Each new year brings Now this garden grief Nourished by regret Each year, this day, here— Standing, kneeling, sitting—I Spend tears, words, wishes All meaningless now, In the barren garden grief Flowers never bloom Seven years gone now-- Nothing roots, though it has tried, In the garden grief inside
The woman lied to herself. Said life is not had without hope, Believing hope resided within her chest Just under the bones, As she remembered the taste Of fresh apricots, The sweetness of their juices Bursting in her mouth, The texture of their pulp Playing against her tongue— She remembered— Fresh apricots During the weeks of summer In the year the earth awoke, Stretching and yawning, Turning as if To bring sunrises closer And hold sunsets dear— That summer the girl, Holding beating hope, Emerged from the cracks forming In the left side Of the woman’s chest. Thus, the woman who lied About holding onto hope, Crumpled and died, Shriveled like the over-ripened apricots On the ground beneath the tree in your yard. The girl, holding hope, emerged Laughing with joy at all the smiling Universe seemed for once to offer up In the taste of apricot flesh And the sweet juice that quenched thirst After years of waiting want. The earth tilted back, turning once again, Withdrawing from sunrise and sunset. Then the apricots were gone. Picked, fallen to the ground, Nibbled by birds and squirrels. The girl, who held hope, Shrank down, curling into a fetal position, Within the dead woman who lied About having hope and who Was now revived, resuscitated, Like a cannibal feeding off a beaten enemy Of faith, of pain, of living hope, By the now shrunken head like girl, Who had held beating hope That could beat no longer As the revived woman remembered Always— The taste, the feel of the flesh of fresh apricots.
Questions hang in the air Like heavy coastal fog On cool autumn mornings Eternal questions of humanity: All the whys, the wonderings-- Never answered prayers-- Laying pressed between the Pages of a book like brown, Dried flowers—forgotten, Having lost their sentiment. Speak the differences Among roses, weeds, wildflowers— Inconsequential answers For inconsequential questions. Could sense of counting Out the hours be sliced Like blood, blooming meat To find truth absolute Like high priestesses of old, Scry the answer In a blood filled bowl?
With ramshackle shards Of heart, soul, self Falling away like the browned petals Of a long-wilted bouquet, We create a riotous noise In ramshackle attempts To find some connection. Lumbering, awkward attempts At reaching out to touch once again, To replace, to freshen The brown wilted and missing parts With new bouquets of spring Whose stems sit in eternally Fresh, clean waters. We dream of a life lived No longer ramshackle, With no long-wilted bouquets Of a past to haunt with falling petals, But a life returning whole, To move without noise Through the world once again.
to feel that glow,
let it flow within
and know in peace,
the truth held within it,
rolling slow warmth
like the sun in springtime–
that glow, that warmth—
nearly, yes nearly extinct,
such a rarity to be found
though some try incandescent tricks
in mocking mimicry
its rarity rivals the hunt for new alabaster,
which always served a cold master
and there are no dreams glowing still
of truth to be held within the fragile
beaks of hummingbirds forever
searching the lush gardens of Babylon
for a heady nectar that does not exist
I am unsure how this happened, but the stone grew, encasing me, protective and cold, a walking grave of comfort for many years. Now, having grown moss over the passing of so many seasons and used to the weight of stone I carry into the calm of night, blossoms burst forth from this tonnage of comforting cold stone, this grave of a home I have known. I would like to twist, turn away from such blossoms, yet find I cannot. I cannot gather dust to me, creating stone again. Cannot piece shards together for there are not enough left in this remaining dust. As I rest in this place, I will tuck these blooms away-- Until they bear ripened fruit, Readied for picking. Fragrant blossoms that they may only be for now.
I swore never to give my words away like blossoms in the spring.
Yet, I marvel at all the words I’d gather,
arrange for you in artful, elegant bouquets.
I’ve keloid locks where my words are stored.
I possess not the oils to soften those locks,
Trapping my words deep in their vault,
My words may never know freedom.
Yet, I find myself streaming petals of words for you
In hazy, lazy patterns,
Knowing you have the wisdom, the soul
To read my words much like braille—
A code of sorts–
So you can hear and know,
Though unspoken,
All my words bestow.
In the long ago
Youth’s armor
Stripping down fates
In acknowledgements
Of ruined selves
Where someplace we lost
The spare threads
To stitch everything back together
And could never touch another
As we once touched the other,
Letting go dreams
Sprinkled with desires
That only served to choke
The future we swallowed
In gulped decades
While watching dreams
Drift and float like the blown off
Heads of dandelions
Until settling into the
Drudgery of what must be done
In the day to day—
No answers exist when
The only answer is
There be no magic here,
No fairytales, no giants,
No forever’s or an eternity
Yet there be no lies,
No castles built on air,
No innocent beings with wings to rip away
In devilish delight,
No trust found broken
In garbage cans.
And so it goes.
And so it goes,
In essence,
Neither was what
The other really wanted
Resentments the wooden
Puzzle pieces of a child’s game
Tumbled down over us
In crushing weight
Until only the dust
Of us was left
To be swept away.
Like some ancient voodoo priestess,
Fears sits and smiles from her rocking chair.
Tilting her gray head to her work at hand,
Fear embroiders in red thread
The narratives of my old scars.
She stitches in orange and green thread
The flowers of my poorly made cobwebbed choices.
She stitches in black thread
The vanquished vines of all my loss and pain.
She stitches in yellow thread
Her flowers of caution at the edges,
All the while chanting an ancient spell,
Giving her stitched yellow flowers
Magic to steal any power in the air,
Paralyzing– daring the pulse.
Fear stitches away in red thread
On the last cloth of daring I’ve left,
And I, I am paralyzed by the stitching made.
A woman once held a kaleidoscope to my eyes.
I, like a child entranced, fooled by a prism of colors,
Gave my soul away.
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