10/11/2017 0 Comments Poetry by Mel BikowskiTeams From the time we enter the playground to the time you'll begin work- the question will begin to blossom- when will you Be chosen- when will you be included? Chosen & Confident for the team- Softball was my first quest- in- included My Daddy helped me with my mitt and my pitch, but I could never quite throw straight- Always weird- little curved the ball would swirl somehow across the plate. The teams picked me Last- paid membership- money counts in little league My position was in Right Field- Where I could day dream- #7 shirt & Kleets- Glittery & floating above the game- Bright blue clouds- Poof into dragons- The field included Fantasy and flowers- My best friends were the insects- mosquitos- buzzing by with conversation- Most mom's came prepared with Bug Spray- "NO, not their child. " America’s past time does not include pests. And sharing their hot dog was Quite out of the question- I never quite minded the buzz or mosquitoes They scared me sometimes- but I knew they lived too, in right field. Only difference between them and me was Death was always close and ready. Swatted hand- chemical wind- The bugs would be chosen- splattered blood- Minutes on life's team- Forever to another- I'll end up there one day too- included among mosquito, bugs, Grandmas, and dogs- We all end up there because team death is #1 A Walk through Hell My flesh covers my soul Jailed up with a red beast; my heart Sometimes I covered the red one with flesh, bone, and blanket And then more flesh, bone, and blanket. They would whisper they like it in here The thick wetness of the night Peeling over their bodies Preparing them for winter In a hibernating a cave You were there once. With your Sword and Shield Saying you’d walk through hell with me Since you have the right shoes, And you took a swing at it a couple times the red beast sitting next to me leaving gashes and puncture holes the Splitter splatter of fiery blood bright across the black tar Watermelon kisses Filling up on the floor of our prison. My heart lays its beastly head on my lap Its wounds gaping and dripping black blood I sit there quietly rubbing the top of the beast’s head and we just stare out from the rib shaped bars. Listening to others sizzling and crying in the cell next to me We’ll never make it out alive. REM Cycle Techno knows no boundaries its technical textile tell all’s clap hips and tap lip with sips that licks sick teeth with language that sings to muscles moving more merrily elemental vibes meant for all people industrial jointed mechanical pumped beat settling humanity into an awakened coma covering blubbering confusion that’s covered with sleep. Deep Drop Dropping Dropped drumbeats batter blustering blamed beams battling emotional neurons started by morons five years of fear left with the scents of gents stuck in a six am REM with only my eyes open. The bass stops. The alcohol still drips from the skin of dancers as their hindsight rattles in their skulls. The world couldn’t treat their heart; diagnosed with abusive rape from a love they lost underneath the moon that howls of freedom The bar closes & security escorts me to the sun. There is breakfast. Pancakes & Eggs. Mimosas & Cartoons. There is talk of the beach, yoga, and red bull vodkas. Maybe there will be some hula hoops spinning tricks of a physical reminder of thoughts circling, “why doesn’t he love me?” Dizziness. Silliness. My eyes still open by friendships with airplane bottles. My car is pent up with house music & the stuffy smell left from activities with men under blanket forts, Shampoo, High Heels, My best friend’s cigarette. Empty Headlights Longing like the lonely eyes of my beagle who sits by the window waiting for my champagne motor vehicle to arrive. She’ll stand up in excitement and wag her tail swishing in the air like windshield wipers, brushing off the dirt tears from my face and she’ll kiss me to celebrate her love that I am alive. I still fail to relate. Kids these Days Today I put my kid’s shoes on backwards. She was waddling around the living room whining with her hands in the air. Screaming, “Momma, Momma, Momma” I couldn’t figure out why she was distressed. I was pretty late to work myself. Packing my lunchbox with PB&J Shoving Strawberries & Bananas in my mouth Stumbling over kid toys & dirty clothes. My hands up in the air; thinking Tighten up kid. It’s a cold hard world out there. Soon my kid just gave up. Sat on the ground and started playing with a puzzle. Her feet straight out Her shoes half on/half off. Ill equipped for the outside world. But accepting it. A mother’s worst fear. Bio: Mel Bikowski: She is one with the many face God. She wears many faces in this life. Poet, Mom, Wife, Artist, Dancer, Lover of Dance Music, Traveler, Friend, Lover. She has poems published in Elephant Journal, GERM Magazine, and Quail Bell Magazine. Her Website: www.melbikowski.com
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