Forty-eight inches,
a decade of growth,
curled into fetal comfort,
seeks the safety
of mother’s womb.
Smooth tender scalp
rests on her shoulder,
arms encircle her neck.
Cuddle toys can’t
fill his need
for security.
Radiation’s brand marks
the tomb of the enemy,
robber of joy, peace and play.
Plastic tubes pump
poison into his chest.
Dad is big and strong,
Mom, warm and wise,
but sarcoma sucks;
that’s just the way it is.
Tears dry on my pillow,
disappearing like the days.
Calendar pages bandage wounds,
but clock hands fail to heal.
I tumble through my memories
hunting for your face, your voice;
always around the corner,
never reached in time.
Sleep is my tormentor; her
shadows play hide-n-seek,
her whispers not quite heard.
She mocks my broken heart,
yet hope remains.
I will find you waiting–
between my dreams and wake.
Fourth Chapter – awaiting the reviews of critics
On Tuesday you cried
upon my shoulder,
trusting Jesus to save
your soul.
On Friday you played
the entertainer, making light
of fearful faces in the room.
~
You left us in November
as the cold was setting in.
~
You danced in the face of death,
a can of beer in your hand.
But morning came with raindrops,
in your bed you would remain.
You communicated in silence,
lids weighted with eternal sleep.
~
You left us in November
as the cold was setting in.
~
We ate brownies topped
with ice cream, while the lesbian
hugged the Catholic and God’s
Spirit sweetly smiled.
We laughed through tears
as we remembered; said
our prayers to fill the void.
~
You left us in November
as the cold was setting in.
~
I said goodbye on Thursday,
and left roses in the snow.
Creativity can be messy at times. I guess that’s why children can be so creative. They don’t mind getting messy in the process.
– just a little thought inspired by a blog I wrote today called “Does a Blank Page Unnerve You?”
The Clichés of Chick Flicks
oil and water
polarized
irritants
under the skin
back to back
stiff shouldered
defiance
anger’s passion
bursts into flame
consuming walls
of separation
melting away
divisions
igniting
love’s fire
sealed with a kiss
always meant
to be
same old story
same old lie
Surly scent of testosterone
muscles it way to the fore,
Daring all challengers to
break his hold and throw
him to the floor.
Sweet perfume and downcast
eyes, a strand of gentle curl,
the slightest tilting of the head
and iron fists unfurl.
Parting lips which breathe
a sigh; his head begins
to swim. An upward glance,
a gentle touch; knees
buckle under him.
Strength of gentle femininity,
uncalculated power,
caves the strength of any man,
causes massive bulk to cower.
Fragility it may appear to be,
but in the slight of frame
does belie the truth of life –
was from Woman that you came.
{Inspired by somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond by E. E. Cummings}
dermis cells of clay
marinated in
the drippings of birth
the sweetness of love
the poison of hate
the bitter taste of death
fully soaked in the flavors of life
Sad eyes of faces from the past set in weathered skin of aging brick
heat of summer bakes urban soot into the dermis cells of clay
harsh cold of winter winds causes huddled forms to shudder
set aside from usefulness, removed from active life
Patchwork of Words 