number 48

scorched concrete broken bottles

         bus fare not enough rain comes

huddle in the mass of 300 cots cries for help

a man is lost behind himself he now sees

         in front of him are wading genteel lakes

his hands metaphorically cut off at the wrist

                closing his eyes he dreams of hills

opening them again he seeks to seal a reality

            that comes in colors mainly blues and blacks

his mind aloof with a potion of castles in a foreign land

    where the weather is gentle and his feet kiss the sand

in the banks of a river holding the dusking sky

        number 48 is called to sit at the chair

we don’t have room for you try back next week

       he looks down and looks up again

out of the building to sidewalks of pain

    three blocks from Wall street

the birds start to sing     the river is placid

    the hills are rolling    skies are all yawning

      the fire she roars inside of the castle           a new king explores

7th eden

opening my eyes for the first time

the old 3rd street bridge is unrecognizable

it’s been a long 300 years since

i walked through here in my youth

when we had reached the peak of

refining weapons of mass destruction mostly us

my blue spirit spans from one end

to the other end of the tunnel

i appreciate nature’s knitted emerald life blanket

layered over you so tenderly melodious brook

the perfect Elysium reward for those soldiers

who laid down their generation defending you

sooty vestiges of city hall no longer

haunt the fledgling Eden i rejoice inside

as the trees speak a new creation

stones banks and plants sit in convocation

while they wait for the new children

Photo courtesy of Sue Vincent

Eunice

Eunice

sits

by the

twin doors on

her porch waiting for the

mail to arrive and have a conversation with

Yan the carrier who always asks about her past and what she’s doing

it’s time for the Moon Festival and Eunice enjoys hearing Yan’s stories too and when his wife sends her Moon Cakes

her heart skips a beat with joy today she wore a peach silken robe her hair is wild and white legs tucked neatly under thighs and her lap nestles two brown gray Siamese kittens

eyes deep black filled with wisdom earned through pain war and humiliation but if you look closer her irises are flecked with bits of gold these are the triumphs of her life i want to be like Eunice graceful with the power of her forgiveness she is eternally untethered from the mortal coil of man

strong in her conviction to love without having to be loved free to walk through the doors of challenge steadfast in her beauty shining from within soul armor for the soldier Queen her lips sea shell pink have spoken with the angels her thin vein covered hands have opened promise closed opportunities for mass destruction Eunice swift of foot feeds the weeds and prized flower bushes the same life is life she says and through this ancient simple third eye view the weeds have nourished the orchards of love

Eunice with her basket feeds the multitudes with far less fish than Jesus can provide today but in her patience and plentitude of faith the cup of satiety somehow runs over in the inky crescendo of the twilight Eunice sits in her back porch by the door where she cried hiding sorrow when the universe collapsed as seen on the 11 o’clock news many Aprils ago clutching a holy book to ensure it’s protection in case that night’s devil came to her own door i know i’ll never be like Eunice with spirituals circulating in her veins while her licorice skin warms the spirits of the children next door who dress like ninjas for the Fall and every year as she pretends to be the frail victim for them to save her reward is the blooming of a brighter future in their innocent laughter

Seth 3: Christina’s rebuke

Picture courtesy of Sue Vincent

the road she is cruel and with little respite

but i made it to Your house

with the help of Ruach Elohim

i can raise my knuckles to Your door

and knock to be let in

YWHW this is your daughter

the mother of the boy

who is now in your eternal care

i see his hands and eyes and smile

in the wild flowers waltzing on the ground

i traversed the firmament all this way

for You to look me in the face

and give me a reason

because i’m only Your daughter

and i don’t know anymore

did You give Abraham his bosom

from these stones that hold Your strength

my bosom is torn wide apart

forsaken forgotten and in pain

the glimmer in the joy of light

that showers Your front steps

no longer bring me comfort

YHWH

You and i know what love can be

we both sent our sons

unto the world of man

but only Your’s came back

God interprets Guernica

today God tried your

painting method using skies

and tiny trickled

markings on the sand

He got most of the lines right

clouds and horizon

pebbles and calm waves

well what do you think Pablo

looking at His work

thinking not half bad

you suggested a line there

between sky and land

His and your eyes met

creating soft puffs of light

witness of splendor

a channel of water flowing out to sea, with the sun reflecting on the water.
Photo courtesy of Sue Vincent

Atet

dark

to light

the passage

of long lost time

resurfaced in my

Coptic mind wrapped by the

ancient ones who now travel

through the layers of abandon

our Queens have risen to guide again

sun rays of Ra sail through the gates of gold

silenced we wade the paths of the faithful

three portals inviting to our souls

even in death there is danger

of us making the wrong choice

before we exit to

our homeland beyond

the binding ties

of judgment

swift feet

board

transition
Photo courtesy of Sue Vincent

for Jim Morrison

tall

stoic

silently

looking at me

with tears in their eyes they prayed to my crow

she flew into the clouds to fetch a ray

of old wisdom

the sisters

smiling

at

me

waving

gold spirit

pointing to the

north to stars and wonders ancient mothers

tending to their flock of wild night children

wind through their veins

kisses blown

angels

swoop

down

kiva

thunder roars

inside their wombs

with holy flesh of nations born of fire

and love traveling to the paradise

the mothers are

in the wind

quiet

strong

Picture courtesy of Sue’s Daily Echo Thursday Photo Prompt