And you will get to enjoy poems like, Summer Days.
Summer Days
Mom used to spend a lot of the day on the phone
while dad was at work.
She would hold two fingers to
her lips and mimic smoking a cigarette.
That was our cue
to get in line,
and run through the home
looking for her pack.
While she was inside,
my sister and I would sometimes go swing,
or ride big-wheels on the porch,
listening to some really bad songs.
Mom usually kept the radio tuned to the local country station.
A poor family,
with a radio-intercom
and speaker in the wall of the porch.
At age five I stood in the living room.
having a bad day,
and threw the bible to the floor.
My aunt told me I shouldn't do that.
But I knew something wasn't right about that book.
At age 18, I found god,
and he told me that he loved me.
He was the only one besides my
girlfriend
that spilled their heart.
Later I realized that Jesus could not write the alphabet,
and the reason god only freed
was to enslave.
One afternoon mom slapped
the face of our cousin
because she attempted to kidnap my sister.
At least that was mom's story.
My cousin told her mother,
and our aunt showed up at the door
saying she wanted us to return her husband's gun.
But we knew she was going to whip mom, and mom knew it too.
Mom told us not to unlock the door.
Our aunt pleaded with us to open the door
saying she just wanted the gun.
I don't remember if there was 911 back then,
but no one made any calls.
Curious about the fascination
of frogs,
I had the opportunity to see a live
museum exhibit
when I was high.
The colors ran through them
as they sat on the twigs.
Years later
I saw them
on a shower curtain
standing with their hands on their waist,
and some leaping one another.
In the low
dark Minnesota swamps
they bellow in a hurry,
and loud as a whistle on each ear,
and the deer crossed the road in front of our cars,
and the ski-jump looked like the Seattle needle,
waiting for its winter gown.
Mama
wanted cigarettes
and tea,
dishes washed,
and her Pekingese taken out for a shit.
She never took well to criticism,
and I had finger prints
on my face to prove it.
She used to threaten to pack our
clothes and put them on the porch.
I would have been warm,
for she put us is in long sleeve shirts
during the hot Carolina Julys.
We used to sweat on our neighbor's crabapple tree,
and they knew mama
was crazy.
Her dog once ate its on shit,
to avoid being beaten.
The dog and all of us were alike,
always eating it for mama.
Jim CrestonPosted on 02-24-13
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Shout out to the Palestinians. I wrote this in 2002. The world is learning more every day of the persecution the Zionists put upon your people.
Chosen Ones
It's time to pick a new people.
I've seen yours,
who fence their neighbor hens,
and pick feathers from the rooster.
Your atrocities grow each day
while not calling them soldiers,
and labeling them as terrorists.
At early ages we
throw plastic hammers,
and gouge eyes with the arms of Barbie.
The blood of your people is spilled
and my culture colors it more
red than of any brother.
Your sheets on camera a brighter white,
and ambulances louder
than the plucked rooster with cut
beak cut, which can not feed.
Pinned in the crib,
with a mobile that spins 5 Stars-of-David,
you offer pacifiers with the
taste of their own blood,
and wonder why they
toss out the plastic keys
which have not locks.
Today,
new shots from your lens,
painting
a sea of red on black-tops,
against your cucumber-green.
Terrorism!
Big green Israeli frog
croaking with your Adam's-fig,
wearing a heavy-jeweled crown,
bellowing,
bellowing,
decade after decade
you can't exist,
because everyone wants your oasis,
your olive swamp,
your tadpoles,
yet you eat anything that moves.
In their play-lot they are making for war,
sticks, rocks,
nails, fuses,
black powder.
Now David is the giant
and if he doesn't wake soon
he may die in his night-sleep.
We are waking from your lullaby-story.
I am not your enemy,
but no longer will I be your political arm-rest.
© Jim Creston
Posted on 02-27-13
My e-Book, Don’t Swallow The Toothpaste, is released in .pdf form. 78 pages of contemporary and confessional poetry from the eyes of childhood through adult life. As often found with confessional poetry there will be some anger, a lot of questions and humor.
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