Call us freakish hybrids
or tolerably ugly plebeians,
but it does not define us.
We are a kind of chaos
prepared for a carnival
in the olde grand style.
May it become the height
of supreme folly –
or the ridicule
of the whole world,
our lives play on
as the planet
turns and turns
and changes and changes.
(Original Art & Poetry by Maranda Russell)
Doubtless,
the best
has yet to be said
of his wanderings.
Writing of his life
in seclusion,
he says:
Nothing
is more beautiful
than home.
Oh, affectionate anxiety
the future of those
dependent on self-denial
still trembles
under the quiet twilight
of a fading summer
Young miss is bad,
very bad.
She wants blood.
She wants crimson floods
overflowing the gutters
down on main street.
She wants children
wielding wet scythes
deep in the corn fields.
She wants the church doors
painted red
long after Passover
has passed us by.
Not many 10-year-olds
could be hit
by a speeding
delivery truck
while crossing the street
and live
to tell the tale…
but I always was
a weird statistic.
The truck ran
me over
with the ease
of a speed bump.
I even had the
tire tracks
and imbedded gravel
across my stomach
to prove it.
When I woke up
in the ER
I screamed out the names
of all the people
I was going to sue…
until my mother
bought my silence by
bribing me
with the promise
of a brand new
Barbie doll.
(Poetry by Maranda Russell, marandarussell.com)
