Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 42
                                   
Table of
Contents



"Storm"

The
Powerlines
Were
Dis
Connected.
There was never a way,
To predict,
That your face would disappear,
From.
My conscience.
Phone poles were destroyed.
The only way,
To communicate,
Was to scream in the
Darkness.
Stoplights were shattered.
There was never a way,
To predict,
That your ending,
Was my Beginning.
The only thing I knew back then,
Was how to bleed,
In a beautiful way.
I went to church at 13,
Where I was taught,
To turn the other cheek.
When you hit me,
I dragged you off the pedestal,
And I turned the other cheek.
My preacher told me,
As a young lady,
My future was to be a servant,
I was to be,
A servant to the Lord,
A servant to my husband,
A servant to my children,
That was my future.
Only.
That was never my future.
When the storm passed through,
I stole your house key,
Hopped a plane,
And I left.
I didn't know back then,
That scars would teach me more,
Then textbooks.
I didn't know back then,
My fight,
Could never erase,
My womanhood.
I know now.
Killing you in my mind,
Was not a sin.
When you died,
I discovered,
I am not a broken down doll,
Plastic arms and legs,
Floating in the storm.
I am not a servant,
Holding a Bible,
And a broom.
I am.
Aphrodite.
I need only my heart,
To battle
Storms.

  Elizabeth Stansberry__

"Girl"

Blue girl,
You she'd your fear,
Like a snake's skin,
There is a grace,
In survival.
There is a grace.
In.
Thriving.
When you were born,
To die.
You count good deeds,
Like dollar bills,
They sustain you,
In this
Systemic disease,
Hate.
Painted in red,
On your doors,
Hate.
You take out your black marker,
And scribble,
Love wins,
Over it.
But does it?
When you are told.
Put a mask on.
You say no.
And smile.
You know.
Truth,
Is a rare commodity,
In this day.
Truth,
Is not negotiable.
Repeat.
Repeat that.
Truth,
Is not negotiable.
He wears his lie,
Like a shiny cross,
And lures you in
To the closet.
When you go to bed at night,
You see his face.
In the morning,
You wake,
And the sun shines on
The cracks,
In your ceiling.
So, you break it.
And build a plaster heart,
From the wet, muddy pieces,
And hold it in your arms,
When you pray.


  Elizabeth Stansberry__
"Static"

A black wave.
A significant
Feeling.
My heart has four walls.
No doors.
You have to leave.
The second enchantment
In a day.
Congratulations
On your beautiful
New Resentment.
My soul has no windows.
The doors are small
And dark.
January farewells
Are proper.
I am
Still.
Standing by an oak tree,
In a snow storm
Waiting
For a lightening bolt.


  Elizabeth Stansberry__


Croosing
 © Patricia Carragon: Crossing Smith Street