broken walls and narratives

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

Archive for the tag “poetry”

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)

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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.

 

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. 

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

This Beast

I have failed to write a poem for EVERY book I have read this year, but the most recent book that I read was The Democrats: A Critical History by Lance Selfa.   This book was well written and clearly identifies the long history of contradictions, empty promises, and duplicity of the Democratic Party.   The book is wonderfully enraging.    Here is a poem to express my revolutionary anger.

 

This Beast

2/12/18

Know this beast

Study it everyday

Like the features of a monster

With gnashing teeth to grind up the working class

Bludgeoning them like Hartley and Taft

The demon who ignores poor women

The Jekyll and the Hyde Amendment

The Jackal and the corporate cabal

Who broke bones with austerity?

Who championed NAFTA, WTO, World Bank, IMF, and the CIA?

These are not gladiators,

But emperors and vampires.

There is no lesser evil

There is only the evil of two faced capitalism,

Which devours children and shortens lives,

The time must come when people no longer bow before

Great and terrifying things

Yielding power to imagined behemoths

Their immortality is mythical

The immorality is real

We already possess the power to end this nightmare

To liberate the dispossessed

And dispose of every neo-liberal liberator

 

Image result for democrats a critical history

The Lenin In Me

Once again, I am trying to write poems about each book that I read.  Since I mostly read non-fiction, it can be a bit of a challenge!  One of the books that I read in January was Lenin on the Train, by Catherine Merridale.  This poem was what I came up with after reading the book.  It is about gender as a revolutionary train ride.

The Lenin in Me

By H. Bradford

1/30/18

There is a Lenin inside me,

A man with a sharp mind.

The female body is his train.

Taking him places, carrying that brain to those who will listen

to a program that cuts through

time and space and night,

also like Lenin on the train.

I am on my way to revolution.

I am on my way to change.

The she, the he, and the they will meet at Finland Station.

We are writing what we will say.

In eight short days the world will change.

But, I am content to bide my time.

It is enough to enjoy this ride.

Image result for Lenin on the train

Drawing by Pyotr Vasilievich Vasiliev, Lenin on the Train to Petrograd

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