LIFE: THE PROMPT (MY CREATIONS): 1/20/08

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Mother Mars

Earthlings, I am Mother Mars.

For years I have been watching you spin madly in your deadly dance,

with no respect for Mother Earth. I've come to take your precious brood,

and keep them safe inside my arms until you change your reckless ways,

reversing degradations.

A universal mother, I'm taking matters in my hands;

my decision springs from caring, with no malice in my heart.

On a planet 'dead and distant' I'll protect my cherished charges:

'innocents' held captive, entrapped within your folly.

When you stop the desecration and your air is safe to breathe,

your precious treasure will return; 'til then it's safe with me!

Stuck on Love

standing near the bedstead,

as your scent works its magic,

you say goodbye

I cannot...

the 'fling' was forever

for me

cocooned under cover,

I hug my knees,

my hands tremble as

I watch you leave

Stuck on Love, copyright, 2008 Jackie Marx

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

The virgin day dawns icy
Blustery winds harangue
Glacial bullets find their mark
Aiming piecemeal at the trench line

As soldiers gone before me
I start from sleep’s cocoon
Helmet, weapon, Holy Bible
Crunchy footfalls o’er my head

Hail Mary, goodbye Mother
Trusty bayonet in place
I find purchase on the icy edge
Rushing headlong into Hell

Bullets flying, sabers flashing
Bombs bursting, blinding light
I fall back upon my feather bed
My beloved’s arms around me

Crimson patches mark the trench line
Brothers’ blood flows down like wine
The winter moon –the shepherd Lord
Peaceful meadow-dreams at last

All Rights Reserved , Fixed Bayonets copyright 2004 Jackie Marx .
(Incorporated into the musical drama: Rocket City! by Jackie Marx)
www.jackiemarx.com for more information

The Streets Weren't Always Paved in Gold

The streets weren't always paved in gold. Or where they? I recall muddy ruts like chocolate pudding, the wagon sliding sideways, Daddy cracking the whip while Beauty's hooves made sucking sounds as she labored her way up our mud lake hill, her fine coat glistening from the effort.

I take another road.

I can see Beauty, a powdery black, as Mother Earth swirls the parched and vulnerable soil into an ethereal frenzy, as our little band of souls makes its Sunday way to early morning service in the drought-filled summer, when a whistle-wetting water drop was non-existent. Snow heaped high down another road--heaped high and silent--as the icy bluster swirled it into ice cream mounds. I see Momma and Daddy and Brother and me scooping our way through it, heck-bent on seeing "Gone With the Wind" playing down at the Bijou.

And now, the road I take leads to a manicured cul-de-sac, the street sweeper making sure not an errant leaf, Wrigley wrapper, or memory remain--my cul-de-sac a pristine oasis in this dirty world. I am safe in my sterile cocoon, behind my concrete barrier.

This road glistens when Spring washes the world. And, when the sun catches it just right, it glistens gold--like my world--hidden away from all that might tarnish it.

However, my streets weren't always paved in gold. Or were they?

All Rights Reserved.
The Streets Weren't Always Paved in Gold, copyright 2003, Jackie Marx.

Are We America?

Are we America?

If so,

then who shall we blame for all that goes wrong with her?

We, the People, form this perfect union;

so, when Lady Liberty stands naked in the harbor,

who is at fault?

Are we?

Until Now

"They never found the heads" were the first and only words she uttered in that horrific moment that crystallized the shape of our world, twisting it into its now unrecognizable malignant mass of terror.

"They never found the heads" became her mantra, as she hugged her legs and rocked in her mind-prison; silent screams shaking her to her soul, while she waited for our epiphany.

Her grief-song, springing forth from her indescribable anguish, had played just below our collective consciousness; mankind in deep denial. We would not believe, could not believe such horror could exist in our world: we jumped over the blood puddles imagining creek beds and streams of chilly, clear water, while we skipped the flat stones ( cherry-picked from bone piles) across the expanse of bitter bile; we parroted talking-points while tiptoeing through the carnage, eyes slammed shut.

"They never found the heads." Her mantra suspended far above the unspeakable pain, as she became our silent savior, washing our bloody feet, our slippery, sticky stones; as she patiently stroked our trembling hands, while we covered our hemorrhaging ears, crimson oozing onto our ivory knuckles.

We used her, wasted her, in that old world; we sucked her dry and then cancelled her. The womb had been the staging area; there had been no further want or desire, nor advantage to be taken, once life's flood gate had opened and set us free into the narcissistic world of our creation.

Her tears beseeched us, but never reached us--until now, as militant dissention decimates tomorrow; as levies break, blood-floods filling every crevice; as vulnerability wields its hammer-blow, splitting silent fears wide open, while red worms make holes in our souls, crawling in and out at will.

Only now, as the ravens hover over our burned and blackened land (over the nether world we must now inhabit), do we acknowledge our shriveled foreskin, our self-inflicted castration, as her mantra is taken by the whirlwind and released to the world, a horror unspoken--until now.