The Most Beautiful Bird

Traveling-in-the-Sunflowers

The most beautiful bird
in the whole, wide world-
for beauty is in the heart of the beholder,
the bravest of them all,
powerhouse behind the scenes,
the one with the largest role
and the greatest burden,
whose praises are too many,
too heavy for my lips,
is the vulture.

They put the unwanted in their bodies,
decaying, dying carcasses,
the excruciatingly repulsive,
with odours so bad they sting-
pinching the nose, mouth and throat;
they take the defenceless unburied,
and make them theirs forever,
desiring them,
keeping them,

crowning the untouchables in themselves.

They prevent the spread of diseases,
cleaners and healers,
eating the painful past away
as we welcome the future,
the keepers of the flame

when the fire is long gone,
proving again and again
that no one and no thing is a waste,
even in their lowest states.

Vultures give the purest love
but they never receive the same,
seldom appreciated,
as they constantly save the living
and quietly serve the dead.

Oh, to be half as graceful and strong as the vulture!
Oh, to be as willing!
Oh, to be as brave!
Oh, to be as good!

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_______________________

Vulture Spirit

“What seems hideous has its own beauty, and the recycling and repurposing the vulture does is as important as any other activity in nature that supports the cycle of life. Vulture Spirit’s message is that nothing is to be wasted, for Nature sees value in everything that exists. What seems rotten and ugly has the potential to be transmuted into something beneficial, and you are reminded that any suffering you have experienced has not gone to waste. Wisdom and understanding that arose from the experience are talismans that will serve you on your journey wherever you go. What is decaying is only changing form and will fertilize seeds you wish to plant, turning that which has passed away into the substance that will support new growth. All that you might wish to deny or discard has value and can be repurposed and reintegrated into the new you that you are becoming and the new life that you are dreaming into being. No pain was in vain and no experience was wasted, for you have the power to use it to co-create something far better. This is the miracle in your partnership with Spirit.”
– Colette Baron-Reid

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Murderers Should Eat Fish

Fish

Those who commit murder
and throw dead bodies
into the Third Mainland Bridge
should eat a lot of fish.

As soon as the body reaches
the depths of the water,
a delicious, fat feast,
doesn’t it become the food of fishes?

One fish will eat till she is full,
and go about her day.
The fish-killer will set a trap to murder her
in the early hours of the next day,
and she will be taken away.
Her children will become orphans,
very vulnerable to prey.

The man-killer will come along to buy her
from the fish-killer who,
whether he knows it or otherwise,
is also a fisher of men,
a fisher of late men, women, and children.

The man-killer’s wife will set the fish before him,
after it has been deliciously cooked,
along with some lobsters and crabs,
and of course,
since he contributed to the fish’s growth,
will he not taste so bloody good?

Still Feeling Good

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Birds flying high
and pooping on me,
sun in the sky
and burning my skin,
breeze winding on by
and coming at me,
it’s the same day,
there is no dusk,
it’s the same life for me,
but I’m feeling good.

Outeraction

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‘Sunflower’ by Krista Hasson

I’m running out of breath;
my sweat is overflowing.

My thighs are widely apart;
he’s in six-feet deep.

I can taste my tears;

I can’t feel my legs.

He’s giving me life but
I know this is deadly.


Whose grave is he digging?

Is it mine or his?

Will I die again 
or is this the good living?

Rebirth

'Longing in Silence by Aricadia

‘Longing in Silence’ by Aricadia

It is always hard-
cutting strong, karmic cords.
It’s like a birth experience;
isn’t it why we sometimes
cry in fetal positions?

In truth,
one is birthing oneself,
and conjoining different pieces
into one self.

Art and music help,
writing included.
Patience and hope are necessary

because the ‘umbilical’ cord
that attaches one to the past,
to the old self,
always fall and seals off by itself,
gradually,
the pain leaves,
maybe even slowly,
and the memories and lessons are left.

Magic Michael

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Born during the phase of the full moon,
for all of the world to see,
in the late evening on August 29, 1958,
around 7:33.

Mother Nature rejoiced!
The waters waved and danced in delight!
The birds flapped their wings in excitement.
The world was showered with new light that night.

The wolves stood on rocks and howled.
The stars and the sky gathered in celebration.
He was here to sing, dance, and heal.
Unborn babies kicked in anticipation.

He was the moon;
an enigma, mystery in the flesh.
He was as the moon;
adored from France to Bangladesh.

He was a man as a child,
and he was a child as a man.
It was in the way that he sat and spoke,
and in the way that he jumped and ran.

He was the Earth Angel Michael;
the friend and guardian of children.
Kids knew it and they loved him,
protective and doting, mother hen.

We miss him.

The earth stood still on June 25, 2009;
we had a nightmare while our eyes were wide open.
We shivered as sweat ran down our foreheads.
We took long and deep breaths in,
quickly running out,
dying.

Where is our Michael?

When we think of him,
we are filled with happiness and strength,
but we miss him,
and the thought of it makes us weak.
We miss his hypnotic, gorgeous eyes,
the beauty of and in his smile,
the charisma and gaiety in his dance,

the sweet softness of his voice,
that voice, the sound of freshwaters.

We miss the way he made us feel
when he lifted us up as he bent to kneel.
Mother Earth weeps as She curls her toes.

Elephants trumpet,
birds sing of our woes.

We are nostalgic about carrying him,
as he carried us,

as we play and replay his shows.
We are lovesick.

He is here.

Mamase, mamasa, mamakusa.
Mama, say,
mama, sir,
mama, cool sir.
He will always be with us.

Yes, he will, our king of pop,
our king of love.
His body will always be in our soil,

swaddled in Gaia’s arms,
and that is not all.

His spirit will always be with us.
He will always be here,
via his songs,
via his dance,
via his teaching,
via his charity,
via his silent cries and loud wailings,
via his musical screams.
We will rock him back and forth;

we will never drop him.
We will remember him fondly,
loving and cherishing him,
for decades and generations to come.

 

Till Death Do Us Part

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Let’s stay together,
if not my heart you’ll sever,
till death do us part.

I’ll do anything for you,
try anything you want to,
till death do us part.

Your pain is my pain,
your love is my gain,
till death do us part.

This isn’t right,
this isn’t healthy,
but you say that I’m your lady,
and I like when you call me ‘baby’,
so let’s be wild,
let’s be free,
and listen to no one but we,
let us be one and the same,
neither needs to take the blame,
my life is very you and me,
without you, I cannot breathe or sleep,
without you, I simply cannot see,
our love is ill,

and it might kill,
but I’ll stay with you,
oh yes, I will,
till death do us part.

Enough is enough, except you can’t get enough.
Substitute Title: Houston-Winehouse Love

My Love, I Don’t Understand

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‘ Reclining Lady’ by Margaret Garcia

Baby, now that you’re out of flesh,
do you really still see me?
Do you rub my belly when we’re together alone?
Do you still hold my hand when I pee?

Darling, now that you don’t have a mouth,
can you still taste some of my food?
Do you still giggle when I dance unclad for you?
Do I still get you in the mood?

Honey, without your hands and arms,
can you feel my temperature when I’m ill?
Do you twitch my nipples and kiss my lips?
Is my love a thing you can feel?

My love, do you like my new waist beads?
I can’t tell, and it’s driving me crazy.
Why won’t you come take me,
so I can be with you?
Will we never make a baby?

Falling in Love is Masochistic

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Painted by John Park

I will never understand,
for as long as I live,
why people crave so hard,
why people ache so bad,
to fall in love.

I know that falling is nice,
falling is like flying,
and flying is nice,
but when the clock strikes 12,
one will have to pay the price.

Landing is tough,
landing is rough,
there are cuts on the face and neck,
and blood on the thighs and head.
The heart is broken into several pieces,
and air is taken out of the lungs.
The knees lose life and strength,
and the sides become so badly bent.

I hope they learn a lesson or two.
I stand by the scene and I watch,
hoping they’ll never, ever return,
but people climb on love’s hill again,
with smiles on their lips
and laughter in their mouths,
wobbling with a partner in hand,
to fall into that dark pit once more,
to die again.

Today is Another Day

Grillo

Painted by Yusuf Grillo

Today is another day;
today is an other day.
Tomorrow will become yesterday,
a brand new yesterday,
if you don’t take new steps today.

Take four steps to grow,
take three steps to heal,
take two steps to love,
take a step to part ways
with today’s yesterday.