bluerain

For some moment,
succinct and awe-inspiring,
some munificent deity decided to loan the world
an angel with the gift of the spoken word.
And her words were like ice and fire,
bottled like a concoction,
that freed the world,
that mesmerized,
even for some brief seconds,
we pondered her words, and saw truth – naked.
She was called back,
and has now sailed in her sleep
back to the roguish deity,
who knew that with her little voice,
some others might listen and understand;
and not only a handful did.
Sail now, Shannon,
the poet will be missed,
but the poetry, like your essence, lingers.

 - bluerain

On Saturday June 14^th,  poet and artist, Shannon Leigh Lewis (age 20),
got into a cave diving accident at Ginnie Springs in Florida. On June
30, 2008, she head on to her spiritual quest, on to her next great
adventure.

Click out link to YouTube:

Sudanese Children by Shannon Leigh (HBO: Def Poetry)

Poetry by Shannon Leigh (January 2008):

For the people planning to picket Heath Ledger’s funeral
because he did Brokeback Mountain

Christ, what have they done to your hands
they have filled them with placards
and sewn up your tendons with cotton

I remember you used to bleed.
This is not my Calvary, the M-4
in your arms held stiffly with broken shoulder arched
this is not my cross, at its foot I
don’t remember those small skulls
listen closely. They have fed
your starving with salt and sulfur
AIDS and typhoid your birthplace
is the grave of some woman or some
small child and they say this
is righteousness.

A child stuck with needles rubbed with cocaine
and fucked by her mother’s man a woman
cut out of herself, her dark dreams
spread open and excised, in India
white women pay the poor to carry their children
this is the world
for which you died that
sacrificial offering that paved
these bloodrun streets
your sons are holding makeshift grenades
and bringing knives into grade schools
your daughters are bleeding out
in crowded waiting rooms and God,
what have they done to your words

they are tattered, buried in shrouds of silver this
is not my God

who was a man
who did no great thing but speak
to the poor and outcast and then die
raging at the fate he wished
he knew, he had
skin then
bright fire-eyes and open hands
scar-dotted and waiting
born of an unmarried woman who said to save herself
that she was holy
and made him believe, those hands
are not signposts
that cross is not a billboard with a picture
of a baby that blood
is only blood like ours, Christ

what have we done to you
you simple country carpenter you
perfectly timed suicide you lover
of the blasphemous listen closely:
don’t come back.

We will see your feet and call you beggar
we will feed you with the fat
the rich discard and your teeth will rot away you
will be denied shelter and we will not care
even enough
to kill you

you will always deserve it. You will be
freak, john, junkie, you will catch lice from shelter pillows
and we will call you bum
the refugee camps will have no room for you the buses
will not stop and street miracles
will not even get you airtime

don’t come back

when you hug men you will be called
faggot when we hear you preach
we will call you Jew at least that
has not changed and when
we come for you, there will be no trial
only an ambulance
restraints and syringes. Slowly

you will forget you are God
and write mad poetry on your skin
with felt-tip pens the nurses
will call you quiet and we will never
remember your name.

I remember you bled once
and I was too young to believe it was for me

do you still remember wood
beneath your palms, do you still
love the starving and the lame
or do you wish for a lesser death
wondering how we can possibly believe
this has all been for you
if you open up your hands
will you be home again

don’t wait for us.

You’ve already seen what we
think of your
forgiveness.