where poetry meets music meets incredible beauty.
His face was beautiful, Brian was his name. Meet him,
I would, in the wee hours of a morning, when sleep
was a promise on the lips of a liar and the darkness was a friend
to us both. Talk, we would. Laugh, we would. I didn’t know his story
I didn’t know his history, I only knew he was a companion
to the winds down from the canyon. Those bedeviled cracks
in the pavement, the occasional curb like a wall… vexed, he would pause,
as poignant as a stutter on the tongue, as welcomed
as a careless match in the forest. He would mutter
but no one at all would listen.
The boy down by the creek, with his crooked nose
and his blue eyes and pale, drawn cheeks. It was cold
and he’d been resting there, no blanket, no pillow, no embrace.
I brought him to my apartment, gave him soup to warm
his heart and a thermal shirt for his soul. I didn’t know his story,
I didn’t know his history. All I knew was that my dog didn’t bark
and my heart melted, in a feeble attempt to prevent it from breaking.
I will never know, did he find a home where fists would not alter
his appearance? Is he alive now? Did I make
any kind of difference at all?
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
You break my heart, with your memories. Why, when we’re young
we’re so eager to smash the family portrait, only to weep
with longing when the years have taught us what is precious
and worthy of yearning for? They could have been
the worst you’d ever known, but when they are gone
you cry like a baby. They shunned, they judged, they hurt you
but sometime upon a night, bleeding in a wee hour of the morning, alone
with your festering wound, you cry.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
My friends, I know there is no “Dislike” or “Hate” button, but please feel free to tell me exactly what you think of whatever I post. My intention in starting this blog was to open up discussion. I don’t seek praise, although I ummm like it. If I write something you don’t like I’d love it if you told me. Tell me why you don’t like it, please. I am sometimes reactionary, I am sometimes very rigid in my viewpoints. I look to the honesty of the people around me to help me grow- as a human being, as a writer, as a blogger. So, please, if I piss you off, tell me. If I write something that offends, tell me. If you want to show me an alternate view, then please, tell me. Dialogue. Education. Discourse. These are the things that help us become more civilized, and that is one of my personal aims. And thanks, for taking the time to read this. 🙂
I stand shielded from your judgement by love. Naked, I am, and free of shame.
No cookie cutter repetition, nothing formulaic here. When the universe sketched out
the lines of my heart I was born; a snowflake on a starry night. No amount of jamming
will fit me into that hole, spiritually opposed
to the tsunami that is me. My voice rides on the wind and boomerangs back
all the way to my essential divinity.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
Someone I know posted some little pearls of wisdom on Facebook best summarized with two words: Lighten Up! The message was that “being serious” about things brings serious circumstances into your life, and if you just lighten up your life will become fabulous. I can imagine the person who wrote that concept down for the rest of us mere mortals, I just cannot fathom what planet they live on.
I used to buy into that line of thinking that says we create our own reality. That was before I learned about and contemplated key parts of human history like:
The Black Death across Europe, early 1330’s, with an unfathomable minimum of 75 million dead. A truly astounding number!
The Shaanxi Earthquake in China, 1556, that killed an estimated 830,000 people.
The Great Famine in Ireland, starting in 1845, that killed a million and forced another million to flee in the hope of food and a better life.
The Great Depression, which started in the U.S. in 1929 and in some cases lasted until the end of World War II, saw the Stock Market crash, heavy industry come to a grinding halt worldwide, and produce prices plummet by 60%.
The Dust Bowl Years, starting in the 1930’s throughout the prairie lands of North America, saw the loss of 100,000 acres of farmland and the displacement of hundreds of thousands.
World War II started officially in 1939, although Japan was already at war with China two years earlier. This war involved over 30 nations, and cost the lives of between 50 to 85 million people. And what strange alliances of the powerful were formed: U.S., U.K., France, Russia and China on one side; Germany, Italy and Japan on the other. The Holocaust, of course, proved to be the most diabolical plot humans have ever known; replacing traditional warfare with propaganda & fear mongering, treachery and systematic genocide. WWII is, to date, the world’s most deadly war.
The 1970 Bhola Cyclone devastated East Pakistan (before it was Bangladesh) and West Bengal, killing half a million people; the deadliest tropical cyclone in our history.
The Ethiopian Famine of 1984, caused by a combination of drought, civil war and policies based on politics rather than the lives of civilians, killed 400,000 people.
The Great Floods of 1988 & 1989 in Bangladesh, caused 30 million souls to become homeless and submerged two thirds of the country underwater.
The Rwandan Genocide lasted for 100 days following the killing of the Hutu President Habyarimana in April of 1994. It was a civil war and a power struggle that culminated in the death of over 800,000 Tutsis and Hutu sympathizers. Nobody seemed to care.
Enough. You get the picture. The world is full of suffering due to natural and man-made disasters, war, greed, poor planning, etc. To suggest that all these millions of people could have had a fabulous life if they had just “lightened up” a bit is the most ludicrous thing I’ve heard – ever.
Should Europeans have laughed that Plague away? Maybe starving Ethiopian babies could have giggled that food right into their bowls? I guess the 15,000 people who died a couple of years ago in that tsunami off the coast of Japan should have been thinking happy thoughts.
Contrary to the perception of some, I am not fascinated by the macabre, nor am I a depressive type. I enjoy a good belly laugh at least 4 times a week, lose myself quite effectively in music on a daily basis, and find great joy in the simple things like cats, ice cream and the play of sun through trees. That said, there are things that are wrong in the world, and there are things that go wrong in the world. As a result, people, animals and the planet suffers. Stick your head in the sand and hum yourself a tune if you want to, just don’t be surprised when trouble comes knocking on your own door someday. And that’s despite all your happy thoughts.
The city requires armor. A multitude of suits I’ve tried
not a one of them will fit. My fingers of flesh and bone are not stilettos.
No shit kickers laced into boots, no steel bulges from the breast
the thigh, the hip, the belly. Not bulletproof, not bullet brazen.
Aggression whips around me in the passing of a car, even the sound
of rubber on asphalt assaults. I want to weep.
Humans are the only beasts can thrive in this grid
this evolutionary plateau directed by painted yellow lines, closed
and shuttered windows. Must I look? There, the furtive spray can art
à la soulless miscreants -an advertisement for pain- an invitation to violence.
Here, the used condom in the alley à la careless John, growing crispy in the sun.
A discarded needle, a single shoe on the side of the road, skinny dogs
tearing at wrappers, and dumpsters stinking of rotting meat.
The City requires armor.
No matter how many times I try it on it will never be my home.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
Nearly all the teeth are gone, some coveted for their gold, others yellowed
with age & still attached to jaw bones, residing in mouths that no longer speak
or pray or scream. Those were the lucky ones. They became too old
for the benevolence of the Fairy, too young to fossilize, too strong
to succumb to gravity or the hazards of kruszchyki or rugelach or hamantaschen.
There were millions who left us so soon – their rib cages threatening to poke
straight through the paper thin skin, their eye sockets like tunnels to death.
Some became soap, some lampshades. The lucky young ones with hair like sun and eyes
like skies became Himmler’s Lebensborn dollies, and for them the future echoed with “Why?
Who am I? Why me?” Perhaps someday a god will answer. Perhaps someday a goddess
will spill her tears and the ones who lived can rest in peace. There is no peace
for those of us who now write history with a fading tattoo but remember. Should we choose
to forget and men who would be painters instead chase the applause
afforded the sociopath, the accolades for the clever tyrant, uncovering yet another rune
to woo you, then the bones of the dead will beat on your brow
and beseech you, L’Chaim! L’Chaim! Mein Kampf ist euer Kampf, lass uns leben!
To Life! To Life! My struggle is your struggle, let us live!
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
Not vessels to be filled with your rage; not mannequins
with convenient holes you can pretend don’t have a voice or eyes
or delicate frontal lobes. We’d rather see you
ejaculate into the sky and let it rain
down sorrow. If you did that, if you turned the sky
from blue to milk with frightened tears, pleading tears
we could forgive you every time you made
the rivers run red, turned compassion on its head and robbed the world’s children
of their innocent baby’s breath. The universal mind sees
what you do, so don’t fool yourself. While Institutions may
wink and nod, you deliver your self to that wretched stained garden
to reap
the toxic seeds that you have thrown. And they will grow.
A bright green beanstalk to slowly strangle you. A mirror
for you. A time
when you become the vessel, the receptacle
of what you let fly from your loins: a legacy of pain.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
A Mermaid Mining Words from the Wet Mountains
The blog of a french storyteller, a polish photography lover and a world adventurer, Christina Czubak.
Reports from my somewhat unusual life
An American student researcher explores the beauty of Sub-saharan African terrain
Watercolour and mixed media art
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Global issues, travel, photography & fashion. Drifting across the globe; the world is my oyster, my oyster through a lens.
Family, Politics and Poetry
Oloriel's Truth
"We did not weave the web of life, we are merely strands in it. Whatever we do to the web we do to ourselves.” ― Chief Seattle. Awestruck Wanderer is written and edited by Eduardo Carli de Moraes, journalist, philosopher and musician. Write to me: awestruckwanderer@gmail.com. Cheers, fellow earthlings!
"We're all out there, somewhere, waiting to happen."
Where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry.
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You Are Me
You steal the light from the room, you peel the face
off the moon, you think you know reciprocity. We dance
to color the night, we spur the angels to flight, we descend
at high velocity. Don’t pretend that you don’t know me, I won’t
deny that you owe me, I know the mirror’s not free. You swerve
avoiding the damage, I stop the blood with a bandage, I tell
my reflection you’re me.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019