Versions of Chai

What will they sing about? What will they write about? Now their messiah has been crowned king and all their troubles are ended? How will they survive without the fury that fueled them for so long? Those champions of peace who peddled their own version of war in hate-saturated voices and spewed their angst until our ears rang with the violence of their words. Their hero lauded and the moment of jubilation passed, they awake from victory to find themselves bereft of inspiration, deflated of purpose. Words of beauty and love are a foreign language their lips have forgotten how to form. While we who live peace and strive to love all human kind still find inspiration and see beauty in our daily lives. We will keep singing. We will keep writing. And in their silence maybe we will be heard. We have always known it is folly to pin such hope on mortal man. For one day, the facade will wear thin and they will realize that tyranny has many faces and evil more than one brand. On that day, beware,...

When I was in my mother’s womb I broke my heart into three pieces One, I kept for myself Returning it to beat and pump The other two I left behind To wait for my sisters When they came along two and four years later respectively Each had a piece of my heart Clutched in her tiny fist It’s not been easy Having my heart in three different Places at once. At times the pain of Separation is too much to bear For only when we are together Can my heart be whole again

The car idles in the drive-thru He talks but I don't really listen Through the windshield glass a crescent grin leers out of the night sky the outline of a cat body almost discernable in the glow surrounding it Beware the Jabbertalk , it says the tongue that wags the teeth that clack I laugh out loud disrupting the flow of monologue He asks what is so funny "Nothing," I reply. "You were saying?" As his discourse continues the Cheshire moon chimes in And shun the verbose box of chat I stifle another laugh but he is distracted paying at the window "Did you hear that? They don't have any salt. Do you still want it?" he says I answer yes without looking away from the moon It shouts, Don't need salt, need pepper, more pepper! I smile to myself He stops talking and hands me my drink I look over at him so classy in his black fedora for a moment I think He's the mad hatter Then I say "Let's go. We're late."

Show me your soul no matter how dark I won't look away. I want to see past skin, muscle, and bone to the raw you, Formless as vapor, the part that struggles to be free. Show me your soul. I do not fear the monsters lurking there, Being so familiar with my own creatures of darkness. Show me your soul no matter how dark I won't look away.

Sunlight pours down and spreads through stiffened limbs like warm honey, inch by inch restoring life along with grace. The world relaxes into color as the outlook shifts from gray to green. SAD days are over-- time for the thaw.

Happy Ides of March! You may think it morbid to celebrate the day given its historical significance; however, the Ides of March has become more to me than the anniversary of Julius Caesar's death. It has become a family holiday for my sister and me--an inside joke between the two of us that none of our co-workers can understand since they don't share our literary tastes. As teenagers we had our own version of the famous prophecy associated with this day, "Beware the eyes of _______" (insert name of creepy guy that rhymes with March). As I said, only a true literature buff would see the humor in that. But this year, the Ides of March has become more to me than just a literary inside joke. I have decided it is a day to celebrate friendship and loyalty, a day for true friends to stand by each other. Although for Julius Caesar this day meant betrayal, it does not have to be that way. On the Ides of March I do not say beware, but take heart. For when Brutus comes I w...

The mask-- I donned it willingly knowing full well the consequences the sacrifices required Yet somehow miscalculating the placidity of my own soul After years of practice I think I wear it well-- that frozen smile But inside I languish beneath the mask drumming fists against the rigid facade Pining for a few unfettered steps outside the glare of the magnifying glass The choice I made this visage I wear weigh heavy on my soul how long I can bear it I do not know

Amid the crunch of collision, such a small thing wards off death in the moment of slow-motion crash, protecting from the reckless hand of fate, but not without cost. Sighing in the instant before impact, it warns, "This might hurt a little." Then steels itself for the inevitable task--its created purpose--and when released from duty bemoans the necessary bruises it left behind. Such a little thing, really, yet with so great a job. A small strip, narrow but strong, the very reason I am still alive.

Words crowd into my mouth, burning my tongue, pushing against lips sealed shut by fear--the paranoid, paralyzing kind. To rid the acrid taste I swallow back each incendiary noun, verb, and adjective, though the action scalds my throat. Before the pain can subside my stomach retches them up again to begin anew their acidic onslaught. Why do I not speak? How can speaking out possibly cost me more than the turmoil of keeping silent? No answer. For the questions never leave my head. Afraid to speak yet tortured for not doing so, this silence is killing me.

O Apollo, blazing golden in the sky, ruling day from a chariot of fire, think of me, Artemis, pale goddess of night. Imagine me waiting in a shadowy glade. Silver arms outstretched, beckoning you to my wild embrace. O Apollo, meet me in the dusky hues of evening and in the first, gray light of dawn, Where we-- twin halves of one soul-- can unite and once again be whole.

I wish I could slash anger across a canvas that shrieks to be seen. Or draw bare lines whispering of loneliness so that all who look turn away with wet eyes. I wish I could paint joy in colors of the sun with laughter pealing from the end of the brush so that hearts and the corners of mouths are lifted. But my paint-by-numbers hands only copy laboriously images conceived by another. I content myself with words and brush them across the page-- the only canvas I will ever paint.

Mab is waiting, watching, biding her time with fingers poised, waiting for my eyes to close. I fight to stay awake. Futilely. Her nearness soothes, lulls, opiating the darkness until sleep enshrouds me. Barely conscious, I attempt to evade, but the ground is sand-- loose and crumbling. Her fingers overtake me easily, clutching with paralyzing grasp. My mind numbs. I am slave to her nocturnal deity, pliantly tasting the visions concocted from her arsenal of romance, insanity, and terror. Into my sleep-steeped brain she ladles the chaotic brew, flavored with emotions strong enough to taint the first few hours of my waking day. She reigns supreme until daybreak loosens her tyranny and I struggle in her grasp, finally pulling myself awake, shaking away illusions clinging like cobwebs. I curse her power to rob me of peace, of rest, and plan anew night's escape. Mab watches unfazed, waiting, biding her time with fingers poised.