Hatred and Meditation

PeacefulProtest

Photograph by Ian Frank, taken during the white supremacy rally in Charlottesville.

Hatred and Meditation

Do I hate?

Do I use the word correctly?

Do I respect its insurrection on rationality?

 

Do I feel the emotion expressly revealed

through introspection?

Is hate’s searing devotion the lesson that seals

our soul’s subjection?

 

I hate potato salad.

I hate country western ballads.

 

I hated sweet potato

but I ate it when grandma said so.

 

I hate vapid pop music;

I rate it invalid acoustics.

 

I hated when daddy hit momma

when they hated the trauma of hate

that made strangers out of lovers,

dispirited hate externally creating

the hate from within.

 

I hate butterscotch,

and yes, I hate pop-rocks,

and yes, I hate culture shock,

displacement while vultures flock

 

I hated bullies, and

I hate being bullied.

 

I hated bullies who bullied me.

 

I hated having to fight them

for the right to subsist.

 

I hated fighting bullies

so the fight in the next bully

would cease to exist.

 

I hated fighting

for the sake of fighting.

 

I hated lightning and thunder

of fists rendering flesh asunder,

my knuckles knuckling under

my hated fate.

 

I hate being marginalized.

I despise being patronized.

 

I surmise that I hate that surprising

ill-advised, revised

hand-waving

of genocide of the natives.

 

I hated being born fated

as a second-rated citizen

in my nation, born from hate,

fear, and superstition.

 

I hated suspension of disbelief

in reality offering no relief

in fostering only grief and suffering.

 

I hated my place in the universe.

 

I hated the racial fight

in the perverse plight

to maintain the right to exist even

as second-rated civilian.

 

I hate that I relate to privilege

from the bottom of a boot heel.

My hate in its sacrilege

is throttled by acute appeal.

 

Is it hate

that makes me try to avoid hatred?

 

There are many who hate

that makes them try to destroy

what they hated.

 

I know we don’t hate the same

or mean the same thing

when we endure hatred.

 

I want to eradicate

the lame machine of pain

screaming of pure conflated abhorrence

that makes one man crush another

for discovering differences.

 

We all suffer.

 

Do I hate?

Do I verb it correctly?

Should I select an interjection

with less lethality?

 

Can I kill an emotion that exists

to make people kill?

Can we fill a devotion that persists

as a poison pill?

 

Why do we hate?

It’s self-rot

Can I ever relate?

I hope not.

***

NOTE: If you are offended by the image above, the words in this poem, the embedded video, but feel nothing about the riots, hatred, and violence that took place yesterday in Charlottesville, then you need to do some soul-searching. I am sickened and deeply saddened by what we have become as a nation.  

 

Day 18 – Greetings from Blessing My Heart after Your Betrayal

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Greetings from Blessing My Heart after Your Betrayal

Hi you, grinning with gentle malice

Vile intentions known, veiled thinly

Hiding behind wide-eyed finnocence

And letter of the law, perverted

 

Sup, you, symphonic syphilitic cynic conductor

I’m compelled to commendtalieate

Impressed, I will pat your twisted back

Before kicking you down the fucking stairs

** *

Written for NaPoWriMo’s optional day 18 prompt: neologisms (made-up words) and dVerse Tuesday Poetics: Wish you were here. (postcard prompt). Let’s just say that I’ve had to deal with some interesting personalities recently.

Drop by and check out everyone’s contributions to this prompt.

napo2017button2

glopo2017button2

common tempest

karsten-wurth-142679

common tempest

raindrops

pooling downward

joining creak to marshland

ponds, streams, tributaries fed by

her tears

 

thunder

chasing lightning

sonic reverb transfer

potential, kinetic shudder

his pain

 

landslide

rushing downward

life uprooted, falling

order, chaos, all the same vibe

blending

 

river

churning, winding

carving stone like putty

flushing nutrients to deltas

mending

 

sandbar

what’s left behind

river lapping edges

touching, lingering at tidepools

softened

 

raindrops

chasing lightning

life uprooted, falling

touching, lingering at tidepools

mending

** *

Written for dVerse Poetics: The River. Paul Dear is guest hosting. The river theme is his baby. Feel free to drop by and check out other poets’ river-themed poems.

 

Tea for Two

sebastian-davenport-handley-1463462

Image source: Unsplash.com

Tea for Two

Controlled nocturnal chaos.

Streamers painted onto charcoal skies.

Screams, squeals, shrieks pierce the void.

Neon-pink catastrophic, organ-grinding joy

spinning, twirling, lurching,

clutching the restraint bar

with a tiny left hand,

bracing for the spinning,

twirling, lurching,

that somehow hasn’t

spun us into oblivion,

spinning, twirling.

 

Lurching into another

seemingly random direction,

gripping momma’s arm

with a tiny right hand,

wondering how she

could possibly laugh with delight

at our pending deaths

from all the

lurching,

spinning,

twirling

into the blurred lights

as I willed my tears not to fall,

showing momma

I’m a big boy now

and could endure the

twirling,

spinning,

lurching

in stoic silence

while others my age

lost their composure and

sometimes partially-eaten

cotton-candy to the random

twurching,

spirling,

clurching

of this gigantic

many-armed neon demon,

spinning, twirling, lurching away from

our demons down the street at home

that smelled of reefer, whiskey, angry shouts,

and disquieting nocturnal thumps, inevitably

dimming to aural fragments;

haunting, lingering, lilting,

unmistakable sounds of

momma sobbing.

 

But she loves the teacups’

spinning, twirling, and lurching and

though I’m more of a merry-go-round

horsey-guy, well who knows how long

they’ll be down the street from us

spinning, twirling, lurching,

making kids my size sick with fear

and nauseous with motion?

All I know is

I ain’t never seen momma

crying her eyes out while

spinning, twirling, and lurching

on the teacups,

I get to show her how brave I am

lurching, twirling, and spinning,

and I get to eat cotton-candy

that’s bigger than my whole body!

That’s a pretty sweet deal.

And so I grimly endure the spinning,

twirling, lurching nonsense

as if it’s no big deal and

not the worst thing

that’s happened to us all night,

because it isn’t.

***

Lillian is hosting today’s Poetics over at dVerse. Today, we’re digging into our memories of amusement parks, carnivals, state fairs, and whatnot and so-forth.

I enjoyed this prompt, though my subject-matter might suggest otherwise. Sure it’s a melancholic memory for me, as most memories tend to be for me, but in that moment I was a small child who thought he was lifting his mother’s spirits by being brave for her. I haven’t thought of it in a very long time, and it probably would’ve remained buried if not for this timely prompt.

Feel free to drop by and also check out the other dVerse poets’ contributions to this theme.