Walk to the end of dark uncurling days at the edge of the earth, witness it split open flowering, beautiful. I’d give it to you could it be contained boxed, bottled, held within my hands, weak as they are, that cannot hold such flowering strength.
Wind and rain Of this horrid spring Whips us to perfection Of brokenness being Beaten souls That we are In this time of need And want of touch. Our loneness sheltered Bodies, our silence shattered souls, Contoured colors of minds Restrained our madness In this once upon a time. If only to wake in the warmth Of human skin upon skin Once again in some perfumed swirl Contained in believing a speck of faith Preserved as a fly in amber. That fly who found rest In warm liquid ooze But was never to escape. Yes, grateful to escape to This fitful rest though, yes, It is, indeed, blessed. My mind scatters, Struggles to find a train of thought To ride in peace from one station To the next, make a trip to the elegance Of a dining car, white glove service And all else– in contrast— To this vast emptiness— With which to wrestle like Jacob, But my soul has long been crippled. All the trains left the station, Ran circles around my heart, Chugging on into the tunnels To find there isn’t much In expectation on the other side Of those darkened tunnels. No light, no light, Just a cold grey Of a horrid spring.
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.
Pieces of her broke in the waves,
Searching for wildness
In this place she always went to be alone.
She walked along this shore a thousand times
In the dawn and the dusk
As if they were quantities unknown,
And thus, in them, she could discover some truth,
Some faith, some charity, some hope for herself.
Who knew? It had worked before.
She’d walk toward the town with something—
Some small bit piece replenished.
She’d always heard salt was healing,
So she figured she’d rub it in her wounds.
But bloody red and raw
She walks still wounded, broken,
Along the wildness,
Yet not touching it.
She can not find what she lost.
Her wounds chains,
Binding her still
To things she knew illusions.
She waits for the friction of salt
To rub away the chains.
She walks toward the seals in the surf
And on toward the whales in the deep,
Searching for truth or faith or charity
In the wildness of the sea.
I gave you all my roses, The many colors I had. Cut them all from the bushes. I knew there would be no more, And I cut them for you.
The last few dozen blooms I cut them down for you. The bushes are dead now.
They will bud no more. I double, triple checked. The limbs snap crisply in dryness, Easily between my weakened hands. No supple green within. A single snap finishes each limb. And so finishes each bush.
I Words scattered across the page. Words littering the soul.
All these words Piled upon the table, A hoarder’s table of words.
Words left unsaid, Unwritten, A bouquet of words Wilting in the heart and mind.
Words twisted in contortionist meaning Of manipulations, Weaponized for destruction, Yet leaving victims living. II Words of things that can’t be said. Words of things that should have been. Words of things we could not speak out of fears too deep. Words of things we could not begin to understand Of ourselves, of each other. Words of things we wanted so to believe Of others, of the world. Words of hope Of love Of charity Of peace. Words of what we have lost. Words of what we may never again find. III Words, words, words Slipping through the fingers Like water in a desert, Dripping away, evaporating Before they can be used.
Words, words, words Twisting round the wrists, Writhing up the arms, Biting the face and neck, Killing before they can be used.
Words, words, words Left unread by faded ink, Left unwritten by a tired mind, Left unsaid by a fear filled mouth.
No roots here, Not under this. Not under this, North Texas sky. Nothing grew, Nothing rooted, Although I tried.
I planted native plants, Fertilized and tended, Weeded and watered, Talked lovingly even, Became the crazy lady With the plants.
For a bit, just a bit, Each plant bloomed In wonderful cinematic, Glorious technicolor. I would think– I’ve got it right! But no. Each would start To wilt and fade. I googled and researched, Soil tested even. Yes, it’s true– to know What to do. But I was doing everything right.
No expert could tell me true, Just why I could not Get anything to flourish, to grow, to root In this, this North Texas soil Under this, this North Texas sky.
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