Philosophers’ Portal

Philosophers’ Portal

Snapshots

I wish it would rain

I wish it would rain...
there are times when u wonder whether if peace
is not the oscillating rhythm
of highs and lows
but really untempestous, unchanging.

Peice by piece
theres more of u
u wish was left undiscovered
for a later time,
when ready u would be
to step out and step up.

but then again...
i wish it would rain.
For the land, cracked as it is,
thirsty for every drop;
theres a cracked soul within,
that reaches out to knowledge,
while it strives for resilience...
to bear it.

A poor woman, my modesty

Where is the roof that shelters me
The man that wishes to uphold my honor
Where the family, its sanctity
The love and its fecundity,
Its ardor

The cracked cement that is my mattress,
The news of yesterday my quilt,
Much warmth and comfort have I,
All that, poverty, my mistress
Brings, is guilt.

Feigning sleep I shudder inwardly,
A car and a truck stop advertently,
I close my eyes tight, brace myself,
A net falls over,
I hear the shuffle of feet.

Trapped, I kick
Hit soft flesh
A little girl child, I kicked
Its only a blanket, fresh.

She retreats, I look wildly
Clutch what she with covered me
Familiar obscenities rail at me,
As a truck driver cusses me
I turn to see a fleeing figure.

Back in the warmth of her car
Her people there to comfort her,
She gloats over the charity she met out
With a blanket she aint bought.

Its cold, all ice
A Canadian winter
Imagine I hither
In the comfort of my room
The misery and the gloom
Of that modest woman
the girl child am
I, grown now, a woman,
I see femininity bartered and slandered
Every body has a price.

My heart does not fear

My heart does not fear the break of day anymore. It is as though the bottom cannot cave in any further. For to sink there must be a cavity within my bosom, that which is filled by the love of day. The blue after the inky black of the night yonder dissolves away into the white clouds. The bird chirrups in its warm nest protected against the arctic winds that blow the snow over it. Here with my book open to Paradise Lost I may as well hope to revive Milton from his grave. Perhaps after opening his eyes to this new day he might rest peacefully in his grave, back in to the heavens were his place everlasting is, for he enlightened man with his wise word well wrought.

We cover what we see everyday

The cloth covers the body
The shroud covers the dead
We must escape
What we see everyday.

Sharp smell tickles the nostrils
Suds of soap stick to my wet, clinging, tattered coverings
Me beating the dirt and grime out of rich attire
Wondering whose blood it is on the cuffs of my master's shirt

Battered thread-bare shrouds
Cloth brown, once white
groveling bloody wounds
leave their mark.

A spurned cur, a mongrel
Howls in the distance
The watchdog of the estate
Rids it of the grime
The grime that we are both made of
Poverty.