August–
The resplendent month,
Of sun’s heat and blinding light.
The lethargic month
Of jealousy’s blight,
A thing of loss, not fought.
August—
The milestone marking month,
Of anniversaries, holidays, tears.
The flaming month
Of ashes where freedom,
A rising thing, held dear.
Syrup still dripping from your fingertips,
you try to gift me the sugared dreams
you have stolen away
from a pearlescent candied sky.
I long to taste such dreams
of sweetened rest.
Thursday photo prompt: Vista #writephoto
Gazing at lush greenness as it travels
along this vista, a soul emptied of itself,
shrinking away to dust
for all the of giving it had done,
breathes in fullness and begins to glow.
Only here in green wildness breathed,
can pinhole prick holes and jagged slashes
be sealed in a soul emptied of itself.
The guardian watches the sea,
Waiting patiently
For the return of old ones
Who long ago slipped away
Out to sea, speaking
Words of promise,
Words of return–
Not unlike your words to me.
Like you, the old ones
Will not return,
Lost in an ocean
Of time long forgotten.
They found new homes
Where to light their fires,
Burning away old, shriveled desires,
Burning away the salt of the sea,
And the dirt of old known shores.
The guardian waits,
Like a widow upon her widow’s walk,
Staring out to sea.
But as I have finished waiting,
I must walk away.
Don’t know what to do
when I dream of you.
Waking, I want to drench
my brain in pure bleach,
soaking it through,
until all the colors of you
out of my soul leach
and no longer do I miss you.
Sleeplessness always told the story
between the back when and now,
what she once thought a game,
tracks leading nowhere.
This last section of living
something not well lived.
A swirl of memory
piercing through knots
too tight to be undone.
She had lived without a plan,
having a heart that spoke in tongues
she had yet to understand.
Pieces broke away,
pebbles and stones
chipped from a boulder.
The edge of a pane of glass
broken off, no longer smoothly square,
but rough ridged like a broken thumb nail,
begging to be filed away.
Pieces broken away,
missing in wordlessness,
cannot be found.
Jig saw together the rest,
glue, duct tape,
what is left,
never to imitate new, unbroken.
Broken, hollowed parts,
make for an ever incomplete,
an always abyss
to fall headlong into,
always a scratchy roughness to scrape
a knee, an elbow, a hand.
Always a sharp edge to slice open
an abdomen, an arm, a femoral artery, a throat.
No. No. No.
Everything, everything
at once, best kept at arm’s length.
Never can such wounds be allowed
in the here,
in the now.
I drift
Drift in purpose, direction,
Resolve in question.
Telling myself on repeat
I’ve no need, no want
Of soft skin against mine.
To feel another’s heart beat
Against my chest.
Though I remember,
Though I can still imagine,
When I close my eyes
What it is
To close my hand round the soft hand of another,
To fall asleep embracing—entwined, entangled,
To wake and smell sleep warmed skin,
To touch and take and give and kiss
Before coffee should touch my lips.
Such hunger is not a thing I allow myself to taste,
The risk too rich, too great to let it touch upon the tongue.
I am not young enough for a taste of what
Should bring me to my knees—
Of what I imagine
That she’d taste like memory.
I can hide in catacombs of colors and never look to the sky.
My blood shed, bled out in tiny droplets of all the years of parting,
dripping, draining in the darkness
And carried away, scattered to the winds,
Leavings upon the ground, seedless seeds,
Sprouting up in colorless flowers of summer without colors,
Without the dreams of sunlight on their faces,
Without fragrance sweet, divinity in scents we can never forget lost.
We learn to live with regrets taken, earned, packed away
With the mortgage of things within our hearts, within our lifetimes of meaning,
Within our trying just one more damn time,
Drifting up in clouds of long-ago cigarette smoke.
Crush this dried out husk of me,
Scatter those particles of dust to the wind
And see if colors sprout once that dust settles upon the ground,
See if there’s meaning left within their regrets,
See if there’s fragrance, some elegance of divinity within a scent
To be remembered when there is nothing,
Nothing left but this wisp of memory
Within your breath.
Let go my hand, love. Leave me wrapped in the shroud
Of all my days and regrets shared along the way
To here, this time of parting. Leave me to hide away
In this catacomb of colors.
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.
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