Sparking

Apocalypse gift exchange

brings tidbit excessive kit

complete with reading material,

knife and sharpener, metal rape whistle,

lock/key combo, and compass.

Corded black and orange paracord

make whistle, lock/key, and compass

easier for my cerebral palsy fingers to grab.

Literary muse takes off,

realizing that dystopian angle removes YA lost love story

from copyright infringement territory

though I still plan to thank both gifter

and deceased author hose decade's past work inspired 
what the manuscript involved into in my dedication, 

should I ever get it published.

Nothing Involving Human Beings Occurs in a Vacuum

Near dawn

on the day when many Americans with disabilities

celebrate our landmark civil rights legislation

I watch episodic TV depicting the murder of a young widow

whose tragedies also included the death

of chronically ill child only 18 months beforehand.

I feel stomach acid rise

as I realize that her assailant

just might be a member of the disability community.

We are so much more

often victim than killer.

Instead it turns out to be

an unbeknownst cop and corrections officer

who murdered the belle.

Now he’ll know what life’s like

from a convict’s perspective

for the rest if his natural life.

On Illness...

Second Postcard Poem

White lighting flashes through slight silver

opening in purple curtains to optic nerves

which feed data to brain inside sick bed body

which hasn’t been vertical for days.

Lukewarm energy bursts between hours of sleeping

give me just enough to edit submission,

check in e-mail,

and assure social media I haven’t died.

.

Blocked...

First post card poem of 2014.  Waited a month to publish, as per the rules.

Bout not ameliorated by tried/true treatments

of good books, new people, new experiences,

even outrage over another murdered brown boy

doesn’t recall muse from hiding.

In This Place

I am here.

            But Bobby isn’t.

I am here.

            But Joanne’s voice is absent from our chanting.

I am here.

            But both Karin  and Karen  look down from heaven.

I am here.

            But Laura is missing.

I am here.

            But neither Alfredo nor David can give me any more Spanish lessons.

I am here.

            But Matthew was martyred a quarter century ago.

I am here.

            But the Lord called the other Martina home.

I am here.

            But Mary Frances’s apartment isn’t hers anymore.

I am here.

             But April is no longer a second reason to visit Tuscon.

I am here.

But I would timeshare my life

were such a thing  possible.

I am here.

But failing to fill the impossible gap left

in the arc of universe, being towards justice.

I am here.

But I carry daily pain so deep

I often forsake remembering in favor of sanity.