Partly Me, But Mostly You
Partly me, but mostly you.
I look around this house of ours
and see there's nothing new.
Partly loved, but mostly used.
I once was cherished tenderly,
now love and service fused.
Partly spry, but mostly dead.
I bustle with routines today,
but thoughts aren't in my head.
Partly here, but mostly gone.
I turn and close my eyes to you,
and feign sleep until dawn.
Partly free, but mostly trapped.
I hold this pen and paper but,
my inspiration sapped.
Partly young, but mostly old.
I wonder if I'll die today,
my stories left untold.
Firefly
I live in a dirty jar.
My view of outside
smeared and distorted
by the filth and curved edges.
My amber light muted.
The sounds of the world
muffled by thick glass.
There are just enough
holes in the lid
to keep me breathing
but my air is unclean
and used.
I nestle in the pile
of dried grass and leaves
and hug my little ones tight.
They are happy to be here.
They don't know.
I dream of fresh crisp night
and space to stretch my wings.
And clear cricket sounds.
I dream of freedom on all sides.
With my little ones near me,
we go as high and fast as we can.
Then rest, laughing,
on the rooftop of the old red barn.
I dream of my light
bright in the clean
night sky, illuminating
all that is below
and behind me.
My Ball of Spikes
I clench this filthy ball of spikes
of anguished past mistakes.
It slices jagged cuts in my palm's
flesh and fresh red blood flows.
Protection from
future bonds,
I hold it up for them to see.
Come closer and I'll throw,
I warn, and grip it tighter,
piercing. Deep
slices worn in my palm.
Today the pain
is enough.
I release this filthy ball of spikes.
You come closer.
I smooth these new white bandages
you soothe with salve,
they wrap around my new wounds.
You take my hand in yours.
Fishing
I fish today.
Facets of sapphire
shimmer, deep
they swim.
Cut crystals
flicker, on lake’s face
I float.
Speckled emerald
breathes, the forest
it leers.
And today,
I fish.
My dory sturdy,
with this moonstone
sky storms come.
Winds and swirls
of blustered life
bobble and bumble.
I balance
on churning liquid.
And today,
I fish.
h2o
ethereal drifting
part of a cirrus
more of us embrace
until the mass,
corpulent and bloated
releases me to life
I plummet from the
ashen womb
thousands of feet
and dive in the river
drifting with the current
I stumble on rocks
at times I carry a burden
a leaf, or a log
and then I let go
and float awhile more
until the next storm
brings more debris
and new drops
of life
up ahead
the ocean
where I will rest in peace
with countless others
until the world
is ready for me again.
Plastic Cutlery
As a plastic fork,
new and white,
I waited with the others.
From the ladybug basket
on the picnic table,
he chose me.
Me.
Tenderly, he carried me,
carefully balanced on his plate,
more important than
his grandmother's silver.
He ate baked beans
and potato salad
and laughed with his friends
as I fed him each bite.
Now, his stomach is full.
Stained with brown sauce,
my third tine broken off,
I sit amidst rotten scraps,
flies buzzing round,
discarded.
Rainy Day
He stumped the puddle,
muddy Godzilla attack.
Brown dots sprinkled
his little bluejeans.
His socks soaking
the puddle like sponges.
The rain made dark rivers
of his russet hair and lashes.
Looking up, he faced its barrage
head on, his bravery unwavering
despite the sopping chill.
I called to him, Put those boots on.
Instead, mucky water collecting
in his little cupped hands.
The red rubber mouths thirsting
for his liquid bounty.
I called to him, Come inside.
Instead, his umbrella unopening,
busy slaying dragons.
The wetness wrinkling
his tiny white fingers
Finally, he stood by the staircase,
Exhausted and victorious.
Blueish lips shivering
over a toothless grin.
My worn towel warming
the rain away.
The Weight of a Secret
Weary from the burden of
the secret she kept
for all those
years, she finally
gave in.
gave up.
gave out.
gave away
her things that meant
nothing to her,
meant the world to others.
Emotions bankrupt.
Muscles weak.
Finished to her core.
Crushed under its weight.
Nothing
left to give,
she said goodbye.
with the flick of her
index finger and a bang.
Left this world
for another,
her secret the only thing
she could never give away.
We Named Him Harry
In the driveway of his tattered house,
speaking to no one, he stood.
Next to the battered pickup.
leaning into its open window,
The truck bed filled with refuse,
playful cats winding their way around his legs.
Speaking to no one, he stood.
His hair a dirty white, or maybe grey,
his boots sturdy and worn.
Sometimes he read the news.
Sometimes he just stood.
We saw him every day
as we drove home from school.
We waved every day,
but he never waved back.
Sometimes it was sunny and warm.
Sometimes it was winter.
Speaking to no one, he stood.
I think he saw us once
when we honked.
I saw his chiseled chin
break into smile.
He quickly looked away.
And he never waved back.
Speaking to no one, he stood.
Today there were other cars
parked around his pickup.
In the middle of the day
on a Tuesday.
A birthday party! we said.
He is loved!
But Harry did not stand today.
We saw the men in black suits.
And the women with pearl necklaces.
Their heels crunching the gravel.
Bringing tissues and casseroles.
The cats wandering,
winding their way through the cars.
And looking for Harry.
More Than 5 Times
I nagged them more than five times.
Brush your teeth.
No more snacks.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Close the door behind you.
Pick up your shoes.
It took five times to make it past
the morning cartoons
and coloring books
and imaginary laser wars
and doll fashion shows
and the inaminutemoms.
I nagged them more than five times.
I love you no matter what.
I'm so proud of you.
It’ll be ok.
You're beautiful.
I'm lucky to have you in my life.
It took five times to make it past
the broken hearts
and mean girls
and embarrassing moments
and failed tryouts
and bullies
and whateveryousaymoms.
Guardian
I brought him home
after she died.
He curled and slept
against my side.
Each day at four,
he'd sit and wait,
to hear her steps;
familiar gait.
He paced the house,
his master torn
away from him.
His eyes, forlorn.
He looked at me
then placed his head
onto my lap.
His eyes were red.
I know that dogs
don't realize why.
But now I see
that they can cry.
The Forest: A Haiku
Running in the night
Seeking shelter from the storm
Without direction.
My feet bare, burning
I wander through the forest
Tired and alone
No mission or map
Faltering, falling forward
Lost and unclaimed here
Stopping, a mistake.
So I keep stumbling ahead
Through the misty fog
A ray of light now
My stride longer, legs stronger
I see hope ahead.
Riding the Wave
Sitting alone,
despair turning liquid in my eyes.
Bound by chains of fear and doubt,
drowning in dark burdens,
deafened by worry.
Then, a whisper inside,
among the noise.
Shh, there now.
It’s just your turn
to take this dark ride.
Hold on tight and let this
painful surf take you far from here.
Take joy in this hopeless wave,
and be thankful for its lengthy course.
The longer you ride,
the farther you go.
And at the end,
calm waters and light await.
Entitled
We curse the world for our despair,
in this we are alone.
This price we pay for being here,
and calling Earth our home.
The seeds don’t curse the farmer’s name
for planting them so deep.
They push through soil and rocks and mud
and haven’t time to weep.
The hawks don’t curse the rats and mice
for holding to the chase.
They watch and hunt to feed their chicks
and must keep up the pace.
As creatures, we must not forget
that struggles aren’t our foes.
They keep the balance everywhere
and teach us true repose.
Next time we ask the world, “why me?”
tormented and distraught,
The world will answer quietly,
“Well, tell me then, why not?”
Pink Water
I sat
alone and silent
on the sunset sand
and dug holes with my hands.
The warm pink waves
of ocean tides
old and vast as time
washed my dirty fingers
and filled in the holes
I'd dug for myself.
I'm sorry, I said,
But the ocean just smiled.
I know, it said.
You are but human.
Nature and time will erase
the holes you dig,
no matter how deep.
All is as it should be.
Its waters soothed
and carried my burdens
of guilt and shame
back out to sea.
And as I stood,
no trace left of the
holes I’d dug for myself.
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