I walk my dog by the children at play. I must stop to admire a small girl upon the swings, Kicking her feet straight out and leaning her body back, A challenge to the dimensions of air, A brave heart to dare push her feet against the height of the sky.
Yes, this girl, smiling in the joy of her challenge and dares, Will carry her brave heart into her youth, And, I hope for her, she will carry it to her grave, Dying with the bravest of hearts. Unlike me, who carries a heart tucked away Inside this lidded vase kept upon a shelf.
Turn toward the hours passed. Size them and arrange. Let soak in dyes of prism colors As the minutes pass away and then Lift them, dripping dye, To hang in the warming sun Over tight strung wire. Watch the colors drip, splashing on the floor. Wet splotches collecting in puddles Of liquid silk to be mopped away As the hours drip colored dye In the drying of time.
Originally posted in August of 2017. However, after driving from Dallas to Houston to take care of some business with having a home built and experiencing nearly deserted roads because of the lock downs and quarantines, I thought I’d touch it up a bit and post it again.
My scars flames–
The sides of my back,
pock marked brown
drying dark
if not daily oiled in
the red, orange, white
of flames,
trailing once welted scars,
faded, now barely.
if even seen–
Feathered flames
enabling flight,
if I should like,
or if I so prefer,
burning back past paths
behind so I may fly
to places I wish,
keeping promises
to my soul.
My scars flame–
Only I see
and only I know
the power contained
in my flaming scars.
In this day and age We ought to be able to be wired Wired for anything, everything– For hope— –dreams –love –desire Wired for it all and more Wired for an add on room In the heart when we’ve run out– For expansion of sound inside When we’ve come to love the buzz of silence. For blood that doesn’t run dry, Doesn’t clot to clog the works up. Wired so we always have just one more try Inside souls always filled With the romantic dreams of youth. Wired so there are stairs always to climb. Wired so no wounds ever cut so deep Blood runs out, runs dry. Wired so we can learn Yet pain be erased. Wired, just wired, Plugged in with a soul of shiny copper wire.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all -And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -And sore must be the storm -That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm -I’ve heard it in the chillest land -And on the strangest Sea -Yet - never - in Extremity,It asked a crumb - of me.
Emily Dickinson
Yep, that’s what Emily said.
I beg to differ.
If it perched in my soul,
The cat ate that damn canary
Before it finished its tune.
And let me tell you,
I never heard anything sweet
During a pissed off hurricane.
That dang bird knew!
Away it flew
While the winds whistled
Away my roof.
I sure as heck didn’t hear
Some sweet little bird chirpin’
As I froze my ass off in the northeast.
And all I heard as I sweated buckets
Under a southern sun was some damn
Squawking big ass crow.
In fact, I think hope isn’t a bird at all.
It might be a well. That might be more apt.
Yep, wells aren’t dug or drilled deep enough,
Sometimes.
And I would imagine
Much more can go wrong with a well,
Like a pump runnin’ dry.
Oh, hell! A well can even be poisoned!
But this here well,
It’s so dang dry
There ain’t even any mud
At the bottom.
Looks like some cobwebs too.
Whatever it had,
It done dried right up.
So whatever hope is--
A bird, a well,
It isn’t always there.
It doesn’t stick around,
Unless you feed it
Before the feathers
Drift,
Before the water
Dries
Away.
Long ago, when hopes and dreams
Floated on air, drifting like the red balloons
Children let go at schools, before we knew
The dangers letting go of such balloons drew
To the birds and the fish of our world,
Before we stopped the letting go of balloons,
When we stood watching them, sway with the breeze,
the shifting of dreams and hopes on air,
when we knew each other,
thinking we touched eternity
in a drift of air between us,
time stood still
in the sweet salt taste
of the seconds,
in the sandalwood smell
of the minutes,
in the smooth purring sound
of the hours
in the satin touch
of the days—
for a moment we drifted
with our hopes and dreams
braided with eternity
beyond the earth bound.
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