What would have happened if I
told you I loved you, just once more?
Reality is, I will never know.
Reality is, it drives me insane.
What would have happened if you
told the truth in therapy?
The magician in your mind tricked you,
making you believe you were better off dead
than alive.
Would you be here?
Abracadabra.
My stomach, a dining room of wings
as my shaky bow first slides the strings
of a tuneless Cello who screeches
that I’d become a lepidopterist.
When my steady bow slides the strings
my butterflies mollifyingly sing
that I’ve become a lepidopterist,
after years of antennas and sonatas.
My butterflies vociferously sing
my music fades, though they cling
after decades of antennas and sonatas
Death to my Cello and I, eaten by butterflies.
My music fades, though they cling
to extinguished aspirations and velvety things
Death to my Cello and I, eaten by butterflies
My stomach, a dining room of wings.
Desperate to escape
the voiceless chatter
in my head
that rings like thousands of cicadas
hiding in the trees.
I swim through quicksand.
Fists grip individual grains.
I try to dig my way out.
The voices become louder and louder,
echo off the shoreline
breeding claustrophobia in open water.
The magic of my arena,
Where past daemons rest,
has vanished.
Floating here was my secret asylum.
Now I am its inmate.
My flight becomes futile.
With limp limbs, bated breath,
I surrender.
I welcome its embrace.
It enfolds me in its bosom.
The still water cradles me into its bed.
Numbness enters my heart.
Tranquility fills my soul.
Escape is impossible.
A cardinal sings
and I shatter again.
I need a splash of wine to ease my sorrows.
The grief has spilled just
as blood spills from eternal wounds
and ruby lesions spread.
I want the taste of paprika
and ripe cherries to suppress the misery.
Anything to relieve my anguish.
Gushing rivers of passion
set me aflame,
and my devotion, so palpable,
glides like a scarlet kingsnake
slithering through the water.
When I have lost my composure,
there is nothing
like the whispers of roses
rustling in the breeze
to tame my wild nerves.
But the roses wilt and burn
beneath flames that consume,
and I am afflicted
by the crimson pain.
Honey, you are the sliver of sun
that sneaks through my shaded window
like the flower so dark within
yet fringed with petals of subtle saffron. I stand
and turn to you
I sip and I sway in your intimate icterine
because love gave me lemons
and you stirred them in my spritzer.
Midas, you have turned my charcoals gold.
My soul, once boiled with burden
is now cured by your amiable amber.
come sit with me
eat an olive,
i know you
like them, and don’t forget
those sacrificial papers,
you need something
to hold the burden
recollect,
as bud burns bright
and we welcome smoke
as an accomplice.
i’ll ask you as you ask me,
are we adrift?
carried by a burly breeze,
and, like that wispy smoke,
fading evermore.
are we fallen?
cursed by a paradigm
of failure, hoping to find
the keys to a car
with no wheels.
are we to rise?
ascending to freedom
so foreign we cannot
prove it exists.
i hope, for our sake,
you have an answer
for me
next time, maybe then
you’ll ask me to sit with you
offer me an olive,
you know i
love them dearly,
and remind me to bring
those sacrificial papers
a burden was born to be burned
I was thinking about the way, when
a woodpecker tuning
its instrument echoes
a violent melody that reminds me
of a new day
graces of gold glitter
onto the redwood table
calling back
to its previous life
when its large, lustrous green
stood tall within a shower of gold
I was thinking about the way, when
an iron skillet, forged
from a witness
of a far-gone past,
holds the gift
of a bird
burdened with bereavement
the result of a bird’s love held
burnt, strung up
on four plastic legs,
sprinkled with minerals
fine-tuned by Poseidon himself,
and the remnants of green
pepper plants
dried of their color.
I sit at the redwood’s grave
consuming
the stories of life
for the end of their tales
serves to prolong
the end of mine
two gentle giants hold
ten separate entities as one
guides us through the world like
rangers on a wilderness safari,
acting as sculptors
dictating our journey
with various materials;
clay, paint, stone, plaster
when flesh unites
warmth radiates out,
bonding the souls into one
as they travel through creation
tending and nurturing,
life blossoms like a peony
and grows outward
as if life is created at the palms
but,
gentle giants also have the power to strangle.
I lie on my back
Gazing up at the stars on a warm autumn night
The breeze tiptoes over the lake
To give me a kiss on the cheek
A gentle reminder
That in this vast universe
On this pale blue speck
I am not alone
Somewhere in this beautiful world of possibilities
Love waits for me once again
But this time I’ll let her wait a while.
Because for now,
For the first time in a long time
I am free.
Inspired by Girl Before A Mirror, Pablo Picasso (1932)
She stares.
The mirror in front of her
Judges, silently
Approves or denies what she sees.
Two faces, two souls?
Or one unraveling?
Each curve, each line,
Twisted.
Distorted.
The reflection is almost hers,
Yet holds more;
A shadow, a whisper,
The weight she carries hidden.
The mirror clings to her.
Her fingertips press the glass.
Trace the fragile line
Between herself
And the stranger who watches it.
One face is smooth, serene.
The other, shadowed.
Their gazes meet,
A question lingers:
Does the mirror tell the truth?
Or does it warp her?
Her body bends,
Melts,
Into the dark edges of light
Until she reaches out,
Curious, confident,
To find the part of herself
That lives
Beyond the glass.