A River’s Mind.

Denise Adaya Marcel

The River flows through me,

I flow through the River.

I am the River.

I am the Giver

Of fecund foreverness.

Shivering, shimmering, simmering excitement;

A rushing quivering of anticipation

From an perpetually enlivened everbirthing

Of a sort unknown to mankind.

I have a River's mind.

I know about birth,

Because I renew myself every hour.

One can never stand

In the same River twice,

Nor can the River

Replicate mystical Kundalini symphonies;

Musical motion, set to liquid fire

Burns and drowns as fast as it passes.

The River is never silent,

Thoughts unfold

Though it holds onto nothing salient.

The River always offers

Newness, rarity and clarity.

Purification of majestic Destiny.

Regressed memories

Are laid to rest upon the banks;

Seeding the healing

Of the ravages of time.

The River never looks back.

 

 

The Battle.

Denise Adaya Marcel

 

There is a battle,

if waged too long 

robs the soul

of its beingness,

robs the heart

of its joy.

 

The battle won is the one

walked away from 

when your part is done.

All warriors need rest

least they become the beast.

All heroes require respite

least they become the feast.

 

The war will be over 

when the warrior 

decides to come home.

 

 

Just Doing My Job, Ma’am.

(The Excuse of Every Good Nazi.)

Denise Adaya Marcel.

You beasts with your black suits,

Camouflage, khaki, sunglasses;

Helmets and protection

Against the unprotected

Decry sanity in your 

Ostensible cloaks of invisibility.

Listen up Changeling:

It is the suit that holds the mightiness,

It is never you, you see,

You only create the nightmare.

Only an imbecile  would ameliorate genocide.

Only a peon would pledge

His mother’s blood to a cuckoo’s nest

Simply to be deluded like the rest;

Your paycheck means you work

For the ghouls who finance fratricide.

Super-Heroes hold true power.

Unlike Superman - who alone, perhaps,

Naked still retains his magnificence -

You are merely a worthless instrument

In a black rented suit.

What would you do if you came upon

other black suits beating the reason you are present.

 

 What if it was your soul-mate,

The mother of your children.

Your mother

Your father

Your freedoms

Your inspiration

that lie bleeding at your feet?

Because we believe in freedom,

stand with the multitudes

you justify and deny the dignity of humanity?

To you we are the “hoi polloi”,

“The Great Unwashed” masses.

You work for those who see us this way.

Exactly whose job are you executing

When you enforce your own mortality,

When you destroy

the reverberation of a down-trodden nation?

Just Doing My Job, Ma’am:

beating children with a truncheon,

spraying them in the face with a toxic chemical

is what I have been trained to do.

Even if it’s your own beautiful daughter?

Would you take off your black suit,

Or hide behind another thug and keep beating?

Would you spray your grandmother

In the face to demonstrate virility?

Would grab your mother’s hair

And drag her down the street?

To testify loyalty to estranged

Concepts of humanity,

And heap destruction upon your own community?

Hiding behind your padded suit,

your face mask,

your shield, and guns, 

your agent provocateurs, 

gas mask,

clubs and LRAD;

"Just doing my job, Ma'am."

 Black suit, would you be protected

Once you take that costume off?

The black suit has the power. Not you….

You are nothing but a pawn of hell.