Thursday, September 22, 2011
11:09 pm, Wednesday September 21
And so I wonder, what if he was innocent? And then I ponder, what if he were guilty? Then I question, what if neither answer answers the real question? Let live.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Update Status Prayer
Our monitor who art in journalism
Editor by thy name
Thy articles publish
Thy opinions do run
Online as it is in print paper
Tell us in the stories our local news
And forgive us our copyright infringements
As we forgive those who re-post our blogging
Lead us not into over criticisms
But deliver us from censorship
For thine is free press
And independent power
And the platform
Ever growing into a media conglomerate. Amen
by tambria moore
Editor by thy name
Thy articles publish
Thy opinions do run
Online as it is in print paper
Tell us in the stories our local news
And forgive us our copyright infringements
As we forgive those who re-post our blogging
Lead us not into over criticisms
But deliver us from censorship
For thine is free press
And independent power
And the platform
Ever growing into a media conglomerate. Amen
by tambria moore
September 13, 2001 Seattle Center International Fountain Memorial.
It was quiet, a zen eddy of flowers tears and prayers.
Children were quiet. Sadness was the loudest presence there.
We walked wounded. No one pushed or prodded.
Some left flags, others flowers. Stuffed animals.
... ... Each dropped a piece of their American Dream
to the pavement.
The water cascaded.
A drum circle formed to beat our hearts for us.
Children were quiet. Sadness was the loudest presence there.
We walked wounded. No one pushed or prodded.
Some left flags, others flowers. Stuffed animals.
... ... Each dropped a piece of their American Dream
to the pavement.
The water cascaded.
A drum circle formed to beat our hearts for us.
Monday, June 14, 2010
rain
The sky is dark at suppertime, just as it was all day.
I can see the rain from my balcony.
It started by the church on the hill, the one with the red roof and stone facade.
Sheets of it obscured the green of the trees.
It was the wind that first gave away the rain's path.
Fifteen pigeons flocked and soared together following the wind's path.
They circled rooftops, dipped and swirled and then selected a roofline on my left
above Thames Greenery.
They lined themselves on the crest.
Some fluffed.
Some ruffled.
Some stoic to the pending storm.
Rain doesn't seem limited to cloudy days.
Sometimes a few silver drops fall from cyan heavens,
single tendrils of wet tinsel.
Today, the rain is a sheet.
A wet wall.
As if nearsighted, I place lenses in front of my eyes.
An artist's hand renders my view: Vertical lines scrape onto canvas before me,
clouds to pavement.
The wind tortures the artist's hand, drawing bristles left then right,
twisting and blurring now, muted green and canary yellow of leaves.
Dimming.
Darkening the tapestry before me
until it is just
Rain.
Dishwater poured from dishrag clouds.
Rain, when it happens is not pretty.
I do not look at the cold wetness as future contributions to a glass of Poland Spring on ice with a lemon twist.
I see it as the rinse cycle of our human condition,
Sloughing our waste and lazy filth into gutters, drains and estuaries...
Trapped rain can be a child's toy.
Memories of flat blue Keds slapping percussion on drums of wetness...
Puddles are dark.
Their darkness splatters in satisfactory splotches against summer whites at six years old.
Once, the rain obscured my humble bath,
Rinsed urine from my pregnant, homeless flesh.
A dirty bath, like a bird's taken in the gutter on that roof.
Desperate.
Cloaked.
Rushed.
I have walked in anger in the rain,
Felt the steam of my thoughts dissipate against its coolness
until the hot iron of my resolve,
my fears,
my aloneness,
were all drenched.
Extinguished.
Numbed to the point of homeostasis.
I've walked, one with the rain.
I can see the rain from my balcony.
It started by the church on the hill, the one with the red roof and stone facade.
Sheets of it obscured the green of the trees.
It was the wind that first gave away the rain's path.
Fifteen pigeons flocked and soared together following the wind's path.
They circled rooftops, dipped and swirled and then selected a roofline on my left
above Thames Greenery.
They lined themselves on the crest.
Some fluffed.
Some ruffled.
Some stoic to the pending storm.
Rain doesn't seem limited to cloudy days.
Sometimes a few silver drops fall from cyan heavens,
single tendrils of wet tinsel.
Today, the rain is a sheet.
A wet wall.
As if nearsighted, I place lenses in front of my eyes.
An artist's hand renders my view: Vertical lines scrape onto canvas before me,
clouds to pavement.
The wind tortures the artist's hand, drawing bristles left then right,
twisting and blurring now, muted green and canary yellow of leaves.
Dimming.
Darkening the tapestry before me
until it is just
Rain.
Dishwater poured from dishrag clouds.
Rain, when it happens is not pretty.
I do not look at the cold wetness as future contributions to a glass of Poland Spring on ice with a lemon twist.
I see it as the rinse cycle of our human condition,
Sloughing our waste and lazy filth into gutters, drains and estuaries...
Trapped rain can be a child's toy.
Memories of flat blue Keds slapping percussion on drums of wetness...
Puddles are dark.
Their darkness splatters in satisfactory splotches against summer whites at six years old.
Once, the rain obscured my humble bath,
Rinsed urine from my pregnant, homeless flesh.
A dirty bath, like a bird's taken in the gutter on that roof.
Desperate.
Cloaked.
Rushed.
I have walked in anger in the rain,
Felt the steam of my thoughts dissipate against its coolness
until the hot iron of my resolve,
my fears,
my aloneness,
were all drenched.
Extinguished.
Numbed to the point of homeostasis.
I've walked, one with the rain.
Note to self
Hey, why not write about those moments when you balked, or when tears stopped. Or perhaps when you laughed so hard you did pee your pants, but no one remembered what was so funny. Write about what you forgot to say. Just write.
coffee house affair
in the seconds when my thigh crossed thigh
and knee hit wood
and big toe kicked table stand
I waited
I waited for the words
the cheerful impetus to make the raw image I witnessed before me change
I waited for the words
his shrug to acknowledge our being
his raised brow inviting me to smile
well this is awkward
they did not come
I waited for the words
to place me before their espresso order
and her eyes
and her
her
whose back fenced me away
they sat on cushions and love
his thighs settled intimate and owning
her thighs receiving
minutes ground with their coffee
slowly to fine powder
my trust
my hope
my respect
powder
my crossed thighs uncrossing
brown remnants now dried on my cup
like dirt
or blood
speechless
and knee hit wood
and big toe kicked table stand
I waited
I waited for the words
the cheerful impetus to make the raw image I witnessed before me change
I waited for the words
his shrug to acknowledge our being
his raised brow inviting me to smile
well this is awkward
they did not come
I waited for the words
to place me before their espresso order
and her eyes
and her
her
whose back fenced me away
they sat on cushions and love
his thighs settled intimate and owning
her thighs receiving
minutes ground with their coffee
slowly to fine powder
my trust
my hope
my respect
powder
my crossed thighs uncrossing
brown remnants now dried on my cup
like dirt
or blood
speechless
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