Bereaved

Fruit falls, cracking from the sky.

Not yet ripe; it was thrust into the world. 

Now it lays open upon Autumn's cold concrete.

Wind rushed, passing it by.

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Falcon

Master of the Sky.

Feathers rustle, muscles ripple, wings glide.

You peck out my eyes.

You tear my flesh.

You suck the marrow from my bones.

I scream, I cry, claw at mottled skin.

But I am powerless.

You leave me lay, a breath from death,

You let me heal so that You another day can come to prey.

Here I am.

Deformed and pained, never to be the same.

There You go.

I want to, in my arms hold curved beauty of power and strength, bend it with my will

And bring You down

To my level.

See you quiver instead of watching me tremble from Your lofty heights.

I want to crush Your delicate bones.

Smell sweet, damp, dark dirt welcome You into its deep caverns.

I want to make sure that You will never hurt me again.

But I can't.

We are linked.

If I were to strike the Mighty Falcon down, I would severe my ties with the skies.

When You pluck me from the earth, with Your razor claws piercing my back;

 For a fleeting moment, I feel the wind on my face, wiping away my tears.

Then, when You decide it's time for me to plummet;

It dances through my hair and cushions my fall.

It is this bit of beauty that helps with the pain and guides

Me through when You decide I must suffer again.

One day wind and prey will unite, and Oh,

My Mighty Falcon, won't You be in a terrible plight!

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Let Them Burn

Craned forward on the 1990’s couch

Cat rubs on your back, he purrs

Bury your face in your shaky hands

Something in between your legs

Feels dirty, so gross, so torn

Something in your aching head

Feels longing and forlorn

And creeping into your mind

Is the thought

Hot, oozing flesh, baking sweat

Chest to chest, neck to neck

Grinding back and forth

The timer goes off

Rushed air and desperation

You let the cookies burn

Preoccupied, the timer is beating

Rushing for this fleeting

Feeling of completeness

For this sick greeting

The emotion of togetherness

You know you’re not it

But it’s worth it

Sometimes cats and cookies

They aren’t enough

So you let them burn

Best,
Anna Belle Lee

Forever

My forever and

Your forever

Have decided

To co-habitate

At least

For awhile.

Best,

Anna Belle Lee

There's No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

A chicken sits alone in the forest.

He is finally free.

Perhaps

The only free chicken

In all the country.

This chicken cries.

No tears fall from his eyes,

But plenty flow

From his heart.

First these are tears of joy;

He is finally free from the place of

Cages and Knives,

Free of seeing his kind forced

To lay egg after egg.

Then they turn to sadness.

In his freedom

He has no clue,

On what it is he should do.

He has no family.

No one else of his kind is free.

He scrambles back and forth,

To and fro,

He lifts his wings, ready to go.

But, though light, his feathers weigh him down.

For he, a free chicken, has lost the instinct of flight (They had taken it)

                                                            hence                                                                  

 by claw

                                                                                      he carries on,

 And when he yet again begins to feel glee at being free,

He runs smack dab into a tree.

At this precise moment 

Our free chicken realizes he has 

No head,

 They had taken it, left him for dead.

Though he is free, 

 He has no place to go.

Alive, helplessly alive, he

Will never feel what it is to know.

He wishes in vain that he had been

Slain.

He is the only one free.                                                                                 But he is chained.

And we are the ones to be blamed.

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

         

Needles

Little teeth flash greedily.

They twinkle and twist, diving in.

Blood, endless blood, drips.
It drops, falls, cascades, flows.
Swirling into chaos and confusion.
It fills shiny vials,
Leaving nothing behind.

I am pale.
I am weak.
I am bloodless.

My eyes are wet. My heart is angry:
I want to hear screams, feel pain that is not my own.
Now the needles are gone and my hands are bloody.
And I am left waiting.

I have hope.
But mostly I have fear.
I don't want more emptiness.
Tension rises, my chest falls, my hands shake;
I hope this time the needle breaks.


Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Es Zieht

A note from me: This little snippet might be hard to follow, and natürlich, as happens when mixing two languages together, it is probably full of multiple grammatical errors and wierd ways of thinking. I've been highly fascinated by 'es zieht' ever since the moment I first learned it. I just really like messing with words and their meanings in general, so...enjoy! 

Es zieht. That means "There's a draft," but translates directly to "It pulls."
Although seemingly strange, this is quite logical if 'it' refers to the air.
~It pulls the door shut in my room.~
However, when not confined to the concept of wind, there are endless possibilities.
When examined from multiple identities, it pulls a lot in my life.
Well, actually... Alles zieht. (everything pulls).

Ballet pulled me- it was a good pull. That was my life, my love, my career of choice. Then my health (or lack thereof) pulled me from ballet. But I had other options and passions, so it was okay.  Now my Krankheit threatens to pull those from me, and it pulls hard. I can't study if I can't read, can't converse if I can't speak, can't write if I can't move. All very difficult for a language major.

Bicycles can make even a limited person feel light and free, fast, fun...edgy. I am so grateful that I discovered this. But I fear that I'll have to say goodbye to my bicycle. I wonder if one day (perhaps soon), I'll be forced to accept the confines of a different kind of bicycle. (Der Rollstuhl).

Above all, I fear that IT (the big it, my all-consuming it) will pull me down.  We don't know what it is. But we know that it pulls. And it stinks (wie Scheiße).

Tschüss,
Marta Frieda Hart

Doctor

You are a computer

Calculating, processing

Accurate

Telling no lies

You are a fact

Not a fantasy

In you I see

a tragic truth

But you are

a happy priority

You are

a demolition specialist

That planted in a time bomb

In my chest

I can hear it

Clicking, ticking, kicking

Waiting for it to blow

Time is running low…

You are a doctor

That will not promise me

Forever,

But

You promise

A magnificent now

Best,
Anna Belle Lee 

Jamie

If I were a peach,
                      my pit would be split;
                                             the seed partially exposed.

There would be no stones.        

Tschüss,

Marta Frieda Hart