Until I Write

She was an early bloomer, all my sisters bloomed in spring but

not I, my petals didnt unfold til 'around sixteen, but I learned
at an early six that a flat chest didnt prevent...everything.

He said that I'm a conversational poet, noted that the wickedness
comes out when I write. Well, "better out than in" I'd say.

He thought church would change this need to regurgitate words.
I said its the church thats within, and in the light the
wickedness takes it shape, dances like dust bunnys on beams
of sunlight, glinting off the golden emboss on hymn books,
shined on the tousled hair of rosie cheeked slumber that dreamed
of cruxifictions, while pillowed on a thick pew thigh that
smelled of true pot luck Kentucky fried chicken. 

Knee length daisy cotton that would shift position to let
that head fall onto the holy book.

 Kitchens would be waiting warm with mashed potatoes,

 turnips plates and warnings of starving children in faraway places.

Piglets would be unthawed in the oven, blanketed and somehow
still breathing after being rejected by grunting mothers in
the frozen sunday dawn, Lord only knows how the squeals
would penetrate the heavens with the fervor of the ever
expanding universe, and did one wonder what the Universe
expanded into, did memories and dreams live there and
where they pushed over the Columbus edge till yanked back
by the living from the spilled cup of the black abyss?

Do they trace the edges of all that ever was like little
row boats of moments wasted, like little pigs in a blanket
barely a breath to spare, struggling to live only to become
breakfast ham or seasoning for slaughter?

He said once, that this is all there is, I can't believe in that.
There has to be more than eating, remembering or barely breathing.
There has to be more than a clean plate or starving childen,
more for the piglets and chickens that give their lives for good
Christians that run their cold fingers up a childs bird legged
innocence.

Maybe it is wickedness that comes out in my writes, or maybe
it's just the truth thats wicked, we don't want to know the
things that are ugly, ugly things don't like to be seen.

I still love the smell of coffee in the early air, I still
think of piglets on Sunday morns, I still eat bacon and I don't
look at the ugly things...anymore...until I write, I endure.

Reviews

[Chris]

Damn, THAT was good! You caught me right where I needed it - behind my eyes. Memories and thoughts.

[Corset]

giggles, I was just writing a story on your poem, great minds and cats ..

[Corset]

Thank you!!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this is amazing, Corset...one of my favorites from you...
there are so many themes in this that speak to me...one is the abuse of children by people of the church...another is the true fact that God isn't necessarily in a building one day a week but should be within us all the time in how we live our lives and treat others...
the reminiscence of childhood...and some of the things we learned were not so good and we got away from them...and some of those things that we still do, because they never lost their luster as we grew old...
and yes, poetry, writing...that is when we let it out...that is when we give meaning to our existence as poets...there is more than just doing what sustains our physical being...
j.

[Corset]

I couldn't have asked for a better response to this J. Thank you for you eloquent comments, always.
C.