Poetry: The Crowd, The Slaughter

Here are two more poems I wrote: One about a Montreal Crowds and Dining, the other about a fight.

The Crowd

This crowd is for the night that has always been
The laughing, the rehashing, the baudy tales
The street is full of people celebrating and corroborating
An evening with each other, a secret beneath the warm copper tinged sky
A chance of mayhem, a hint of all that wine
The secret blood red thirst that quenches with pale yellow bubbles too
And between all of them sit me and you
A quite yellow garden evening neath the setting of the sun
Among bites of roasted chicken in gravy and thyme sauce
Admist margarita pizza the cheese deliciously oozing with tomato sauce
We sip our wine bite by bite, wait to feel the breeze die down
Into the heat and penetration of the afternoon sun
Hearing all the conversations of every couple and every group
We listen to the silences between all that noise
The voices excitedly speaking around us pale in comparison
To the peace and prayer within that yellow garden
With green plants sitting, dripping down a clay cracked pot
After each bite we rest, after pizza, salad, and roast chicken
Savour every bite as if to say this is my last meal I am complete
But then drowns in every noise, the cop cars, the ambulances
The hum of every voice within a block or 3 or 4
Of Eateries and restaurants, foods, you cannot fathom
And foods that are your favorite
Chicken salad- grapes, oranges, toasted almonds, balsamic vinegrette
Ovan grilled chicken and Parmesan, the melt of goat cheese in a mouthful
Poutine and cheese melted in Gravy, a sangria to forget the fat
A crisp glass of water, a cold round glass of beer
These are the tastes we experience here
In a moment in time, as a week flashes by, and we retire to sleep
Walking miles and miles among the people all here to celebrate
The evening, the heat, the breeze, their life, their food, their appetite
The crowd is for everyone, we are the crowd, the spaces inbetween
Filling our place in this time in life, and a boat flies through the water
Catching the St. Lawrence current, to take us to the food, the fire
Collapsing in a cozy bed – vacation time is over again.

The Slaughter

It’s a an ache along my hairline, beating in my temples
A sullen, moody morning overcast into the bright green leaf day
Your words the knife that slices, the bread loaf piece by piece
Hard like cement, there is no boring holes into your logic
Although it is not sound, and the point of it is off
The bread loaf as rock must be sawed to get a piece off
It is not fit to eat a gum scrapping mouthful
Your words are the splinters of dots behind the lids of eyes in pain
One little thing sets you off, and then you are gone, a viciousness opening before me
Words you say meant in love, delivered blow by skull crunching blow
I cannot read minds, and I had so much to do, to have you ruin today
Whatever this is, it’s all about you and I’m tired of waiting
Hovering by the nearest escape, until you suddenly transform
A beast, a bear, who cannot have his way, and I won’t be your donkey to beat
I will leave and you and I will taste regret, but I’ll be free and I will breath in the fresh air
A heart beating wildly, balanced on the blades edge, but living free
Perhaps, the time has come, for the cuckoo to fly away,
To be poor, bored, and just let myself be a stupid disabled girl
I hear water splashing, the sound behind your droning,
Dishes, dishes, what is it with you and dishes
And you would take my spot as if I would take your office
My place to work to write, to design my gifts to God in peace
But here I am empty handed you have stolen something from me
It is something every little girl feels in her daddies arms, safe and secure
That sense that where her daddy is he can be trusted and she will be okay
Now I see the imperfect human being, the one who cannot be whispered secrets
Now I see the one who makes his sister an insult
“Don’t you ever be like her,”the unspoken message of her flaws.
But she does not have her full health either, who knows what part of her is sick and what part of her plays the spoiled child.
And I cannot meet your expectations, and you do not say it, but you compare me to her
It alters your detestable ego, so you say these hurtful words
And makes you not understand the words ” All I Can Do Is Try!”
It’s like shooting butterflies, a tragedy unfolded every time you pop a wing
A difficult thing to do to hurt something that tried so hard to build bold flappers
To glide amongst the nature so plush and carnivorous, only to be shot
You drone on and on, your ode to you
Expecting miracles from little birds, whose wings have been cut
There is no unfurling, no “rowing your feathers… home” and living (Dickinson).
Being so alive that you could see a butterfly tear
Broken wings don’t make for flying high and soaring.
But you don’t understand what it is – that your expectations are mere frivolities.