It is like fresh flowers

Lovingly placed in a vase,

 

Like free art for an otherwise

Dull, dreary wall,

 

Like a Japanese garden

Raked with care around

 

Carefully situated stones, like

A blues riff on a saxophone –

 

It is placed where crime, grit and poverty

Raise up like Medusa’s snaky locks in

 

Untold ways in seedy tenements where

Things are spawned every which way but up.

.

Graffiti brightens gray steel slabs

On trains and walls in otherwise

 

Sad-faced neighborhoods,

Rides in like a hero, a

 

Savior of those stepped on by

Capitalist dreams and Horatio Alger

 

Nightmares.  Here’s where raucous blue swirls

With red and black out-lined John and Jane Doe figures,

 

Stylized gang tag signatures, yellow and green

And purple geometric strokes create a

 

Most glorious song of the dead rising

From the ashes.




                            — Stephen Anderson




(© Stephen Anderson, 2008)

Of all of those in the park, only

The rosy-cheeked, disheveled woman saw the

Poltergeists weave under and

Around the monumental park arch, so much

So that she dropped her plastic bag

Filled with everything she owned

And cherished, thereby setting her

Hands free to applaud them as they

Set about in their anarchistic abandon

Magically whirling debris with whistling sounds,

Creating traces of colored lines that were

Utterly magnificent for this lone observer

To behold.  What a shame – she thought –

That she must relish in this free performance

Art alone.  And how blessed she considered herself

That only she could enjoy such a gift in her

Own dusty, litter-strewn amusement park while

Others there could content themselves with just

Simply staring at her.

 

                                              —Stephen L. Anderson

 

[appeared in The Silent Tango of Dreams published by Pudding House Publications,

©2006]

am i paper?
am i pen?
no- a voice somewhere hidden,
sadly buried.

i stumble through disabled doors
because i am.
i speak only to paper
i'm sleeping with a pen.

you do not hear this voice;
it has neither mouth nor tongue.
a crippled pin-pricked mute i lay-
disfigured, impaired.

am i paper?
am i pen?
no- a voice somewhere hidden,
sadly buried.
my typewriter and i
are engaged to be married.

this is the language of isolation.

can you hear me?   © 2009 Hester O'Donnell (don't mess with my muse.)

 i'm sorry.
i just don't feel very pretty today.

you can hang me up to dry-
another towel on the rack
dripping, sputtering, swaying heavily.

i saw the scrawl
on the garage
that marks our acquaintance
as the world spins on and on.

you'd think i'd be flung into nothingness-
i'm so detached!

i'm so serious
i could scream the door to pieces,
or pull my insides straight
like an arrow to pierce your heart.

i collect the hurting-
store it in jars;
flowers look so pretty in a tortured world.

painted cookies, pastel sweets
spread out
on a plate-
such charming vile treats.
i cannot eat this sick food;
my stomach hates me!

i have a whole cake in my veins.
too sweet.
too perfect.

my doll sits prettily upon the dresser.
lift up her skirt to see
knotty cotton legs-
stubs of nothing spun
round and upside-down.

plastic eyes click shut.

as published in 'the wisconsin review' © 2009 Hester O'Donnell (don't mess with my muse.)  

Imagine

heading

east
of red

south
of green

west
of black

north
 of blue

to
kindle

a child
into

flame

She
He
break
images
of themselves
that no
longer open
to the unknown

                   any given moment


   matters

roots
         stems        
                 and overflows    

                  the pale horse
   on fire
              and the water
too

      matters

                        

F 16s
and biplanes soar

but
in the lulls

between
the roars
 
the clouds
keep on

performing

Poets! Let your words melt your heart,
let love overflow like a tidal wave
nothing can stop.  Not bullets, not bombs
--deftly deflected by guardian angels
whose patens under each word they annunciate
also come in handy as aikido pingpongpaddles.
Poets, archangels of fleshy consciousness,
apprentices to sparrows, acolytes of love,
lovelights of the sublime, martyrs of
the "real world" that demands work & rent,
take us away aboard the wild pegasus stallion of the tongue!

To your world of darkness, engraved in pain,
Tattooed to my flesh, where all have sustained,
Will no longer remain, I have changed myself,
With new-found glory, where my frozen heart melts,
And the inside that feels, rips through to the skin,
Polishes my hope, causing beauty within,
No more will I serve, we have no common bond,
I’ve been your friend for too long, it’s been way too long/

And to your world, I shall be a slave no more

The social temptation, poisoning with alcohol,
Bloodshot the eye, forcing my body to fall,
A senseless brain, no longer in control,
Breathes into the lungs dark clouds of smoke,
That cancers my health, born pure to begin with,
Deceiving of self, leaving behind an imprint,
Now I must heal and be born-again,
To not be defeated, by you, never again/

And to your world, I shall be a slave no more

Negative messages drums patterns in my head,
Poisoning my ears, leaves me forever dead,
Blurry images, disturbing to my soul,
I cashed all out, my heart has been sold,
Stir of echoes, tear gas my rendition,
TV screens, tubes up my inner-vision,
This bestiality is not an animation,
Displaying molestation and abomination/

And to your world, I shall be a slave no more

The power and greed, that your world feeds,
Demoralize intelligence, suffocating me,
With bribery, convincing me to fear,
To think like you think, unbalancing the scale,
Breaking down my confidence, to follow your tradition,
Materialize my being, in deep manipulation,
Causing a stumbling block in my path,
That forces injustice, oppressing me at last/

And to your world, I shall be a slave no more


The road to destruction, of fire and brimstone,
Burns heavy on the skin that melts to the bones,
I’ve followed my lust, cheating my happiness,
Turning this flesh into ashes and dust,
Powerless, as he stands proud with a pitchfork,
Overruled, we now live life by the horns,
Tormented and beaten, his empire reigns,
We are all slaves, depends to which life we enslave/

And to your world, I shall be a slave no more