Monday, September 1, 2014

ONLY THE STUPID TRAITORS WILL UNDERSTAND



FROM THE MIND TO THE SKY

There are so many things I cannot see, that when I see I cannot agree and when I cannot agree I am labeled anything from stupid to traitor. Or both.

I float my clouds in the air and know from where they came and never know where they’ll go for they are my clouds, some filled with rain, some with pain and even a few with silver linings, though most days in the light of the sun and breeze I barely understand those trying to make them disperse, to let me see in no uncertain terms I have no right to float a cloud or voice an opinion aloud, especially in the clouds. Even on the rare occasion when my clouds contain the morbid smell being of politically correct there is a sniper who just recognizing the clouds shape will fire aloud at the evil inherent within it.

Anyone who sends a message into the atmosphere looking for a following to me is a coward with no conviction, I do not need followers for I am no leader. Not one looking to end some kind of weird man made race in first place but seriously I will be heard, even if not taken as anything but one who is deliriously delusional with disillusion of thoughts in what man is supposed to be. I’d love to be a poet king with no lands to rule or a philosopher whose words travel through the ages as sage but I’ll settle for simply thinking out a problem and finding one possible resolution. Preferably one without gun that kill off all of our daughters and sons even if they are told they are enemies of each other and not sisters and brothers.

I read an article written by someone who said I’m a part of the walking dead if I use words like Nigger, Ho, Spic or Jew; their point being that in our wedged apart society there is no clarity that can come from language most understand. I disagree with the pretext because every word, of which clouds are made have a context. Now if I were a part of the walking dead (are there really Zombies or is it just another societal game craze?) would I really be walking and thinking aloud inside my head, when I allow the noise in? Making clouds. Be glad I say that I throw few lightning bolts at them who disagree with me because *fuck ‘em* they have that right. But God damn does every cloud have to be a part of a fight when I look to see the root of most people’s clouds are based in “I only want—what’s right for me!” That I am fairly sure is the definition of pure and simple greed.

I will still send my clouds into the breeze and watch them depart far away from me, not because I am sure I am right but simply because I recognize in my sight that a planet full of people have two capacities; one for extreme violent war and one for heart longing for a quiet, calming peace.

© M Durfee
9.1.2014

Thursday, August 28, 2014

2 GENERATIONS, 3 GENERATIONS APART: LOVE STORIES



GRANDMA’S LOVE STORY TOLD BY GRANDPA
Somewhere together near the outskirts of a kiss, hug or handshake lifetime decisions are made.


Waiting at the place where the bus is usually blind to the sign we decided to hell with the ride that wasn’t going to come and we’d walk and talk instead of waiting wasting time. I wonder what you thought, glad or distraught because my stop came up first, about three miles back and I had to go, get home, I was late, did you have the thought I was going to leave you to finish the journey alone — on that day. Fifty years from then did you now think you’d be telling people that was our first date?


You are so cute and I such a dazzled fool I didn’t even know I was; where I should have gotten off our walk, as we talked and talked about every thoughts our minds did touch. On past my stop which I never saw nor noticed because I enjoyed our talk so very much. Being close to you had me delirious.

You left me decide what our parting gift would be that day as I reached my hand out to you, you brushed it away like you were pulling out the rug and then stepped in close for that—honestly? Much preferred light kiss and gentle hug.

© M Durfee
8.28.2014





IT MUST BE LOVE
“Hey you wanna cut class?”
“Sure why not, what you got in mind?”
“I dunno, under the bleachers; knock off a piece of ass?”
“OK let’s go, sounds cool. I’d rather fuck anyway, than be in that fucking school.”

© M Durfee
8.28.2014





i don't know when i made the decision to experiment with rhythm and prose to tell a story. Please do not hold the "love" poems of the past few posts against me. This is where my heads gone. Probably really need a hit of acid or something , be that as it may as much as this particular set is about rhythm it is about contrasts that evolved over 100 years of courting.I'll get back to blood death and conflict soon enough.


Be Well