picket signs with prophecies
adorned
will see the blooming of a brave new world

mbrazfieldm (c) 2022

undone

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments
mbrazfield (c) 2022

watching the orange trees today full of buds and bees busy life ruthlessly buzzing forward my blood stale purple dripping from my nose the sky falling my feet facing up thoughts spilling from my ear prayer bowls howl when empty dragons chasing no longer lucrative so we reach for a key pad human thought what is where we go solid oak caskets flow among the fields of wires

Daniels and lions

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

i like to see the people in the park under strawberry moon
in Pershing Square a silent film extraordinaire
they sift through refuse cans filled with Starbucks cups and the ever elusive recyclable water bottle
they work through their children’s play dates daddies selling crystal meth to pay a debt to a society that castrated them at birth
or take for instance the widowed diabetic arthritic hunched over Latina grandmother selling chips and Gatorade while watching her grandchildren who were orphaned at an early age because the sweatshop took their mother at 50 cents an hour to pay to pay to pay
the cloister of the lost waifs from mid west America find themselves now staring at the sun crusted over in sweat and cum fentanyl albatross around their neck wishing they had listened to momma
we are here together alone toiling exposed perfectly harmoniously in despair survival but standing
we are here clinging with bare hand to eternal waking time
we are Daniels and lions all

insomniac

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

ghosts sit by the door
lurking between the wood planks
with them a scent of gardenia
silver orbs hang in the dark
eclipsed by the street light
i speak to them in my mind
they retort that i am a sinner
groaning their disappointment
weeping then leaving
as the night waltzes on
my eyes strain to seek the stars
between the TV antennas on apartment roofs
meat and bone stars twinkle instead
providing my neighbors with a comfort
the witching hour around the corner comes
my eyes turned downward
ignoring a call from the highway
bent on taking me out to a life
i ran away from

sonnet for the trafficked

/ mbrazfieldm / 1 Comment

streets wet with ocean dew by the train stop

girls with glittering mouths dance in the eyes

men who lost their wages to sinful lust

we smoke with lights out every other block

in the ally they waste covered with flies

bended knees to a system that’s not just

our dreams fast escape through broken windows

on some faces a smile is just a lie

through loss of self remember not to trust

we long for those we love trapped in shadows

filthy shame to cause our blood to rust

the soul cauterized from love so we die

walk the streets with spirits that now are crushed

the warmth of hearts these mean streets have frozen

at night our cries hush

words hushed

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

to forget my line
across the street the crowd
opposite my thoughts crowded
in my brick building mind
there are willow trees
lining the dirt paths
that used to be dustless
still the little brick corners
prick up catching my heels
from the corner of my dry right eye
i catch Fante in a grey suit
head bowed writing on a pad
golf pencil a story about a girl
straight ahead the afternoon
pierced in the heart by pigeons
scared into the sky
by wailing fire trucks
and my face dead on
the Mexican artisanal mirror
my lips red my words hushed