Timely Poems by Kim D. Bailey

Tonight I have some timely poems by Kim D. Bailey.  I don't usually let poems jump the queue, but these poems, especially "Oxygen," speak to our current situation.

Oxygen

In this place another voice is silenced, unwelcome

heresy to speak against them. They own the air 

you breathe, the light and darkness, the wall erected

to keep those people out. As if anyone would 

want a place in their world, where women

walk on broken glass, belong in shackles while they

serve, occupying space at their mercy. Mind 

your words and make sure to please, ensure

your place, sacrifice equals love. No, not his—

only yours is needed. Never mind the lack of

oxygen, you get what you deserve. Be grateful

and gracious. The Bible says so. He is the Head, you

are his property. This place is an anomaly, frozen 

locked down, pious patriarchy poison. Outsiders 

submit or face excommunication, exist or

exit the room, resistance is relinquishment. 

I will not look back and become a pillar

of salt. The air out here is too delicious.

Photograph by Rawpixel.com

Intangibiles

Some say we should be grateful, I do

not disagree, but the thing I need

to say, for you to hear is

gratitude does not equal 

safety to a young mother, it fills 

an abstraction, not children's 

bellies; nor does it cure

cancer or unbreak a heart or

keep you warm or make the

loneliness dissipate in cloud and sky, 

no. Gratitude is a trick of the mind like 

quarters appearing behind your 

ears when your uncle comes to visit. 

It is there, but does not belong to you, 

only the cosmos, the empty blackness 

devoid of air and light.

How To Help

When momma cooked supper I washed 

the dishes, while my sister dried, caressing 

them like a crystal ball, and we saw 

our unmapped futures. Unrequited.

Babies are made this way, we clench

our teeth hold our breath hope for more, sometimes 

less. We got what we prayed for, more 

than we expected. Nonrefundable.

Momma can't wash the dishes anymore.

We wring our hands, howl at windmills, feel 

the earth fall upon our skin; it clings like 

molasses until we are face down. Asphyxiated.

I try to help. My words are sucked 

away, my breaths are shallow. A 

mountain has formed in the curve of 

my spine. My chest is gravel. Scatter 

me on fields of 

cotton, clothe the world.

  

Photograph by David-D

Ascension

Tall as trees yet greener than the ancient pin

oaks swaying, branches outstretched, I watch 

them, get to know their cadence and

chatter, noise to fill a house haunted by

death. Walking corpses entombed, petrified sorrow

preach disdain, dissolves on the tongue. Why not

swallow your fear? Life is for the living. Their young eyes

drive darkness from forgotten corners, clearing

cobwebs gathered dust, rusted remains 

rendered in a rue of righteousness, rage

at God, “My will, not His, be done!”But the seed drifted,

and from those tired bones, reach the smiles of children

so much like their father, and his father long ago, shining

like sunlight on Pluto's surface, bathing, caressing until

a fissure is made. God's promises fulfilled, should

one care to notice, are right here in front of us.

Missing

I know you are there, somewhere

lost among dead leaves, decomposing or

basking in kindness of strangers, aliens

to you—strange smells and beds, as long as 

you are safe and happy.

I have an idea where, but not exactly. No

forwarding address, a sleight of hand, phantom

shadows in glimpses. You are, and you are

not. So I imagine laughter because anything 

else feels like betrayal.

One day I may see you, will you see me?Perhaps

It would be best if I watched from my shadow 

world, expecting nothing, living on

memories. You disappeared for a reason. Who am

I to question that?

Kim D. Bailey is a 2016 Pushcart Nominee for nonfiction, and a 2018 Best of the Net Nominee for poetry. She is published in several online and print journals and in audio, including but not limited to Firefly Magazine, Tuck Magazine, The Scarlet Leaf Review, Writer's Digest, Anti Heroine Chic, The Song Is, The 52 Men Podcast, and Tupelo Press. Kim was a columnist for Five 2 One Literary Magazine from June 2016 to October 2017, writing to Breaking the Legacy of Silence. She has also held editorial positions with Firefly Magazine and Sick Lit Magazine. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and two dogs.

I'd like to finish with some music.  Let's start with Jen Shyu's "Song for Naldo."  I'm not sure which stringed instrument she is playing:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STZE_NcP3m4. It may be a Taiwanese moon lute.  It may be a Korean instrument.

This is her "Mother of Time" with her band Jade Tongue:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7Um5RBX_ds

Next is her "Mother Cow's Companion": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grZvm13jZv0&list=OLAK5uy_lB0bVywoQHWr5b6hGIGPPuyuX8eXg8eCs

I'll finish with her "Part 3: The Human Color": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqGR0rkgoy0&index=7&list=OLAK5uy_lB0bVywoQHWr5b6hGIGPPuyuX8eXg8eCs