Squeaky Things
Do you have things that squeak?
And wake you up so you have to peek.
We have floors that squeak and doors as well
Both squeak so much that I want to yell.
We have cupboard doors that squeak and, to tell the truth,
We also have teeth and bones that creak and squeak.
So to close my mind to all that din,
I go to my piano and practice a hymn.
But, wouldn’t you know as soon as I start,
The keys start squeaking and I fall apart.
I am going to take up the drums!!!
Image from Stakeholder 360
Mother Earth
“…‘our Sister, Mother Earth’ … now cries out to us, …
burdened and laid waste …”— Pope Francis, Laudato Si’
You throned us in your belly
down countless generations,
unfolded us to the light, fed at your breast
the children in us that grew to be women and men.
You taught us wonders:
each star in the night, each flower in the morning,
singing and beauty, each word, each thought,
the rites of courtesy, discipline of goodness;
praised us, scolded us, comforted us, held us.
All thanks to you, Mother Earth, all thanks to you.
The sun strides across the sky.
The birds pierce the air.
The rain startles the ground.
The seas are renewed without end.
The mountains dream in the morning.
The flowers are boundless.
All thanks to you, Mother Earth, all thanks to you.
And in return, what have we done?
We have cut out the heart of the world,
in man’s mad cunning, and burned it.
We have ransacked your home and fouled it,
and we have set your house on fire,
destroying the loom of the earth that made us,
the seed we grew from, the withered blossoms.
We are like a drunken man driving fast toward midnight,
intent on destruction out of a nameless resentment.
Forgive us, Mother Earth. Forgive us.
Free us.
Free us from our darkness,
the fear and need that drive us,
the cowardice and greediness of desire,
our craven weakness before brutality;
cast out the insanity of mankind,
past the crimes that strew our lives,
our refusal to see
the evils that are ours alone.
Save us, Mother Earth. Save us.
Show us the way—remember when we were children?—
of holy life.
Teach us how to walk again
lightly upon the earth.
Teach us to heal when you are ailing,
to comfort when you grieve
and no longer make you weep in the trammels of the night.
Free mankind from itself, Mother Earth,
and teach us to be loving to you forever.
All thanks to you. Forgive us. Save us.
_____
Christopher Bernard is the author of the forthcoming novel Voyage to a Phantom City, to be published by Regent Press in 2016. He lives in San Francisco.
“C’mon, sweetie, it’s time.” Parker eyed the escorts at edge of their property, a National Guard duo outfitted in army fatigues; their faces not registering the persistent downpour that pasted their camouflage uniforms to their bulky frames. The presence of the National Guard on the site of his and Sam’s ravaged home accentuated the feeling of a war zone. The combat-ready pair was poised to evacuate Parker, Sam, and baby Bridget to a makeshift helipad, where a Black Hawk helicopter awaited. An airlift evacuation. Parker had never envisioned being airlifted out of anywhere, unless he was clinging to life after a climbing accident. But he was very much alive, as were his wife and baby; god-damned fortunate to be alive, as a matter of fact. They were simultaneously the luckiest and unluckiest people he knew.
A Mexican monsoon had hovered over Boulder, Colorado and the adjacent foothills for days, delivering more precipitation than they usually got in a year. The ground had become so saturated, the water cascading down the mountain carved fault lines beneath their home like the gaping epicenter of an earthquake. Parker had no one to blame, not even God. As an atheist, he was left with science. Water, saturated earth, and gravity had colluded to create a chasm in the foundation of their home that triggered a collapse, emitting a sound like an explosive device. He and Sam had been tucked in their canopy bed, Bridget in her adjacent crib when the house detonated; there were no early warning signs, just the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain on their roof, lulling them to sleep and then: kaboom! He had catapulted out of bed to Bridget’s crib and shouted, “Get the fuck out of the house!” The pajama-clad family narrowly escaped. An exploding house ranked as Parker’s most terrifying life experience, including a near burial in an avalanche and a climbing “tumble.” He wished he had had a god to shake his fist at, but raging against science felt foolish. For the first time, he understood the usefulness of a god, both as a source of hope and as a target of rage. But if he thought about it too much, he’d think his way back to atheism. Why would anyone believe an omnipotent force that caused undue pain could also produce miracles?
Sam was perched on their white staircase, the only part of the house not coated by a dense blanket of sludge, clasping baby Bridget in her arms. The white steps emerged from the mire, an artist’s rendering of a stairway to heaven in Pompeii.
“Bridget and I would like to stay.” Sam glanced from her baby to Parker.
“Stay and do what exactly?” He scanned the wreckage, trying to imagine what she was possibly thinking. Any path forward would require excavation, months of recovery and at least a year of rebuilding.
“We’ll fix it. Patch it back up. Put it back together again.”
1. A Lost Poet
.
I stood on my hills
To watch the flow of others.
I see for the blind
But lost vision
To my inner sight.
.
Like soap,
In order to make clean
The dirt of others,
I dwindle in the act.
.
I have lost my voice
In the sacrificial
Struggle
To make theirs sound louder.
.
My identity has been compromised.
My being… theirs.
My fears
Strength, hope
And dreams
Became entangled in theirs.
.
Who’ll sing for me?
Who’ll cry mine tears
While I’m busy crying for others?
Who’ll travel my journeys
And befriend my lone hours?
.
Who’ll cater for my sorrow,
Keep my sadness
And fears company?
Who’ll fight for me
And stand for me
While standing with me?
.
-Siraj A Sabuke
.
. Continue reading
Dark Days
(Inspired by Nikki Giovanni)
I sit in my prison cell,
My first date with a prostitute was my last day of freedom,
Dreaming when my world was alive,
Now I’m in a 6×8 room with a toilet and sink,
I have been here the last 20 years wishing to see my mother,
One more time before she goes to heaven,
While I sit in this cell with a toilet and sink.
Choices
(Inspired Nikki Giovanni)
For Vincenza Antonetta
I had no choice to not be put away in that mental hospital,
With its padded rooms and five-point restraints.
I had no choice to not go insane with those memories of rape and incest and killings.
No, I had no choice to escape from my past.
No choice from receiving those anti-depressants and shock treatments
Cameras watch me 24/7
Nurses wearing those white dresses and white hats and stockings,
There was no choice for me not to go insane—
As I count the pads in the ceiling.
The Wind Storms Outside
Your curtains billow gleaming slightly of gold as we talk of forests and seas, two adventurers laughing at our twists and turns marveling at these gifts we’ve won wrestled from our respective Gorgons both of us rushing to speak of the edge of land and water almost making love to it wild like this wind and then just as quickly, soft and sensuous bejeweled by the stars and moon.Meanwhile the beach lies before us, pregnant, frothed by the ocean’s hiss while the sky begins to shift, letting through the sun’s last strands. Soon the wind subsides as we get up
shake hands and go our separate ways.
Low Tide
If life were simpler
I wouldn’t keep dreaming of you
and how the ocean wind
whipped our ears and blew our coats
as we searched for shells,
I wouldn’t remember huddling with you
feeling our passions rise
despite the wind, despite the ocean’s hiss.
If life were simpler
I wouldn’t need to imagine you
finding limpets and bleached olive shells
at low tide.
