We Are Here!

This poem is a result of parenting two children and attempting social consciousness. Inspired by Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss this is an interpretation of the outcry of those who crave justice, help, and awareness: We are Here! as performed at Zed's Cafe December 5, 2014.

We are here!
We are here!
We are here!
Small voices cry out from

a pebble carried by one hand

connected to a jewel encrusted head

its shallow body

jauntily costumed in Lady Justice’s robe

lackadaisical with the scales

that tilt and sway with whimsy
The blindfold a flimsy gauze
Vision affects reason

We are here!
We are here!
We are here!
The pebble falls from the quaking measure
Onto a neon floor
Stomped on by a

free thousand dollar

heel glittering ruby and tall

reminding the masses

of what it means to yearn.
The voices falter

drift in the wind
until inhaled, shot up, by a lone figure

standing gray bleak, shivering cold
Out of place in a technicolor world

confused by pleading voices

just wanting to be known.

We are here!
We are here!
We are her!
We are him!
We are you!
And I! and us! and them! and
We are here!
The figure takes his brush
paints the words
on sidewalks, skyscrapers
rooftops, railroads
trains, taverns

only to be seen as

pollution and visual noise to be
ignored. Until a picture is taken
and shared and quoted and tweeted.
Until the owner of the glittery shoe
Stops and says, "Guys. This is serious. They are here."
Until the swaying scales tilt so far they break and ruin and a small chip reminds the owner of the rock it once carried.
Until the bleak and lonesome becomes a fascinating celebrity recluse.
Only then it is known
that We are here.
Then, when the
proclamation is cried
through out the world
everyone knows
We are here and heard,
will the listeners stop
to question what
it means when
voices cry out
We are here?

If not, the voices will fade.

A chick will snicker and roll her eyes

at a girl with the charm

stamped with the reminder

We Are Here!

cause that was so last year.

The cries will become displeasing,

old, and worn.

Then, years later when the we are gone, someone will whisper

Remember when?

We are here!

We are here!

We are here!

Now.

Obit

Paper creased down
so only her face, her story,
her left loves
were the soybean
sulfur characters
embalmed in paraffin
to be seen and copied
by a blinding light and
easily jammed paper

As Figurative Bob
(the imaginary character with wiry comb-over hair and stretched, tucked in, missed-a-button-down over his pregnant paunch--the sad reminder that these are not his glory days--produced to represent stereotypical cliched corporate structure as comfort in times of non-concrete circumstances)
references
the other Bob[Marley] with a
silky chuckle and reggae tune[again and currently unaware of the irony behind the "jammin'"]

I shut up his sing-song voice with a blink and a shake of my head

and considered the life
on the other side
of the folded
ignored by us
but copied and mourned by other
lost loves and words we would never know or care to
not out of lack of empathy, but by the inability
to soak up every loss and make it our own
too many characters clutter plot lines

I considered my world
words, all words
and names (God, to be named and owned)
the beginning was the Word
we end in words
stories told
printed voices
the ink of our obituaries
fade, haunt the archives
as swimming souls dressed as microfiche  
just words and the sentences
for we are not built to last Here
no guaranteed extended warranty
on our parts, hearts, mentalities
only in
stories drenched in hyperbolic
kind falsehood truths
do we remain
so pass us down honestly
our words
our worlds
make us legends

Recognition

My voice scattered 

among your ash

your charred bones

my brittle sound

entangled

Indistinguishable
Fragments

Even my fingers

wrapped around a 

kind shovel

initials SH

worn thin and deep
into the barrel

are heavy, soaked[in a]
sorrow drawn marinade-- 

How now, dear maddening prologue,

did you come to be 

recurring through later chapters? 

The Objection

They look at me
whisper/wonder
Sweet, so sweet.

the label, a concrete slab gripping my feet. 

Sweet. I drown. gulp for air
under the tides of assumption (crashing interruptions and denials of my corruption)

that I am a Rose, thorns stripped away by society's hand

When, really, I am just a dandelion in disguise. 

but all they see are these wide green eyes.
as my truth scatters away in the wind
leaving me chagrined,
bald stem, with unwanted roots.

The Caution of the Implusive

I do not dare

dig with my pen in winter when

seeds of saplings nest and hide

in a heartless hearth yet hoping 

and it's too dim for ideas to breathe

under the care of my cynical thumb 

Except,

Two unruly rosebushes wild; admired  

by impulsive gardeners

daring belief in sweet golden light

everything'd be just fine, just right. 

No, I do not dare (Not often anyway)