The screams would never jostle me awake.
Loud torrents of torment would lull me to sleep.
Mind over matter came with no consistency.
Games of pretend came and went…offering little tranquility.
My bed became a soft rock…providing little cover.
Wild words…a free for all.
Enough so that…I could understand the blues.
I only know of you in a few words.
Then I saw you…nothing changed, opinions did not obscure.
I have felt such as you did…all those decades ago.
Now, the music is gone, along with the singer.
Yet, a baritone voice…still lingers.
Still it calls.
Still hurt is heard.
Nina, what a mess they made of you.
Watching as the mighty dollar fell.
Not placing love over that which is un-glued.
I Wish I Knew How to Be Free
by Nina Simone
I wish I knew how
It would feel to be free
I wish I could break
All the chains holding me
I wish I could say
All the things that I should say
Say ’em loud say ’em clear
For the whole round world to hear
A struggle lost within the silence.
All these worn walls.
My breathing short and small.
Gated rooms await the fall.
seems impractical and obscene.
the aura that surrounds me,
Gifts given from characters in dark dreams.
as they once seemed.
There are some who say,
‘To hold silence is to have hands of gold.
To hold it just a prophecy,’
they have not listened for what stillness is not.
I have heard the quiet when it is not wanted.
In quickness of the fallen snow.
Under limbs where shine is not bestowed.
In the calm of madness…
When no one is home.
Well we’re gonna have to sit down and think it right through If we’re only human what more can we do….. Sometimes We Cry
worse off than me.
With the blessings, some days,
not so plain,
not so I can see.
I could pepper,
with education bought but barely learned.
Analogies in a recycled plastic bags.
Refuse or re-use philosophies in a well used…consignment store tag.
Everyday awakened by the winter-bird.
Aroused by spring lyrics…dramatic an absurd.
Some days, I am not the woman, I hoped to be.
Always an art form…
this thing called,
A lifelong practice in the effort given unto futility.
For the pursuit of…
the bitch in heat,
in need of neglecting.
Give us your
white picket fence in need of tending.
Give us your
it is in need of defending.
So many impassable highways.
a wonder it is…
that we still stand.
Notices of our past…dues.
Like flaxen locks of hair…
riddled with the blues.
There are no rainmakers in this lot.
No, to shadow dancing from broken stir-ups in back alleys.
No more heroes from low lying valleys.
There is a trick to walking without need for a crutch.
There is a treachery to the fire…when it no longer inspires us.