Saturday, September 22, 2018

Confiteor (I Confess)

it was my fault
for being young female and alone
on dark streets
it was my fault
for speaking to a man I didn’t know
it was my fault
for wearing shorts tight jeans fitted slacks
a gauzy skirt a long skirt a short skirt
it was my fault
for thinking it was just a friendly conversation
it was my fault
for letting him buy me a drink
it was my fault
for walking home from the bus stop at night
it was my fault
for not being violent enough
for not screaming loud enough
for being so scared no sound would come out at all
it was my fault it was my fault it was my fault

I confess I bare my soul I bury my soul
I tell the almighty powers
the police the teachers my parents
and they tell me it was my fault
that I shouldn’t have been there
that I shouldn’t have worn that
that I should have been home
that I should have been studying
that I should have been decently silent
that I never should have laughed
accepted that drink
walked down that street
you get what you ask for
you get what you deserve

I have sinned exceedingly
in thought word and deed
and my judges are men and mock-virgins
women who have never looked outside the world
described by patriarchy
defined by the judges
men whose hands a
re not clean
women who have never questioned the boundaries
because when they stepped outside they were punished
much the same as I will be
the only forgiveness is Silence
the only forgetting is Silence
the Silence is Deafening

mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa

© 2018 pamela twining

Thursday, July 26, 2018


the secret music of the children tears my flesh
spirit journeys of a newer time unknown
in dreams all empty nights long
without pity
the lost children
the ones whose poetry is untried
 bare limbs torn from mothers
torn from homes and lives
torn from the breasts of those
who only wanted to give them more and better
the abject tortured poems cried in the dark
innocent/not innocent

the death of journeys
death of hope
the echoes of the heart
the deepest memories
the never
our land forgotten
left behind with older dreams
with Nothing but barren fields
empty streets and tumbling cots
wizened shrunken faces
of the ancient ones
sprung from the soil
roots deep in a place called Home

haunted sleepless obscured night skies
stars lost in lowering bleakness
no moon to give us back
the songs we left that place with
and disembodied footfalls
loud voices
words not understood
and then the tearing and the screams
and then the blackness falls all round
the soundless dreams crushed together
with no language
raped and broken on the lathe of hell
the horror of those moments
when we believed the good
the open loving arms
arms now tearing
no whispered loving sounds
but taunts and hideous laughter
as force gives up no names
no identities
no longer innocent
nightmares without names or faces
the screams filling all orifices
leaving no room for light
the holes left in bodies
deep wells bottomless
in the night of cries and evil almost-whispers
like grinding gears or ripping clothes
deadly whispers calling ugly names
and putting hands where hands should never be
soft untouched skin
deep gravid eyes
wounded with forgetting
wounded with the need for oblivion

what will become of these children
calling out their agonized refrains
in the deepest time of night
where dreams go to die
the promised borning burning
torched by invective
the delicate skin
the trembling flesh
words ripped from center
by naked claws
ever since the mother was torn away

where is the mother, the father
do they not love me ever any more
why don’t they come
where is that lullaby
that song that let me sleep at last
why did they go and leave me here?
with just this crying
endless crying
words are told to me but all is din
voices layered and overlapping
hard hands and harsh impatient touch
names lost
exchanged for numbers

I, in safety
and plead for torture to stop
there is no remedy, no sanctuary
and the poetry of children tears my soul
I am complicit
my age will not forgive me
I am not forgiven
tears fall and mingle
with rivers and lakes of laments
unceasing streams
weeping for what’s been taken
there’s no giving back
it’s gone
fragile lives melt into other lives  
and older times
forgotten times
the young hatched from these caged birds
know no sacred touch
no love
can words half remembered
buried deep within the memories of long ago
when mother held them
her soothing bell-like voice
sang sweet unworded nothings
into tiny shell-like ears
the promises
lost promises given
can forgotten words still heal?

we can only give them poetry
and broken promises
but maybe poetry will be enough

© 2018 pamela twining

Monday, June 4, 2018

Tipping Point

knee deep in our democracy
have we reached critical mass
that the weight of souls crossed over
tip the scales on behalf of the love
the creative
a tipping point heavyweight spirit migration
do they look back or only gather
playing writing drawing singing
hands off
the machinations of the living

for how long
without intervention from the stars
diamond dust of universe scattered
cross the cosmos
critical mass

Fame monster corporations
like psychopaths
wreaking havoc because they can
wreaking death of tomorrow
in the toxic remnants of what we’re allowed
heaven scented hell

after our walk there were no babies left
sandpaper father
dead man’s shoes
kali yuga dark age
a band of poets creating insistent pockets of Light
in the encroaching
standing shadowless like silence
like Ouroboros consumes itself

angry shores
so much hate
it crawled around the edges of their hearts
gripped tight
manifest destiny manifest aggression
terrorized with information
they got into bed with death
despised and mocked of history
they can’t escape themselves
the monster shouters
who tell us to create more dead
for their delectation
making children afraid of a blue sky

my Name is Resistance

© 2018 pamela twining