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Sandra Jean-Pierre | Digital Artist & Writer of Words.

Category: Poetry

No Time Left For Being Children

© 2013 Sandra Jean-Pierre The cards lay wantonly, this un-winning hand exposed with all watching. Taking the Lion’s share of the suffering, owner succumbing to the decorated waxy surfaces’ hidden meanings. Quickly, quickly! There is no time left for being children! Deaf eyes mute survival with poisoned grief of regret. Blame, thick as flies on death, comes invited by guilt, fermenting like unclaimed bodies in the sun, spoon fed to those who also suffer, who also mourn, who know better

Long Horizon

© 2010 Sandra Jean-Pierre …there but for grace and mercy… I’ve walked the thousand steps, by the thousands before me, in this thousand moments journey. Favored children, sleeping restless sleeps, eating fetid dreams of those unaccustomed to dreaming, much less eating, never you mind sleeping. Preying demise and not life for existence, leaving a trail of the fallen. Even I have not been exempt. These eyes had grown accustomed to shielding against endless horizons by slow and steady hands, with


© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre This dance this formative give-take yank-push scream-pull boder?-No boder mi! Mama!-Fe respe wou wi tifi! dance that we find ourselves in the middle of that we can’t break away from no matter how far or wide or permanent these miles seem as we try – oh we try to squeeze out from beneath these shadows you’ve conveniently left for us In vain, this squeezing, in vain Exactly how is it that one hides from the sun?

Folding Pieces

© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre As I am folding these pieces – these wayward bothersome pieces these fulsome tiresome pieces of this Self, curtailing the the sumTotalall-ness the genteel mock/smallness the wholesome boldness of This Self it occurs to me … occurs to Me that this, folding should not be in the doing should not be getting done anymore than gagging is for silence than blindfold is for blocking Vision this folding should not be in the Getting Done Not with


© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre paper like that torn too close to the fire piece that no one notices I crinkle and curl up turning light brown and smooth around my edges bright embers lava bright in the pinched darkness dying to ethereal grayish smokes to the sky reaching to the sky… at the bottom the silt’s silt smooth through my fingers over my tongue tasting the ocean’s essence brine back of my throat choking on the raw bouquet I swallow