I envy the monarch’s, the hummingbird’s arc of return,
infinite, eternal.
My jealousy consumes as I have
no return, no cycle—
Only the damnation of this linear thing,
finite, directionless.
Its flow
From the tip of my fountain pen—
Not smooth enough–
Fails capturing anything
Within this labyrinth of senses
Now alive
I had an argument with all my words today.
For they would not stay
in their delightfully organized spots.
Seems, if you will,
they wanted to jump around and play,
ignoring the sense of my color coded dots.
I must admit I lost my patience, yelling,
“We will never accomplish
anything useful if you play
In this most rambunctious way.”
To this, they in unison whined,
“Why must we be serious all the damn time?”
And to that, I could not provide argument.
Thus, we decided to play
And took a vacation today.
The words—
It is the always—the words—
I have always been
Searching the sidewalks, paths, trails, highways, the sky outside
For the words—
Combing gently through those I love
For the words—
Hunting the faces of strangers, my own face, my dogs, my friends
For the words—
Scouring the hearts, the souls of those I observe
For the words—
Ransacking restful, peace giving nature
For the words—
Scourging even, in the chase, my faith
For the words—
And they are never perfect.
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.
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.
Begin with unpacking
the loss of years.
Perhaps, for once,
Win the battle with tears.
Start over clean, new.
Carry emptied, broken down boxes,
bundled and tied, sticky at the edges
with their old used tape, to the curb.
Balanced no longer on narrow ledges.
Breathe now, once again.
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.
It does begin with whispers of wind,
Steady, slow rhythm of fattened rain drops.
The distant rumbles begin.
Then the slight, quick flashing starts.
Soon the wind howls.
The rain beats as if a beast
Against the windows.
The rumbles, the shouting of an angry God
At the petulant child of a world.
The flashing, the cracking whip
Of our forgotten master.
The downpour is here,
The sobbing of the forgotten,
The hated, the poor,
The ones we were to love.
No ark on this horizon is seen.
This week’s prompt ~ Painted
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a rather oriental red bridge over a pool covered with waterlilies and surrounded by trees.
She lived a painted life.
Careful with her brushes
Always touching up
A chip, a mark, a ragged flaw
As she found them.
If she found a rip or tear
In the precious canvas,
It just would not do,
But she would oh, so carefully
Apply the much-needed glue.
No. Not a single person could tell.
Not a single person knew.
No one knew the time
And care and money
She spent on this
Carefully painted life–
Of verdant grasses,
Irises of every shade
Deepest purples
To palest pinks,
The lush canna lilies,
Fragrant gardenias and lilacs,
The splendor of magnolias,
The stately cedars.
Everyone speaks of a gentle stateliness,
In the air of her personal dress,
Her blonde locks, and her wounded blue eyes
As they looked out
Upon the careful paint of her garden lair,
A spider inspecting her web.
But her victims knew
Of every rip and tear
And all the rot beneath the paint.
For her victims lay silent, faint
Cocooned beneath
Many coats of paint.
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