Monday, December 15, 2008

jeff pancer

Junta Johnson
That polecat from the Texas plains
Can't wash out those bloody stains
That Dallas day in '63
And the phony inquiry
He gave the warlords what they want
With a Gulf of Tonken
Tens of thousands died in vain
For a cause that was insane
Landslide Lyndon was his name
Go back under whence you came.

When Moses split the sea in two
He made me proud to be a Jew
And when the tablets he did raise
He once again did earn my praise
A shepherd's staff could serve the Lord
When we were under Pharaoh's sword
But times have changed within my world
As actors views become unfurled
And so he's chucked that cosmic way
To sell guns for the NRA.

The desperate trees have no place to go
But true to their nature, their feelings don't show
The cows are now grazing, which suits me just fine
But too many people have no place to dine
Diverting the water was also a coup
What salty solution did they leave for you
This menu we've chosen
To kill and be killed
Who pays for the damage
Our children are billed.

Jew With A Cross
While struggling with financial woes
I stood before a baby's clothes
Exhalted then and through the years
Could this tot assuage my fears
A voice inside directed me
From this scene nativity
To buy a cross and wear it proud
Though it would make some furrow browed
The Lord explained with language terse
What Jesus suffered was much worse.

shaunte pasley

Faith; the size of a mustard seed part 1

At the age of nine, living was the least thing I looked forward to on a daily basis. My biological mother gave my sister and me up for an adoption because she didn’t want us anymore. I felt angry because of that and was willing to kill myself if things didn’t work out. “When you kill yourself, Hell is where you will open your eyes,” said the woman that took custody over us. I didn’t want to go to hell because I didn’t want to see the devil and plus I didn’t want to see her (my new mother) neither. I told my sister that because the woman was mean, she was going to hell for beating us for no reason. My sister agreed that she would not be in hell with that mean old lady. I grew closer to my older and only sister when we were taken away from our birth mother. I didn’t want to lose another person I really cared about. I was nine and my sister was ten. We were young in the game and didn’t know how to react to such violence so we didn’t.

It was a stormy afternoon, and every second the lightening would strike a sharp light towards our house. Following behind the lightening, would be a loud roll of thunder. Our house vibrated because of the harsh thunder. I sat in the attic crouched in the corner. Momma (my new mother) had once again locked me into the attic for no apparent reason. All I had was a pot to piss in and a book to read. Being locked in the attic was like a nightmare that unfortunately came true. The attic was dark and smelly with a portion of light that came from a small window that led to the roof of our house. I could see various insects crawling around on the walls and by me.

“Get your butt in that room!” I heard momma yelling at my sister Brendies. My momma always abused my sister and me. Just standing by her, would result in momma hitting one of us. I hated living in that house everyday. I had fantasies of running away to a land unknown to men where I could be “free,” as some people would call it. As I sat in the dark and smelly attic, I reflected back when my biological mother had custody of us. I never dreamed that such a monster would adopt us. Monster was a term I used throughout my years of staying with my new guardian. I called her what I thought of her which was a monster.

I could still hear my mother’s soft voice when she said, “Remember to seek ye first, the kingdom of heaven and God will direct your path.” Forgetting that bible verse would be as if I forgot about my birth mother. I hated the fact that momma was on drugs and released her anger out on us by leaving us. Rocking back and forth in the attic, I started to cry. I cried tears of hatred, tears of anger, and tears of joy all at the same time. I was hungry and confused ready to kill myself any minute. I didn’t know how to adapt to an environment so terrible. Besides, I was only nine years old. I heard loud footsteps coming up the stairs to the attic. “BOOM . . . BOOM!!!” went someone’s feet. Out of fear, my heart pounded ready to jump right from my chest- splattering its-self on the ground.

Then . . . then . . . then . . . the door came flying open with great force. “Get up!!” said my mother as she marched towards me with a long horsewhip. “Get your butt up right now!” As I stumbled to my feet, she drew back her hand and swung the whip towards me causing the whip to go across my face. All you could hear was the whip forcing its-self into my skin. I stumbled once more and then fell. Holding my face and looking up, I said, “Momma please spare my life” Momma raised that whip once more and repeatedly hit my body with it. I found myself rolling all on the floor trying to avoid those painful gashes. The pain felt like someone had taken an ice pick and stabbed me constantly all over and I never died. At this moment, I was seeking death but didn’t find it. As she beat me for what I thought was an hour, I heard her breathing extremely hard. She had stopped. I guess she was tired. “Now get up and go to your room,” She said. I could see that I was lying in a puddle full of blood.

I could barley get up but I did. As I walked, my footsteps caused my whip gashes to sting. I felt the need to cry but nothing came from my eyes. As I walked down the stairs, I skipped a step and fell. I couldn’t afford to fall especially while in the situation that I was in. Finally making it to my room, I changed into some dry clothes because the others were wet with blood. I could still hear that it was storming outside. I walked to my window and looked into the sky. I then opened it because I was happy to be back in my room. Momma had gone into her room too. She was in the process of smoking weed. My sister and I knew that every time she went onto her room; she was smoking or shooting up. “God you know my heart. I am tired of this” I discussed my problems with my Lord. “Shut the hell up in there!” I heard mother yelling to me from out her room. I was quiet because I didn’t want her to beat me anymore.

My skin was stinging. I knew I couldn’t take the pain so I prayed. I prayed out loud. You see, momma didn’t believe in a God so when she heard us talking about him, she would hit us. I knew mother would beat me some more on the outside if she heard me talking about him. I found that situation so ironic because she knew that I would go to hell if I tried to kill myself yet, she didn’t believe in God. “How ignorant,” I said to myself. Soon my pain was decreasing. I was on my way to the bathroom to get some alcohol for my whips. As I neared the bathroom, the house lit up from the lightening and then shook because of the thunder. I was scared so I by passed the bathroom and went into my sister room. I found Brendies sitting on her bed reading. “Dang Tay, what did she do to you?” my sister looked at my body as if she was looking at someone dead. “You didn’t hear? She beat me while I was in the attic,” I responded back. “Momma would have never hurt us like this,” said Dee. “Do you need help putting alcohol on?” My sister asked because she was concerned. “Sure let me go and get it,” I said. I got the alcohol and took it to my sister. While she rubbed the alcohol on me, I couldn’t help but jump because it burned really bad. Suddenly, I heard momma calling for us. “Shaunte`. . . Brendies”. She sounded angry. My sister’s door flung open. I was lucky I wasn’t by the door or I would have been knocked unconscious.
Then all of a sudden . . . To be continued


On frozen nights, your heat
steals my conversation
and turns it into condensation -
once it covers us, I cannot form it anew,
stanzas becoming drops of sweat
that slip from me to you
with the challenges unmet.
Impossible to capture them
and bend them to my will again,
so what will they become
beneath the fire of your sun?
Dear words, Dire words,
Fear and fresh Desire words
were once my sole possessions;
now they bloom as indiscretions
and nocturnal perfection.
I make no true impression
but for my expressions,
so I'll write my next masterpiece
with kisses and caresses,
moments of release
acting as the printing presses.
Your clavicle will be the place
for pencil shavings and false starts;
I may not find the time to erase
the inkblot that marred the heart
lying beneath the parchment skin.
But the seven slightly injurious sins
tempt our poetry into pornography
and I'll make the somber stanzas rest
form-fitting on your naked chest.
The metal armor of epics shine
with tattoos of tricep triolets;
I'll watch as free verses intertwined
replace your swirling fingerprints and
odes glimmer on your golden brow.
Sonnets on cheekbones wash off now
like whore makeup on Halloween,
yet idylls stay to line your eyes
while hopeful smiles internecine
paint crude limericks on your lips
and haikus scrawled across your hips
seem to beg for kisses and soft bites.
The poesy of sybaritic nights
cannot be written while my words are dying;
but, my boy, we will have such fun trying!

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...