The Dead of Cairo and Poetry

Happy Friday! I hope you are having a good day. I can’t say the same for all the people of Cairo. If you haven’t heard, there are violent clashes right now between the military and the muslim brotherhood. I can’t do the situation justice here, but check out NPR for great coverage. Listening to NPR last night inspired this poem for the dead.

This poem is specially formatted. For best visuals, please read on a full size screen (aka get off your smart phone!)

Warning: Deals with death. While not graphic, it may be triggering for some. 

Sweet Trash

Death smells sickly sweet,

democratically for all.

the same perfume for humans,

     for fruit,

          for meat,

               and the wide eyed fish.

No air freshener will hide it,

        no perfume will overpower it.

                                                                         Death lingers in all air.

Do the garbage men of Cairo

         remember work as they smell

the dead?

         Do their hands feel dirty

not from flesh

         but yesterday’s trash?

Who will remember these faces?

Not their li

ng

er

ing

smell

but their lives: once full of

sweat and sugar,

blood and tobacco?

Or, will these memories

be forgotten,

faded       mental

trash?

Thanks for reading and I hope you have a fantastic weekend!

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Weekend Warriors Returns!

Hello!  I took a bit of a hiatus from Weekend Warriors, but I have returned 🙂 My Adam and Eve story will continue next week with the last installment.

You must write either 8 sentences or 150 word limit for poetry. Lots of great writers participate. You can check em out via ze button above.

For those who are new, I am continuing my story about Hagar and Ishmael in the Desert. For understanding the backstory, go here. For previous installments: Part onePart two, Part three and Part four

The memories of his short life came back to me. The first time he smiled, and I fell even more in love. The way his eyes widened in joy at riding a camel for the first time. Even when he was stubborn or sick, I couldn’t help but feel amazed at my son. Despite everything, I was blessed to be a part of creation, of such wondrous beginnings.

Fear crept in at the wondrous miracle of Sarai’s pregnancy. We all sang and danced for her joy, but I felt her eyes upon me. I had no words, only the cool dread in my blood, and my tightening gut.

 

Thoughts, feedback, always welcome! Also a self-portrait I did recently. I feel it echos Hagar’s self reflection through this piece

I love the vulnerability and obscurity in the light

A Break from Our Usual Broadcast…

Ahh Monday. The life of the underemployed means I don’t work on Mondays. Which…is sort of nice. But for those of you back to the grind: I’m sorry. I hope to be just as mopey about it soon.

I realized I have inundated y’all with short stories of late. Muses never promise continuity or similarity. But, I wanted to change it up a bit. So here’s a poem to start your week with.

Note: this was inspired by another work, by another artist. I take no credit for their piece. And you can find them both on HitRecord (seriously y’all, it’s free to join, and there’s AMAZING people there. Hop on the bandwagon!)

Softest Heart
Rating: G
Inspired by: http://www.hitrecord.org/records/1317515

Sometimes I miss
the things I left with
you: that soft red
shirt or my book of e.e.
cummings poetry. But
then I remember your
face when I said
goodbye: my man
of the woods
vanished that day,
your face thinned
into the finest glass.

I can hear your boys
telling you to get rid
of my things. Was it
wrong to leave them?
Perhaps. But, you
stood on the cusp
of breaking. Forgive
me? You always
said I had the
softest heart.