POEMS
un hand me - by Rawda Aljawhary
god as surgeon
he lifts clit’s hood—snips…
(my hand is lost
in the grip
of his two meaty ones:
i shook
his hand and
—good girl—
welcomed him
into our home
in thanks
for clipping the clits
of both my sisters.)
__________________________________________________
Remembering the Mosque - by Rawda Aljawhary
My cousin hangs,
his feet in the imam’s hand.
The imam brings down the stick--
again, again. Inescapable.
We who study Quran,
sit a solemn circle,
witness the familiar sight:
his upside-down face, red
eyes screwed shut,
mouth curled in grimace.
His feet cling,
curve taut over the imam’s forearm.
An odd plié, small toes point east
and west.
They were curving, brown pears.
He writhes in that hand.
What to do with knowledge
imparted in this house?
His bones jut under tanned skin
sharp green, laughing eyes count coins,
catch every gyp.
It is a storm, this surviving. He’d hold
a tomato like an apple--
bite, chew,
lunch.
__________________________________________________
The Fool – by Keighan Mcgoff
I know I’m foolish
The sun rays kick up my face
To join the birds
In flight—until
I crash in waves
Wondering when
The ground became so wet--
When down like rain
My voice wept
And swept up
The struggle that my dog feels
Trapped inside all day--
I’m not inside the day,
Rather
I’m perched beside it
And parched
Watching waves from
Where copper corals
Look like coin stacks
And “thingamabob” collections
Start me begging for my voice back.
***
_______________________________________________
COW - by Dana DeLise
my outstretched hand
to the chestnut cow, my friend
who squeezes fingers; I present a plate,
a small lumpy apple,
and that look in her eyes
shows she knows me;
the wind twirls lazily the crusted leaves;
I know, I
am home
________________________________________________
gemini – by Keighan Mcgoff
i am only a doll of myself. all
of my pieces are interchangeable,
they twist and lock and break
and snap
into new forms
i try to time the evolution
with thunderstorms
to both drown out the sobs and
feel at home.
the catharsis creeps me into
new faces
as the moon changes
phases.
the shadow of me escapes at night.
she searches for a rush
and loves getting burned,
says it makes her feel alive--
says she’s dead otherwise.
now it’s raining in my liver
and there’s lightening in my hands
all my words are
whispered winds
and there’s no place for them to land.
my sleeping body is at war.
i wake up with aches, pains, and bruises
from a battle well-fought
and 37 chains
swinging from the ceiling fan.
still i can hear her
calling out to me with a
condescending laughter,
pulling me closer and closer to the mirror.
the tempting
temptress in me,
attempting to flee--
again. and again
i let her
_______________________________________________
who is this – by Keighan Mcgoff
which alice
which jill
which pill
which phallus
which freud
which boy
which plane
which train
which dragons lair
which evening prayer
which long way home
which dreadful day
dazed comfort cone which
apple core which
not unknown which
rhyme which poem which
out of control-ish
which is which
which one is me
which “I” is right
which who has left
which when
when if
which split
which where
which switch--
where is
this switch?
***
______________________________________________
Again - by Ann F.
Ignorant to the risk of the imminent fall...again.
Hiding the heaviness,
with carefree movements,
and hopeful poise.
Three More Hours - by Dana DeLise
three more hours here
staring into your soul
trying to hide your gaping wounds
people don’t generally
want to see those things
too nasty
not meant to share
so, you cover up
put them
on the back burner
leave them to address another day
you must maintain your heart
the minimum you try
but it hurts every night
to change the dressings
taking care not to do
more damage
no, you can’t show them that
you must be strong
you
can’t allow yourself to wallow
you
can’t let them win
pull your hair into a knot
put on your nicest clothes
find your strongest voice
don’t let them see
that you have a heavy heart
while smiling
______________________________________________
What Is This Gift? - by Remona L. Farley
What is this thing?
Some give it a name - Love
But from what space and place does it come
Some say it comes from up above
Others say it is felt from the heart
Still many more say it hold us together, more than apart
Sometimes I desire it and at times I want none of it
Who said it is the best thing ever? Can you imagine it?
A Gift
That pains and scars the heart at times
Still more heals and fulfills lonesome lives
Often you can share it with others
It is plentiful, embracing and all fear it covers
But have you experienced this gift called Love?
Sometimes it makes me cry - people push and shove
As if there were not enough to go around -
From it arises numerous types of sounds
Even stillness, which rests in silence when love finally retreats
What is this thing? It most often arouses a heartbeat
Gives life to the weary, awakens the sleeper
And whispers comfort to the mourner:
Oh Love, arise, Give yourself to me.
Do not leave me a lonesome sojourner
With fluttering moods of jubilation and yet still echoes of sadness:
Oh, This Gift, Love - it takes me even when I'm not at my best
Accepting, Embracing, Sheltering and Covering
This Gift called Love... It's just so flustering
god as surgeon
he lifts clit’s hood—snips…
(my hand is lost
in the grip
of his two meaty ones:
i shook
his hand and
—good girl—
welcomed him
into our home
in thanks
for clipping the clits
of both my sisters.)
__________________________________________________
Remembering the Mosque - by Rawda Aljawhary
My cousin hangs,
his feet in the imam’s hand.
The imam brings down the stick--
again, again. Inescapable.
We who study Quran,
sit a solemn circle,
witness the familiar sight:
his upside-down face, red
eyes screwed shut,
mouth curled in grimace.
His feet cling,
curve taut over the imam’s forearm.
An odd plié, small toes point east
and west.
They were curving, brown pears.
He writhes in that hand.
What to do with knowledge
imparted in this house?
His bones jut under tanned skin
sharp green, laughing eyes count coins,
catch every gyp.
It is a storm, this surviving. He’d hold
a tomato like an apple--
bite, chew,
lunch.
__________________________________________________
The Fool – by Keighan Mcgoff
I know I’m foolish
The sun rays kick up my face
To join the birds
In flight—until
I crash in waves
Wondering when
The ground became so wet--
When down like rain
My voice wept
And swept up
The struggle that my dog feels
Trapped inside all day--
I’m not inside the day,
Rather
I’m perched beside it
And parched
Watching waves from
Where copper corals
Look like coin stacks
And “thingamabob” collections
Start me begging for my voice back.
***
_______________________________________________
COW - by Dana DeLise
my outstretched hand
to the chestnut cow, my friend
who squeezes fingers; I present a plate,
a small lumpy apple,
and that look in her eyes
shows she knows me;
the wind twirls lazily the crusted leaves;
I know, I
am home
________________________________________________
gemini – by Keighan Mcgoff
i am only a doll of myself. all
of my pieces are interchangeable,
they twist and lock and break
and snap
into new forms
i try to time the evolution
with thunderstorms
to both drown out the sobs and
feel at home.
the catharsis creeps me into
new faces
as the moon changes
phases.
the shadow of me escapes at night.
she searches for a rush
and loves getting burned,
says it makes her feel alive--
says she’s dead otherwise.
now it’s raining in my liver
and there’s lightening in my hands
all my words are
whispered winds
and there’s no place for them to land.
my sleeping body is at war.
i wake up with aches, pains, and bruises
from a battle well-fought
and 37 chains
swinging from the ceiling fan.
still i can hear her
calling out to me with a
condescending laughter,
pulling me closer and closer to the mirror.
the tempting
temptress in me,
attempting to flee--
again. and again
i let her
_______________________________________________
who is this – by Keighan Mcgoff
which alice
which jill
which pill
which phallus
which freud
which boy
which plane
which train
which dragons lair
which evening prayer
which long way home
which dreadful day
dazed comfort cone which
apple core which
not unknown which
rhyme which poem which
out of control-ish
which is which
which one is me
which “I” is right
which who has left
which when
when if
which split
which where
which switch--
where is
this switch?
***
______________________________________________
Again - by Ann F.
Ignorant to the risk of the imminent fall...again.
Hiding the heaviness,
with carefree movements,
and hopeful poise.
Three More Hours - by Dana DeLise
three more hours here
staring into your soul
trying to hide your gaping wounds
people don’t generally
want to see those things
too nasty
not meant to share
so, you cover up
put them
on the back burner
leave them to address another day
you must maintain your heart
the minimum you try
but it hurts every night
to change the dressings
taking care not to do
more damage
no, you can’t show them that
you must be strong
you
can’t allow yourself to wallow
you
can’t let them win
pull your hair into a knot
put on your nicest clothes
find your strongest voice
don’t let them see
that you have a heavy heart
while smiling
______________________________________________
What Is This Gift? - by Remona L. Farley
What is this thing?
Some give it a name - Love
But from what space and place does it come
Some say it comes from up above
Others say it is felt from the heart
Still many more say it hold us together, more than apart
Sometimes I desire it and at times I want none of it
Who said it is the best thing ever? Can you imagine it?
A Gift
That pains and scars the heart at times
Still more heals and fulfills lonesome lives
Often you can share it with others
It is plentiful, embracing and all fear it covers
But have you experienced this gift called Love?
Sometimes it makes me cry - people push and shove
As if there were not enough to go around -
From it arises numerous types of sounds
Even stillness, which rests in silence when love finally retreats
What is this thing? It most often arouses a heartbeat
Gives life to the weary, awakens the sleeper
And whispers comfort to the mourner:
Oh Love, arise, Give yourself to me.
Do not leave me a lonesome sojourner
With fluttering moods of jubilation and yet still echoes of sadness:
Oh, This Gift, Love - it takes me even when I'm not at my best
Accepting, Embracing, Sheltering and Covering
This Gift called Love... It's just so flustering
