When given nuances, they cried
out for bloody red meat, “Give us
bowels, hearts, brains and bones.
Give us a fountain of blood wrapped
up in flesh. We want to butcher and
gorge upon bloody red meat.”
“We will not receive your subtle gifts.
We will dissect them and find them
bloodless. Give us bloody red meat!”
He said, “Alright! Sacred cows must be
sacrificed to get what you want.” They
said, “What? Our sacred cows? Never!”
He said, “If it is bloody red meat that
you want, understand that our land is
cracked and dry from a lack of blood upon
our own shores. Yet, I will still deliver.”
When the sacred cows were slaughtered,
the people screamed and howled for their
losses. They said to him, “Yes, we wanted
bloody red meat, but we wanted it to be
taken from your skinny bones. He said,
“I am afraid that this will not be possible,
for you see… change has truly come.”
I cry out
As I stretch
it is bitten
by a viper;
A bloodied cross
Upon the ground
Drying in the
Encased scourged flesh
But for a moment…
Linens discarded in a
Rich man’s tomb.
On the third day,
He had arisen.
He was raised
By resurrection power
To receive His reward:
The nations of this world,
And the glory of
His matchless name.
Mourners (with their funeral fans in motion)
Fanned themselves so furiously that the ink
Comprising the face of Martin Luther King Jr.
Had begun to run down their banana-pudding-
Eating-elbows. Their pudgy fingers stained.
So… there he was, a stalwart man looking very
Stately in his white-satin-lined-bronze-toned coffin.
He wore the hat that had become his blues trademark.
She wore tawdry jewelry to the funeral. Feigned tears
Struggled across her face as she greeted the guests.
He looked at rest as only the truly debt- free can.
She looked the same way she looked a few years
Ago, when she buried her last husband. She had
Heavily-lidded cash register eyes. Sleep would
Eventually come, when the checks arrived in the mail.
Why, she could have thrown in a few ceremonial shovels
Of dirt, gotten her nails re-done, and still made it out to
The after hours blues club in her amazing wardrobe number;
A must have: a very, versatile, basic little black dress.
MOVING OUT OF THE LIGHT, RUNNERS
EMERGE THROUGH LANDMINES,MINDLESS.
DARKENED CYPRESS TREES
GIVE SHADE WHILE HARBORING
THE FRAGRANCE OF SWAMPLAND.
THE CYPRESS HAS BECOME A
HERO THAT WE MUST ALL ACKNOWLEDGE,
TOO SOON FORGET.
MIDDLE AGE HAS ITS FINER POINTS-
PUSHING PAST THE DEPRESSION,
I WANDER PAST A FRESHLY-PAINTED
FENCE- WHITE MARKS ON MY BACK.
SPARKS FLY LIKE DARK ANGELS
OUT OF THE CORNERS OF MY EYES;
I CANNOT SEE PAST
PERIPHERAL VISIONS DEEMED ORBITAL
STRETCH MARKS CRYING FROM NEWLY-
FILLED BREASTS. MILK DRIPPING IN
IMPATIENCE; WISDOM OF THE TONGUE
Alice Parris ( first published at Subtle Tea online ezine)