broken walls and narratives

A not so revolutionary blog about feminism, socialism, activism, travel, nature, life, etc.

Archive for the category “poetry”

Nothing to Mourn

Nothing to Mourn (1)

Nothing to Mourn

H. Bradford

09/19/20


Today, peasants shed tears for the queen.
Gone is their voice!
Gone is their body!
Lost children of dead goddesses
Await final judgement

Find power in anger.
People aren’t property
Bodies aren’t windows
There’s nothing to mourn
When everything’s broken.

When the people rise up
Spring eats winter
The future eats the past
Queens become graves
History the judge

When struggle is magic
There’s no need for witches.
Brooms and bricks become weapons
Weapons become mortar
Minds get sharp, to build a new order

The electrified quantity
Will break the slaveholder’s contracts
And cannot be not blocked
By barricades and borders
Bargains and courts

A Black Hole

Copy of I've Made Mistakes

A Black Hole

H. Bradford


A lost friend is like a black hole,

But maybe they were a black hole to begin with.

There was always a darkness there,

Even when there was the life and light of friendship,

There was a gravity of past crimes and an event horizon where no one really grew or changed.

Frozen, just at the edge of the chasm.

Pulling away is hard, there must be some goodness in the all consuming darkness.

And what is the space around us, but the endless expanse of black?

Objects that stay lose their integrity, 

until they become black holes themselves.


There is still memory in the space between us.

Stars die, but old habits die harder.

Time is space and space is time,

The universe may reinvent itself in endless incarnations,

But mistakes repeat themselves,

when everything stays in orbit.

So, I am drifting away now.

I’ve been drifting away for some time

I found my escape velocity

When they shined a light on you.

 

Protected: I have a sex offender friend (a poem and confession)

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Lemonade

Layside Denim Co.

Lemonade


H. Bradford

03.24/20


We’re always making lemons into lemonade

Boiling sun, burning alive, chugging gallons of it

Smiling with a belly of lemons and a stomach ache

One of these days, we’ll move somewhere warmer

Quit that job

Quit that life,

All that lemonade fills the holes inside.

Makes us question if we’re really so unhappy

Or if we forgot to count our citrus flavored blessings.

Lemonade is the Kool-Aid of cult of optimism,

The can-do elixir of capitalism,

If you can’t make it better,

Make the most of it!

And when we die used up, dry, and exhausted,

We can lay our heads on a bed of all those lemon rinds that got

us through the grind

Extinctions

Extinctions(1)

Extinctions

H. Bradford

02.23.2010


I’d rather read about dinosaurs

than think about relationships.

Both end in extinctions,

but I prefer the one 65 million years ago

To the here, now, or tomorrow.

Of course, birds are the happy ending

to cosmic cataclysm

But, few will grow feathers and fly free.

Instead, we’ll grow heavy and hard,

fossilize in the muck

all around us.

History is made of calcified hopes.

Nothing is permanent,

Just ask the Permians.

Sometimes it pulls apart like Pangaea,

a tsunami of lava,

or hell from the sky.

Sometimes the end is the slow burn of

410 parts per million of atmospheric carbon.

Acidic endings with starved oceans

and polar bear skeletons.

Whether by man or by mother earth,

in the end….everything ends.

 

 

The Sun is Dying

The Sun is Dying

The Sun is Dying

H. Bradford

12/25/19


The sun is dying

It’s middle aged.

There isn’t time for frivolous extinctions.

Earth lacks the billions of years that passed before us.

Before we unpacked the tombs of carbon fumes

from extinctions long ago.

So, that’s the end of it.

There isn’t time for more and new.

Just early death,

and the sterilizing embrace of a dying star.

 

Always a Man

Always a Man

Always a Man

H. Bradford

10.27.19


There’s always a man


On the corner by the clinic


Telling women what’s what with their bodies.


He cries about the babies,

The babies being killed in the baby killing factory

and how the remains get made into the chicken nuggets served in public school lunches.


Or at least that’s what it sounds like to me,

Since I’m about as sentimental as an old shoe

and as nurturing as an acid oasis.

And he doesn’t speak my language.



His language is the language of old men.

The language of burning witches

and marrying off little girls to old men like him.

It is the tongue of ten thousand years of silencing.

Ten thousand years of raping.

Ten thousand years of telling what’s what with women’s bodies.



There’s always a man on the sky,

telling the man on the corner what’s what

In a conversation that other men began long ago

In a language I don’t speak,

but always translates to

power over women.

And I won’t hear of it.


 

 

 

 

 

Graveyard Shift

Graveyard Shift

Graveyard Shift

H. Bradford

7/4/19



I am the corpse

You are the necromancer

You pay the wage,

I am your dancer.

You say the chant

and I bow and grovel,

I ask for rest

and you hand me the shovel.

I sell you my soul in subservient smiles,

Anything less, goes in the files.

I am the ghost with no stomach to feed

You are the vampire who drinks when I bleed.

You are the witch,

My wardrobe is rags

This shift fits like a body bag.

This is the graveyard,

This is my life,

Welcome to working.

Welcome to life.

Defeat

Defeat

Defeat

H. Bradford

6/27/19


Everyone is gone.

They migrated to brighter places.

And I am here,

Caught like a butterfly in winter

or a bat in a tower.

Doomed to die of cold,  slow suffocation,

or containment.

And I am here,

naked as bones,

growing fat and old

in the long night of my complacency.

There might have been more, but I am too worn and slow

to keep up with the crowd.

So I am here.

I am here.

This is the cemetery for those who lost the war against wages,

veterans who raged against the taxation of body and soul-

everything we gave in hours.  So many hours.

I am here

in the purgatory of defeat.

They always ask why she stayed.

But, I think you know the math of it. 

I don’t believe in Hell

i don't believe in hell

I don’t believe in Hell

H. Bradford

6/7/19

This is a poem about abortion rights.

 

I don’t believe in hell,

but I’ve got an idea of what it might be.

Languishing orphans in a Romanian cage,

sitting in urine,

dying of AIDS.

The panopticon gaze on missed menses,

missed work,

miscarriages,

or visitor in the night,

his secretary,

his sister,

his kindly wife.

 

Every anomaly  is an invitation

for incarceration.

 

Hell is the body

under siege,

prone and pried open for all to see.

It is emergency room corpses,

sepsis, and secrets.

Deadly exorcisms of rape and incest.

 

Hell is hot like Alabama

or cold like the hands of a priest,

clutching the wealth of genocide gold

and clasping tradition like a rosary of bones.

 

Hell is a landscape where a thousand wombs bloom,

sprouting babies, soldiers, and beggars

each doomed to die ravaged and poor

Because life is a weapon

of wealth and

of war.

 

 

Post Navigation