A pot of boiling water
By Matt Bloom
@matthew_bloom
When you turn up the heat
To that of dynamite and a bee sting
Pouring it over the skin in anger
It cracks and flakes, sears like a stake
Is that hate?
Is it the water?
It’s the calculation
The tick tick of the clock
And the racing thoughts in the minutes
as the pan births bubbles
and beads of sweat drip drip
down your nose
Salty, evil drops of sweat
Born from whiskey losers
Do you turn off the flame once it bubbles?
Or leave it burning as you
Tiptoe up the stairs
As he sleeps with his lover
Where does the steam go?
It runs into the moldy ceiling tiles,
And through the roof and into the sky
I found an old brass button in my back yard.
It once adorned a Union soldier’s uniform,
And lay among the blades of grass almost a hundred and fifty years.
It waited patiently, finally to be discovered.
How many times had I stepped over it, or mowed past it, never to notice?
I had lived on the property for ten years, and there it lay the whole time,
But there it lay for all the previous years combined.
I picked it up to see the eagle still proudly spreading wings beneath the clustered bits of dirt,
And realized, I may have been the first to touch it
Since the soldier whose uniform it once embellished last pushed it into the button hole.
Likely, he had camped on this ground.
My house, over a hundred years old, was not standing then.
This hillside was likely pasture rolling up above the county courthouse.
They had burned this tiny town to the ground, left it in ruins,
And left anguished survivors to rebuild, and try again.
My mind envisioned the battle, gray and blue uniforms soaked in dark red blood,
Fierce screaming rage, gunshots echoing among the oaks, and bayonets stabbing.
America’s bloodiest war left almost seven hundred thousand dead,
And those who died were brothers and friends, family and neighbors.
Many sacrificed that others might have freedom previously deprived.
Could this one have lived to face another day, or did he die on the ground where I was standing?
Did his blood saturate this sod, and marry the red clay deep beneath my feet?
Was this button ripped off his jacket as his corpse was dragged away,
Or, did it merely fall unnoticed from thread worn thin?
If he survived, what wounds did he carry from this place,
Wounds that others could not see?
Did fitful nightmares of battle cries make him sweat through cotton sheets?
Did he startle, half from his skin, at the snap of a twig?
Did he sit alone and weep with guilt and remorse for those he loved who fell beside him,
Or did he grieve for those, once his countrymen, whom he had killed?
Did someone weep for him while watching his silent torment,
Or weep because he had never come home?
Only a guess is possible now.
As I held the button in my hand, I could not help but wonder, who last touched it,
And what was he like?
Where did he come from,
And where did he go?
Whoever he was, he swayed my heart, and made me think.
Without knowing I would ever live, much less come to stand in this place,
He touched me.
Whoever he was, he honored me that I could hold this small button in my hand,
And wipe the years of bitter dirt away
So it could shine again.
Wandering around, wondering how we allowed a bully and coward
To tweet from the top of a golden tower
And how a pow wow of cowboys can allow bomb showers to rain on the world’s most beautiful flowers by the hour
I will never scowl about a crowd that shouts aloud about the misuse of power
But I do frown down upon clowns only making sounds and not helping out
Think
Outside
The box
The ox
Is just an ox
And the plow…
Is the power
We all despise the crimes and lies that have defined our lives
But despite the plight
This is not the demise of our times
Open your eyes
Recognize the disguise that we’ve been hypnotized by
Don’t just cry and watch time fly
Let’s realize the signs that describe the size of the almighty prize
And let’s rise
Above the rest
We won’t be left just to protest like pests
Even as unwelcome guests
And amid the sting of our bruising flesh
We feel blessed to control our own lives and deaths
I know it’s hard to digest
But let it infect
Because the less we expect
The more we progress
So get up get dressed
And step up to the test
Help clean up this mess
We won’t just mingle
And speak the lingo
We’ll tie a string around our fingers
And let this single jingle’s ring linger…
Peace.
———
Peace, Unity, Freedom, United States of America, USA, Our Country, World Peace, Equality, Acceptance, Growth, Non violent protest, Protest, RiseUp, We The People, This land is our land
“……I will be an old lady one day and I will sit on that rock and when I see myself sitting there I see myself happy, with a smile on my face and I feel I have achieved something in this life. I did good and I look at you even if you are not there and say to you: You can be proud of me. This is how much I care for you. This is your effect on me….”
A conversation between a you and an old woman
Old woman !
Look at me: Young, Firm, Virile
My breasts are like pink tufted buds
on the spring azalea
My lips are like the flamingo’s breast –
pink, soft –
My mons – that secret place only we have
is warm, rich, enticing…….
My neck, long and supple
like Helen’s
My eyes are black, olive-round
My smile, would make Mona Lisa blush
with shame.
Old woman !
Were you ever so ?
Did you ever love ?
Did you know passion ?
Look at you……
Your skin droops
Your breasts sag
Your eyes are clouded
Your mons is dry.
Did you ever know love ?
Ah, my young beauty
Once I too was young and beautiful
Men looked at me with longing
I was the object of desire of many.
But two of these, I remember
even in my old age, I remember.
Tell me old woman,
Tell me of your love
Where are these men ?
Where is your love ?
Why do you sit here
on this rock
looking out to sea,
smiling but
alone
alone
My young beauty
I knew a man
who was my husband
I loved him
with my heart and my head
He was my all
I was complete with him
But then, I was destroyed
I found another man
I found I was not complete
I was missing a piece
This other man was my completion
my half.
Oh my young beauty
Oh my daughter
love is a splendid thing
but a dangerous one as well
Like a sword
you may use it to slay your enemies, or
you may handle it poorly
and injure yourself
Such is love
Of my husband I will tell you nothing
This is still too painful to me.
But of the other
Oh my daughter
may I sing to you
of him.
This was a man
older than I
intense as a bonfire
A man who was
unable to love
in half measures
A man who became my greatest love
my friend
my half
A man who once whispered to me
“Let me show you how I would love you”
And, my daughter, he did !
Do not blush
my child
when I tell you that I would see heaven several times in an evening
This was the intensity of the love we had
And more,
we spoke
we walked
we read
we worked
we laughed
we sang – although my daughter a donkey could sing better than he ! –
we read poetry
This man, my half, wrote me poems
from his heart
so much did he love me
But my dear grandmother !
You are alone
Where is this love of yours ?
Why is he not here ?
Is he dead ?
Did you lose him ?
How did you lose him ?
My daughter
Oh my child !
There are men who cannot love in half or quarter measures
he was one.
He frightened me so
He was always afraid I would push him away
even though I said
“I am not doing this”
He was
a strong man
But I watched as he dissolved
into mist
gone
I could no longer touch him
Did I leave him ?
Did he leave me ?
Oh my daughter
love is so fragile
so fragile
A bond that seems strong
can be shredded with a few words.
But my dear grandmother
Where is he ?
Tell me…..
My child,
look over your shoulder
He stands with me still
whispering into my ear
“I love you more than my life”
“I will never leave you”
But he is as a mist
Oh my daughter
My child
we are young but for a moment
We make decisions we think are good
Sometimes, they simply are
Sometimes, we make them without thinking
My child
you will blink and your youth will be gone.
You will be as am I,
here
on this rock
You will learn to love
And then will lose all
Have I made mistakes ?…
Old woman,
tell me your name….
My child
My great love called me many names
all I cannot repeat here
so much pain could it still cause
But Helen, Persephanie
Penelope
All these names he called me……
and others
Old woman !
These are my names !
The man I love calls me by these names
Who are you old woman ?
What are you ?
Neither the old nor the young woman knows:
Is this real ?
Is this a dream ?
Is there a chance ?
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