So very willingly,
I placed my head into danger’s toothy mouth
When I climbed the Pilgrim’s stairs–
Until dizzy from the height,
And the steepness of the effort–
All done to look upon
A pure crystalline blue sky
Caressing a sapphire sea—
A fantasy of need.
You glisten always.
Lighting no difference–
In pitch black even,
You glisten,
As if oiled
With diamonds.
My heart twisted, bent,
Burned by the prism
Of your light.
I can not begin to hold
the silver in the twilight air,
for it too quickly slips from my fingers.
My feet stuck in my quicksand thoughts
of moonlight shimmering on silvered hair
so, stop any step toward a silver chance,
Slipping away like silk as twilight
Fades into velvet night.
In breaking silence,
earth and sky kiss again.
At a toast of mid-day,
the moon shows her face,
a smile of grace.
In the glimmer of a star’s dance,
a thorn on dried roses prick,
a reminder of circumstance.
In her grandchildren,
her spirit is woven–
What a tapestry
These children create.
The strongest fibers
of her determination run
In the eldest, wearing her grandmother’s face,
Though she never knew her.
Threads of her courage and strength
Weave into the only one who knew her,
Who can remember the smell of her beef stew,
As the grown child wages a battle for her life.
Yarns of responsibility and fun spin
In the lone grandson,
As he raises his son
And forgets not how to play.
The delicate fine threads of her caring and her dreams
Spin through the twins,
Born too late to know her,
One doing what must be done
to care for others.
the other creating a business of her art.
The warm, soft yarn of her love and generosity
weaves through the youngest, my daughter,
Born under the same December sun,
As she becomes a nurse caring
For babies born too early.
In my mother’s grandchildren,
A tapestry of faith is woven,
And I am taught
DNA is more than science,
Woven with soul upon
Some ancient loom.
This tapestry of spirit
Where my mother lives still.
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 Bird That 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.
You should have gotten yourself a dog. No, really. I mean it. Instead of chasing me Until you caught me. What you thought you’d found, When you found me— And that’s what you wanted me to be— A rescued dog— Full of gratitude and loyalty for the perceived rescue. With no record or memory of previous owners, Ah, an extremely important part. A wagging tail at every word or look from you. Sitting at attention, waiting patiently for you. Desperate for any command you should happen to give. Dutifully complying with each command, each wish You should ever express. No friends, no family, no loves. No needs Other than you and to serve you. That is what you wanted That is what you needed— In your own words— To be my number one at all times. After all, no one would love me better. No one would give me a better home, As you so lovingly liked to remind me. Next time get a dog. She’ll feed your ego better.
The lies we tell ourselves
Such sparkling things.
Belief needed in the moment–
See diamonds, rubies, sapphires,
Gold, treasures to cherish.
Let the mirror reflect
The lies to eyes
And souls
In needing desire.
Do not hold them in harsh sun.
Too thin,
Too frail,
Too fragile
To withstand such blazing light.
Gently bury them deep
Beneath the soil
Of a needing heart
And the damp decay
Of foolish wants.
Let the lies take root
Growing into the very soul.
Believing
The lies
We tell ourselves,
We smile
To keep
The truth at bay,
As the lies grow
The rot of hopelessness
Into our very souls.
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