| To
Protect And Serve (Whom?)
By Marcus Harris
You
seem familiar:
The rope used to be your weapon of choice,
but now you prefer bullets more,
and instead of harassing in my own neighborhood
you slyly wait until I’m driving through yours . . .
I
recognize you:
You used to beat me whenever you felt so moved –
claiming it was to “keep me in my place” –
but now you smugly claim that I deserved it because
“I was resisting,” not because of my race . . .
We
go way back:
I mean, you wear a badge now, trying
to be more discreet –
but I remember when you used to
wear a sheet.
phenomenon
By Marcus Harris
with
a coy
curl of her lips she coaxes
the sun
to rise, then casts
a shadow
in
his light which brings
night
to
half the globe, spending entire
days playfully trapping
the wind in her teeth while
wrestling thunderbolts to the ground,
the song of her laugh
making
the angels
quiver
in
envy as they helplessly watch
her
stroll casually across the earth leaving
canyons in her wake,
and as the
encroaching darkness which
slowly swallows each day
softly serenades her she
closes
her eyes, graciously
allowing
the stars to borrow their shine,
then
slumbers virginally with
the
moon resting contently in
a thin silver boat
atop her navel.
Life
Imitates ...
By Marcus Harris
I
once
dreamt
of your kiss -
suddenly
awaking
to
the relentless rays of dawn,
reveling
in the same glow
shared
by the mute,
trembling
earth.
Painted Smiles
By Marcus Harris
(Mama Knows Best . . . ?)
She greeted them, those young,
(as yet) innocent souls,
each morning with the
practiced embrace of mended limbs,
which spoke little to trauma
unmerited – yet promised and delivered –
from the same heavy hand
that softly stroked them
while they
sweetly slept . . .
they could never tell that the
custom cadence of her laugh
was forged
for the sake of
muted tears,
and
they would never know that the
patterned whispers of her walk
mirrored a soul
that had likewise deftly
disappeared –
but, still
she greeted them, those young,
(as yet) innocent souls,
each morning with
cereal and painted smiles,
which masked a pallor
familiarly faded, yet
a well-orchestrated
perpetration of a life
devoid of terror
and shame . . .
while the truth, they would come to learn,
always seemed to hide
somewhere deep within
her sigh. |
