broken walls and narratives

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

Archive for the category “poetry”

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.

 

 

Care is a Wall

Care is a Wall

Care is a Wall

H. Bradford

6/5/19

I work at a domestic violence shelter, so much of my work involves care work.  Sometimes this is exhausting and demoralizing- especially the large amount of bodily fluids that appear around the shelter.  So, this is a poem I wrote about the not so wonderful aspects of care work.


Care is a wall,

A car crash for careers

And a barrier more than a connection.

It is blood in the halls

Leaky diapers on laps

And urine soaked sheets.

It is a thousand unmet needs

Needs that ooze biohazards and suffering

from the places quarantined by the state.

Care is the work of women

Women with accents and darker complexions.

Care is the everyday Chernobyl

Of tending to capitalism’s toxic leftovers

With no evacuation in sight.

Care is a wall

To fight, storm, or surrender.

To die hopelessly against.

The Late Fall

The Late Fall

H. Bradford

12/6/18

This is the late fall now.

Where skies are empty

and forests quiet.

The birds have migrated in borderless caravans,

and the ground reeks of brown leaves

and fascism.

This is the ugly rump of a season.

Where the chill in the air feels violent

and truth is laid as bare as trees.

Really, its more winter than anything else.

This is the time for long pauses,

contemplative sylvan marches,

and the silent things that steels one against the cold and dark to come.

Image may contain: plant, outdoor, nature and water

 

 

The Woman Question

The Woman Question

H. Bradford

4/21/18

I have not written a poem for EVERY book that I have read this year, but this a poem inspired by Lise Vogel’s Marxism and the Oppression of Women.


When did the oppression begin?

Was patriarchy painted on the walls of caves

long before women gave birth on factory floors?

Is it passed down in property

or built into the body?

Maybe it’s just all in the family.


And what is the value of labor unpaid?

Is the value surplus?

Is it use?

Or is there any value in the question at all?


What exactly is a woman?

A person, a place?

Or a thing we made from mud of ribs, breasts, and sin.

Is it an idea to divide us by pieces and parts?

An excuse to pay some less or nothing at all

so that society lives long enough to work another day?

Image result for lisa vogel socialism and marx

Post Navigation