Monday, June 10, 2019

the truth






i am not here to tell you exactly what went on that night, but i am here to tell you the truth.  at least as much of  truth as i can tell and that's all the truth i know.   well it started to rain in the south with a sky  warm and still going blue-black fast.    the wind picked up in that dust bowl kind of way that blew through the calm like an open window on a Oklahoma Sunday,  then there was the lightening to the tree about a mile away that fluttered the screen-door having Sarah’s cat running to the barn as if pursued by Frank Jefferey's German Shepard Buggerbad.  when far away an interrupted cry showed the face of a girl that spoke to God… everything stopped and a rainbow covered the earth she just laughed and smiled right at me….



bkmackenzie 2019
copyrighted 


Wednesday, June 5, 2019

there is truth in death




there is truth in death
be it a whale, a gull, a 
mother
blue and green and warm and
loving

she weeps and weeps
not unlike Our Lady of Sorrows
and yet we her blessed
her chosen
choke her in greed and
convenience
of polymers set
in colors or in clear

but what is 
clear is that 
there is truth in death
in suffocation
in the strangulation of a turtle
in the toxicity of
breast milk feeding the chosen

whatever you do
to the least of my people that you do unto me
unto me and my mother
for as she continues to give
until her last breath
one thing is clear
there is truth in death

and when she
takes her last breath
what can we ask ourselves

paper or plastic?

bkmackenzie 2019




Tuesday, June 4, 2019

native



i am native
here; my blood is real, it is long, it runs deep
like the river of my spirit, i cloth my skin in your skin
brother it is my skin ,the length of it, the longing
of it to movement - towards the great waters - towards
the laughter of the crow-bird, of the fleeting fox, i

am women
i dance to the rivers within me, i dance to
those spirits i carry they
dance to be born...
they dance to be born...through my river...

i am native, i
am woman
i dance to the songs of the mother who sings
to me, to my spirit whole and long with breasts unbound
by words un-tongued; i am ritual
the rain weeps on my feathered wing and

i dance

it calls me run, it
calls me dance
it calls me dance towards the dusk time red and starring
towards the morning dark longing for my light, i call
the wind, i call its eagle, i call the unborn
to sing and quicken within, i am native
i am woman

skinned in my sacred brother

i dance

bkmacenzie 2019
copyrighted


in honor of my beautiful mother...whose dance was not long enough



imaginary garden with real toads


Monday, June 3, 2019

first soprano


a
be-headed

(time-pieced) observes

words
fly out of my piano key

slicing
quarter
notes to meet
your
need

to be-come
surreal (really)?

i spread orange mar-mal-
aid
its
silvered
image
bleeding openly on
my
toasted
tomorrows

as
range of emotion
delivers
first soprano to your
other
love

to your other lover

obscure
the missing hand
paused
(me)
silent

us?

question:
aria
final per-formance


bkmackenzie 2019
copyrighted


posted for d'verse Open Link Night