Lost Love, Lost Self, Lost Life

Crush my heart. End the misery.
As does the Earth to a pebble
dropping from the heavens above.
Hope is vaporized in an instant as
quickly as we see the tiny bright
illuminating star, which upon
drawing closer–ceases to be.


Rocking to and fro, unique but to myself…the hospital staff observes but from a polite distance. I whimper, when I think one is near to hear. I hold my breath until I might faint. Sweating, lips parted, I gasp until one comes to mop my brow and gently place wet swabs by which I draw water past my lips.


I’m running as fast as I can,
the crowd is screaming, streaming
behind my desperate wake. Frightened, I look not left nor right but run, run, run. I try to remember–if you are right handed run to the left. Never…I feel the pain in my back and
stumble forward. The crowd catches me and begin to pummel my face and body with fists, sticks, the odd brick.
I’m dying from the blood flow out of my back. What, do you mean
“burn the Warlock, burn the Warlock, burn the Warlock”–as I drift off to sleep.

Star Dances

Stars dance in the night sky,

where heavens majesty is a

mute witness to dances eternal.

As my heart upon seeing your

tender face, explodes in joyous

pleasure, the time of your arrival

well past when you had departed

and the song of your

sweet visage being etched

upon my minds eye.

When the fleeting passing of

fragrance has left the

room then will the

imagination soar and dip

until next chanced meeting.

Ever soaring the heart pinned

lover writes waging the oft penned

battle of why and when, struggling

with loves clutch again and again.

Perhaps the day may still approach,

when she grants his hearts request

or better he stares at the stars above

watching them laugh as they dance.

At The Window Seat

At The Window Seat

I was able to spend a few days
with my Mom and while knowing the
window seat was there, never really
gave it a thought. That is until I saw
my Mom sit upon it.

It rests there by design, as though
even the forgotten builders
understood a young shrill voice
would one day cry mine;

It was the honorees place who
established first dibs upon the
precious space; doling areas for
fellow siblings and friends toys
like a feudal lord divides his lands
one to each who best develops his
or her place.

Not without responsibility did such a
lofty tile decree, in the winter
boots and shoes left by the back
door, coats fell nearby as all must
be done by unwritten mandate,
if breached, the serfs as one would
rise up and oust thee.

Summer was a time when as the
days grew from warm to hot,
sometimes a visiting relative might in
a non-violent coup, by her beauty or
his handsome new features, manage
to all win all of said title without
lifting a finger.

How they succeeded at this at times
was seemingly beyond my grasp,
I begin to notice his little furrow of the
brow and her slight pout of lips that
weakened the seats value and
dissolved any order and as violations
mounted quiet negotiations were
taking place in enclaves where
genders were not allowed to breach.

I got a summer job.

The coups and such were still being
counted as my responsibilities grew,
silly things like the window seat no
longer mattered.

When the cushions appeared, Mom
just brushed it off as a flight of fancy;
something to do with silly
old pillows no one barely sits there
any more, she smiled and offered
me a seat.

Having made us coffee, a habit I
picked up while in the fifth grade,
we lived not together so Mom
could not know till I told her about
boiling my Dads used coffee grounds
after he and my Step-Mother left for
work. I felt guilty about this but
continued until I began to pilfer
fresh ground coffee; when found out
and warned on the dangers of stained
teeth I was given an alternative
named Postum.

Ok.

It tastes great at the first cup,
then good at the second, okay
at the third if you can make it
that far, because it loses flavor
and then–bland.

Enough of that.

I handed a cup to Mom, she
thanked me. She mused about
the seat and how it seemed
abandoned now. I knew that
she missed the buzz, but
understood the bedlam of
children at play.

I told her that running and
playing about the house
seemed not that long ago.
She chuckled I always loved
how she laughed. Seems as
though when the responsibilities
mount, the humor is first to suffer.

Life offers and demands much,
the more threads, the harder the
weave. Daily demands often trump
fun, any moment of laughter is to
be relished.

As a child I never realized the fun
interaction could bring, isolation
was my solitary friend or having a
book to read. I did not grow up
around sisters and brothers, for
the most of the summers unity
was by chance not often by design.

I did not mind.

How grateful to my Mom, I guess
she may never realize. Thank you
and gifts seem not enough. I wish
I had the means to take care of her
needs, so she might not want.
This is not realistic because I know
myself and it would not be fair to
her as a reminder of who I am.

Gratitude is enough and with her
family surrounding her, I need not
worry. I pray that life and GODS
mercy will make her future peaceful
and filled with wonders.

The window seat is still there, waiting
for the next bunch of combatants,
to add to its mystique.

Storm Squall

retreating clouds

i see the the dawn breaking with scattered low clouds having discharged their rain upon the lands and city;

cleansing the air,

giving even the dusty corners a renewed purity as doesthe street washer as it goes about its task like a mindlessjuggernaut without feeling or compassion;

even the birds sought shelter from the cleansing moisture, now do they enjoy the comfort that the healingwaters have delivered freely to them;

having brought a new life and a new opportunity, does chance renew, invigorate, and supply us with a wonderful sense of being;

there is a new hope in the air,

a freshness smelled, a new awareness, a fabulous hope and expectancy racing into the hearts, minds, and bodies of all living things;

when breathed in we find the expectancy exhilarating, seemingly, where nothing can touch within ourselves; this joy, this passion, this savoring of the moment which we
might lock within ourselves forever;

this is ours to share or keep secretly locked away or captured for the future in a picture; ours, to trade as a fascinating story, or the gift of a poem,
secreted as a valuable treasure, or left to despair without a second glance as we are some times too busy to experience or savor such a joyous moment;

we often find ourselves gazing at retreating clouds; more often, grateful they are departing, not realizing the most precious of gifts were placed before our feet or chanced to fall upon our shoulders.

When

When;

 words not spoken are most

profound when life expects

more, hears not a sound.

 

 Would we speak as neighbors,

I believe so – yes, true.

I would eventually say hello

to you.

 

 Perhaps though today, would

my words tickle as does the

feather escaping its pillowcase.

 

 We have yet to regain the

wonderful union of words, when as

early writers struggled, debated

poetry or verse, with the strike

of a key answers to questions

appear instantly, at times making

things worse.

 

 World literary giants might nod

or poke, while searching for a

reason as to why everything works.

 

 Waver not in your passion for words,

by the same strength of heart and

values one can feel through your

mind a suffering.

 

 Perhaps today this is required of

all to resemble a buffering.

 

 Wishing upon the dreams or

expectations of others was a focus,

perhaps a mainstay of the culture

of times past.

 Saloon, campus or home was a place

to study, think or debate styles,

merits or even the principles of

literature.

 

 Whether the World notices many

blogged words is of little consequence,

words pour from your heart and in this,

it’s all that matters.

Poetry Thursday

Captured Beauty: Her Face

Captured Beauty: Her Face

Just for a moment, the fleeting
instant, when the rarest of events
occurs. She passes, and the mind
captured amidst all manner of
activity; her beauty.

Does she notice her impact upon
those watching, when today we
must shun all manner of appreciation
of the same.

Must she seek loves beauty in verse
or rhyme, when some find solace in
her whispered name.

When the movement of light played
across her face, touching her lips,
and down, then across her chin;
many the wounded heart goes when
the scene is replayed in the mind
again and again.

The foundation of beauty begins with
the jaw hinge, it carries the ramus-
which is the rearmost part of the jaw.
This bony structure is the place
where beauty ties the face, framing
and defining face structure, is often
observed being kissed by the neck.

The dental plate and the chin mound
accentuate beauty. Whether he or
she, sweet morsels seem to drop into
the mouth.

Beauty defines, yet, the dental ridge
and teeth are backgrounds that
establish the overall appearance.

Then, the skin.

Matters not, if hued, pale, dimpled,
narrow, full, loose, scarred, smooth,
finely haired, or tightened.

The effect is what feeds the mind in
he or she as they view each other,
establishing the basis for pleasure,
for the duration of memory, and
recall of the viewed.

Mind locks upon the moment to recall
with delight that brief pause, locking
away details, as the mind replays the
scene in fractionated snippets, so that
frame by frame her beauty, his
handsome features become
inescapable from the mind.

Where else but in human minds will
the very snippets of our daily
experiences form into a historical
newsreel and rewind for us visually
again and in time again.

What determination makes we as
viewers appreciate the gentle
curvature of chin to neck?

What establishes the focus of eye
to that part of the body, when so
much is ado about other parts?

Simply put, the eye that captures
a particular spot of beauty away
from the norm appreciates the gift
of the person as a basis of who
they are, or at least in fairness,
possess the potential to become.

Matters not as acquainted, as
friends, as intimate friends, or as
romantically involved. To the
passersby on the street, or a dip
and a nod to the co-worker who
chances by – all note things of
beauty from each other.

Only the viewer may or may not
be aware of how much they have
garnered in capturing anothers
chanced beauty.

She Waits

She Waits

Upon a crystal bed she sits
on a blanket of green; her
beauty has drawn millions
like waves and sights unseen.

She has opened her arms to
expose her beautiful face, as
though she bids come, look
upon me, touch me, caress me.

Her lovely features are the
wonderment of nations, she
is highly prized and protected.

Tender faced, like that of a
sleeping child, her love spread
arms wide to beckon, hurry,
time is short and her stay is
limited; love me now, worry
not on the morrow, for we
have now what lovers seek.

The bed is soft, is it not?
I am beautiful, deny this, no?
My arms are open wide for
you, yes; look into my face
come, closer, much closer;
better, touch me among my
thistles where many look
upon, but rarely enter. I am
yours, at this moment, I am
the answer to your needs.

Gently, tenderly as one might
a sleeping child, arms cradle
my face and I enter.

I am a master performer and
have improved on the places
where she is best suited to
provide me with the rewards
I seek; I in return, provide her
with a way to continue her
craft luring me, my brothers,
to do for her what she most
needs.

To love, cherish, and honor
her upon her crystal bed of
green.