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A Week Later 3/9/22
I’ll tell you,
It sent shivers down my spine.
An Unfortunate sequence of events.
That poor plane went down
Right in the South Pacific.
Can you believe it?
Just days I tell you,
Before I,
was supposed to be on that plane.
How frightening,
Those two teachers could have been
Me.
Lost at sea.
Luckily they found the mothers,
Enlisted volunteers, 690 hours later.
Still seated, in that single engine five seater,
After a new years celebration.
I was set to takeoff
A week later
In that single engine five seater.
If that engine had troubles
just a week later,
I very well could have been in that seat.
At the bottom of the sea.
Lost among the debris.
Almost as if I could foresee,
A tragic fate laid out before me.
But there I am,
No oracle, rather listening
To the little town whispers.
A Close call, only i and fate knew.
Now you too.
Two tips of my fingers
Touching my lips closed,
Attempting to quiet my mind.
Lips warm with life,
My rhythmic heartbeat singing softly.
My wise fingers, a powerful reminder
To enjoy while I can.
A moment cut short,
Plummeting into the ocean below.
Sinking like a rock.
The woman’s fingertips reaching high,
Grasping for air above.
A last hope extended,
breathe of life growing smaller and smaller.
Darkness closing in, fingertips left unanswered,
Floating in lonely misery.
Angry and confused,
Fearfully ignored,
Defeated in its plot to escape.
Still extended,
Delicately floating back and forth,
Back and forth.
Clinging to the life of the rhythm of the sea,
Their only friend.
A lonely, cold dance.
A silent call for help.
I kiss my fingertips.
Solemn, yet warm.
Each heartbeat, keenly embraced.
Slowly, I remove them, to the bitter cold.
As I rise to the surface,
Pale fingertips
Grow smaller and smaller,
Lost to the unforgiving black.
Shivers up my spine,
as I peer down
To my little red, lucky fingertips.
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On the Brink of Brimstone 2/24/22
How could I have known?
I just wanted a show,
A lively eruption spitting fire.
But I know it was me.
I was the tsunami that destroyed Tonga.
I was the hand stuffing the government’s money
In Panama’s president’s pocket.
I am the grease on the wheel.
The Jordanian officers accepting my bribery.
Yes I too, am the oil leaking in your precious rainforests.
Melting your icebergs, heating the summers.
But the poisoned water, my fatal mistake.
A butterfly died on my windshield, my revenge misplaced.
I did not mean to, I promise.
Families losing their life savings in the stock-market.
My ruse of a fair game.
Maybe it wasn’t fair when I tricked African mothers
Into using formula with the poisoned water.
I was only angry.
They forgot the pepperoni on my pizza that day.
I innocently watch stray cats and dogs
Wander my cruel streets.
Where they ask, is flight 370?
I was bored, I say.
Or maybe
I miscalculate my power.
Given too much weight
To the wrong coincidences.
For when I stub my toe,
May my cursed words not starve the poor North Koreans.
Could I have mistook the world at my whim?
If not me,
Who would take the responsibility
For the world’s misgivings?
To blame, to plead to.
I fear it would all erupt.
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I took inspiration from Ernest Hemingway’s poem Chapter Headings:
For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils’ tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.
Here is mine:
The one you feed. 7/27/16
For we know the difference of good and evil,
We hear the golden angel sing the kind song.
We listen to the devil whisper the wicked words,
For we know the difference of good and evil.
For the angel’s righteous song rings in our mind,
For the devil’s sinful words corrupt our blood.
We crawl to the feet of the vile crooked grin,
We relinquish our soul and seek sin after sin.
Our guilt and black heart sink too heavy,
Begging for mercy, we cry for the angel
Please enough already.
For the angel’s righteous song rings in our mind,
For the devil’s sinful words corrupt our blood.
A story we all know too well,
A slave to the devil’s spell,
Forever belonging to the night bell.
Fearful of our own living hell.
By morning light were on our knees,
Singing the angels kind song,
Pleading for amnesty.
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Hope 1/19/22
So illusive
Ever changing
Or so she thought
A ray of light, lost in the storm
A calm hidden in chaos
A world of grays
Forever lost
Faster you run, faster you fall
There is no winning
Numb and excruciating
Price of the game they say
A touch of light, like a lightening strike
Powerful and radiating
Like blood to your veins
Breathing after learning to live without
Pulling the curtain back
How precious,
the gift of sight
Reds,
Purples,
Yellows
A love for life
A leap of faith
A true love’s kiss ~
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Something happens 2/2/22
I learned how to burn
To keep others warm.
Accepted so little,
Gave everything in return.
I burned
and burned,
Until there was nothing left.
Cold ashes lost to the wind.
See-through, invisible, a shell
Yet I had no idea―
In the darkness depths of my mind,
Pain so profound,
Etchings from the burning tears on my soul,
Grief ladened me frozen.
I was born anew―
Depths you can’t unsee.
Fighting tooth and nail,
To see a glimpse of the light I gave so freely.
I choose to believe,
Something happens, when you choose to live.
You see the world with new eyes
And we can see it in one another.
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How did this happen? 3/31/18
I sit here blank―
A shell of bones.
Tonight she left,
I’m here to water the flowers.
But instead I find―
Wilted petals,
On the floor like dead flies.
Starved from the sunlight,
The sight makes me sad.
I’ve tried to leave,
But the door is locked.
I’ve tried to love them,
To hold them,
To shine the light,
Yet I see no hope here.
It’s dusty and empty,
Painful yet numb.
I wish to leave,
But the door is locked.
Let me leave―
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I beg of you 3/31/18
Soothe my soul,
Dear angel of mine.
Tonight, I can’t bear this time.
My heart is growing so heavy,
Like a sickness, my blood toxic.
Body sinking, filled with lead.
It’s like a sad poison.
Leaking from my heart,
Down through my arms,
Up through my spine,
Laying eggs in my mind.
Just waiting to hatch,
When I’m ready to smile.
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Honeysuckle unedited original version
Beginning of the baseball season,
Welcoming all the bees in.
By nightfall, luring all the moths in.
Blossoming so sweet,
No care to be discreet.
Delicate yet rich,
Intoxicating and innocent.
Drunken on the heady blooms,
A true romantic at heart.
Creamy cashmere,
Pastel yellows,
A soft white.
An understated elegance.
A whiff of the nose, a sugared hint,
Childhood memories flood the mind.
Ringing, clatter, reverberating.
Echoing through suburbia–
The baseball field behind the church.
After school, the sun low in the sky,
Kids climbing over poison ivy,
Behind their houses, in the woods.
With no regard for tomorrow.
With only their nose, following the sugary scent,
Like bloodhounds and blackbirds.
Strongest at dusk,
Dancing in the reds,
Singing through the golden light,
Can you smell that tinge of musk?
Sweet memories cherished,
Long after the ivy stops itching.
Gentle pull of the stem–
A drop of honeyed nectar,
A single lick of sweetness,
A small but mighty reward.
The lemon yellow of Lonicera.
An art nouveau dream,
Blush-pink hues and cream.
The scent, a siren no one can resist.
Petals perpetually sun-kissed.
Freshly opened trumpets,
Summer cream tea and crumpets.
Freshly cut strawberries to top,
A little bit of jelly, just a blop.
Honeysuckle syrup, just a drop.
Perhaps cupcakes and cream colored frosting?
Sticky and fluffy,
Moist – a bloom nestled on top.
Paired with coffee and milk,
Smooth as silk, soaked in sweetness.
A baker’s secret, a bartender’s magic touch.
So good, feels like sin.
Cocktails, make it gin.
Cordial liqueur,
Sweetened spirit,
Conserves preserved,
Sorbet like a cabaret.
Blossomed sugar, just a blop.
A delicacy to top.
All from one little drop.
How does one stop?
No more sharp cracks of baseball bats,
One season ending, another beginning.
Cooler nights with warm apple cider.
Late bloomers,
The bright red berries blossoming.
Sings red of the coming holidays,
As though they’re ready to burst.
Shiny and glossy,
A bow on the sweet treat.
Wrapped just for you.
Just one pluck, a single pick.
A lesson soon learned.
The candied nectar, a treat shared by all
Yet the clusters of blushing berries,
Whispering an enticing secret,
Like Snow White’s apple.
A poisonous traitor,
Selfishly reserved for the fauna.
A robin, deer, and a hummingbird,
Butterflies and songbirds.
Everyone’s favorite sweet treat.
End of the season, enjoy it while it lasts.
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Just beyond my fingertips. 3/31/18
I see the beauty–
Like a flame in the distance.
I see the fire–
Yet feel no heat.
Oh how I crave it so–
For my own fire,
Is slowly losing breath–
Dimming inside my timid light,
I’m afraid one blow–
And it’ll go out.
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A reflection of me. 2/16/22
I believe peaks await for me.
As vivid and glorious,
As profound and grand,
As my depths and lows.
As I am a universe capable of multitudes,
As above, so below.
I believe.
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Mamaw and Papa 2/16/22
Fresh out of the army,
Fresh outta school.
Two sides of the track meet,
A small town in rural North Carolina.
A quiet pocket in the counterculture revolution.
The Beetles, background to their growin’ family.
Generations of some families living on a single street.
Far from town, just a few neighbors around.
Kids raisin’ kids,
More workin’ hands.
Three little mice,
Each with their own motorbike.
Early mornin’ risers,
Coffee and horse-feed.
Off to the lumberyard.
Come Saturday,
All hands on deck.
But not mama, never mama.
Gone from a personal plot to
Bush hoggin’ the pastures,
Plowin’ the fields,
Children trailin’ behind the tractor,
Clearin’ rocks, throwin’ one by one.
Hard workers workin’ hard.
Always more to do,
Can’t be caught still.
Down yonder by the okra,
The one big field of corn.
Picked, harvested, and dried,
A child’s chore.
Fed to the pigs and horses,
The 101 cows.
The big stack of firewood behind the house,
Next to the barn.
Brick by brick, all handmade.
By one humble, stoic man,
With his homemaker wife.
Fixin’ problem horses,
Calmin’ the skittish,
Trainin’ the wild.
But not mama, never mama.
Clumsy or unlucky, the farmer’s wife
Never got along with mother nature.
Come the day He rests.
Dressed in Sunday best.
A classic country church.
Children tucked away,
Always at Sunday school.
Back in the evening,
Wednesday once more,
A weekly occurrence.
Home-cooked dinner waiting every night.
Around a table, all as one.
Pinto beans, cornbread, and cooked cabbage.
Pork chops, potato soup, and a tomato biscuit.
Mama fryin’ some fatback.
Tiptoes on a horse’s bareback,
Little fingertips reachin’ high.
Hidin’ in the woods, a child’s treasure.
The Grapes of the South.
Thick, bronze scuppernongs.
Spicy-sweet and sour-skinned.
Hot bitter pulp but,
Sweeter than the sweetest sweet tea.
Their daddy’s favorite, no ice.
Their home as their world.
Animals as friends,
Friends as animals.
The mile-long dirt driveway,
Don’t be late for the bus.
Small town secrets,
Secret love,
Secret children,
Secret shotgun weddings,
It’s not a secret at all.
A small, southern rural town.
A lifetime journey,
One crazy beginning.
Forever their person to the end.
Never in love,
But loved each other.
For they will be lost,
Without one another.
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Honeysuckle Syrup 3/2/22
The lemon yellow of Lonicera.
An art nouveau dream,
Blush-pink hues and cream.
The honeyed nectar a sugared, sweet scent.
Tempting like a dream
The spring fairy has gingerly dreamt.
Freshly opened trumpets,
Summer cream tea and crumpets.
Freshly cut strawberries to top,
A little bit of jelly, just a blop.
Honeysuckle syrup, just a drop.
Perhaps cupcakes and cream colored frosting?
Sticky and fluffy,
Moist – a bloom nestled on top.
Just like a morning dewdrop.
Paired with coffee and milk,
Smooth as silk,
Soaked in sweetness.
A baker’s secret,
A bartender’s magic touch.
So good, feels like sin,
Sweetened spirit.
Cocktails, make it gin.
Cordial liqueur,
Conserves preserved,
Sorbet like a cabaret.
Blossomed sugar, just a blop.
A delicacy to top.
All from one little drop.
How does one stop?
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Metamorphosis 3/2/22
what happens
when the mask grows old?
rotten and cold.
stifling and cracked.
the façade, a ticket to society.
dutifully, conforming quietly.
they say ignore the anxiety,
find comfort in my piety,
my only solace.
a reprieve from pretending to be flawless.
motions and fake characters.
tell me, what is real?
too skilled, tightly concealed,
exaggerated lives, a shallow display.
don’t be easy prey, so ready to betray,
tattooed knife in my back, used to the game.
hiding that little voice, a true resemblance
of my real self, veiled by an elaborate ruse.
grab the booze, delay the blues.
what happens
when it’s no longer fun?
a protected truth, visible by few, if not none.
a lie, too easily spun.
yet more like a snake than
the circles spiders run, thinking they’ve won.
better in the shade, hiding from the earnest sun.
Oh how easy it is to agree, to conform.
the path laid out brick by brick,
whispers when you step out of line.
Oh the desire to belong, to be accepted.
the warm embrace quickly turning to quicksand.
don’t dare to disrupt the fabricated harmony,
really a paradise for the few.
secretly, we have the same problems,
yet we rather struggle alone.
divided and distanced.
a false reality that we do better on our own.
an insatiable hunger, never able to fill
that empty hole.
unable to console, out of control.
my lonesome soul, no longer whole.
yearning for connection, to be seen.
small talk and feigned interest.
I don’t care about the weather
or your grandma’s false teeth.
too afraid to show what’s right underneath.
it’s easier to fit in, than face the worries and wrath
of being my true self, unprotected naivety
or so I thought.
pliant puppets and the pompous puppet-master.
a play for whom?
lonely pain and copied smiles.
the eyes, a poker’s tell,
always sharing your secrets.
no repose for the sleepless,
the show must go on.
only how long can one play?
waiting until the end of workday, just until payday.
soon it sets in, a feeling like decay.
the same old cliché.
Oh, to be vulnerable,
how sufferable.
no longer recoverable,
when the mask no longer fits.
never able to go back, unsee.
too accustomed to what I knew,
after everything I’ve been through.
warm and fuzzy becoming old hat.
now I’m up at bat,
shedding my old skin like a restless snake.
I wake to a mighty ache, rumbling my foundation.
an uncomfortable shift, however necessary,
like how a butterfly never returns to its cocoon.
outgrown and worn out, no turning back.
reborn, renewed,
my former, safe self
far too small
crawled up in a little ball.
the mask has lost its shape, dissolving in my hands.
Is it a game
if no one plays at all?
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Honeysuckle 3/2/22 edited version
Beginning of the baseball season,
Welcoming all the bees in.
Wondering where the moths have been.
Blossoming so sweet,
No care to be discreet.
Delicate yet rich,
Intoxicating and innocent.
Drunken on the heady blooms,
A true romantic at heart.
Borne in pairs, dressed in graceful tubular petals,
Drooping like wispy whimsical tendrils.
Creamy cashmere,
Pastel yellows,
A soft, golden white.
An understated elegance.
A whiff of the nose, a honeyed hint,
Childhood memories flood the mind.
Wild and free.
A sharp crack ringing, reverberating,
Echoing through suburbia–
The baseball field behind the white church.
Warmed green grass and cool metal bleachers.
Children roaming free.
After school, sun low in the sky,
The heavens ablaze with hopeful rays.
Families savor these precious few days,
A sliver of time to treasure forever.
Kids climbing over poison ivy,
Behind their brick houses, in the overgrown woods.
The old steeple, a watchful eye in the sky.
With no regard for tomorrow.
With only their nose, tracking the sugary scent,
Like bloodhounds and blackbirds.
Victorious, a call for a concession stand chip celebration.
Jasmine’s southern sister,
Petals perpetually sun-kissed.
The scent, a siren no one can resist.
Thick and ripe.
Strongest at dusk,
A tinge of musk,
A whiff of vanilla,
A wishful promise.
Delicately dancing in the reds,
Singing through the golden light,
Can you feel its joyful allure?
A naïve sincerity, intentions pure.
An illusive bliss,
Like a giggling child
Hiding amongst the trees.
Sacred sounds and smells of summer.
Sweet memories cherished,
Long after the ivy stops itching.
Gentle pull of the stem–
A rite of passage,
A child’s whispered secret,
A drop of honeyed nectar,
A single suckle of sweetness,
A small but mighty reward.
No more clunks or pings of baseball bats,
One season ending, another beginning.
Off the fields, around a fire.
Cooler nights and warm apple cider.
Late bloomers,
The bright red berries blossoming.
Singing red of the coming holidays,
As though they’re ready to burst.
Shiny and glossy,
A bow on the sweet treat.
Wrapped just for you.
Just one pluck, a single pick.
A lesson soon learned.
The candied nectar, a gift shared by all
Yet the clusters of blushing berries,
Whispering an enticing secret,
Like Snow White’s apple.
A poisonous traitor,
Selfishly reserved for the bears and birds.
A robin, deer, and a hummingbird,
Butterflies and bumblebees,
Honeybees and songbirds.
Everyone’s favorite summertime snack.
End of the season, enjoy it while it lasts.
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Sonder 3/2/22 edited version
Unaware, passing by each intricate being.
Akin to me, yet complexities unknown.
No longer strangers on the sidewalk,
A profound realization,
A lifelong wonder,
A breathless curiosity–
What are you thinking?
Where are you going?
Why are you smiling?
When will I see you again?
My ship in the night,
A bitter truth or a weight freed.
I dutifully watch their stories come alive,
Being written right before my eyes.
How can you look away?
For when they look at me,
I humbly try to read
The story behind their eyes.
How can you not be fascinated?
By the peculiarities
That dress our souls.
So fantastical–
Each adorned with either
Passion or timidness.
Tricksy or principled,
Petulant or tender,
Tactless or poised,
Peaceful or tormented.
I can’t help but wonder―
If their mom likes salt on her watermelon on the Fourth of July,
If the pages of their journal are stained crimson from wine,
If they wished they had talked to their dad one more time,
If they knew where that lonely, blue bruise came from,
If they regret every shot that burns down their throat,
If their friends remembered their birthday this year,
If they’ve felt what it’s like to fall from the sky,
If the taste of a cigarette ever left their mouth,
If they’ll ever get the courage to tell him no,
If they regret breaking up with that ex,
If they worry they’re doing enough,
If that scar hurt, if anyone kissed it,
If their dream job left them empty,
If they’re having a really bad day,
If they wake up happy,
If they like their life,
Or if they see me too.
And wonder
Where I have been.
For I am not so unfortunate,
To be a pioneer with my problems.
A powerful reminder,
You can never truly read one’s story.
A chapter or a page unseen, too painful.
With this in mind,
I am an unfit judge and I am kind.
At last,
I only get a glimpse.
A taste,
Of their kind of sweetness.
Never ending flavors,
Each a rare mosaic.
Too many I’ll never know,
A sugar I can’t resist,
Too much it makes me sick.
Intoxicating and addictive,
I still want more.
A healthy vice, compassion in check.
For the world needs, more caring souls,
For my hopes, dreams, and regrets are not alone.
For each world, only an arm lengths away,
With a moments courage, I know I am not on my own.
For this, the mind will always wonder.
For now, resigned to the background―
A prop sipping coffee besides you at Starbucks,
Holding open the door at the grocery store,
Blending into the scenery of the park,
A placeholder behind you in line,
Picking up the pen you dropped.
As we look at one another,
Our stories colliding.
A moments glance,
Into your world.
For now, I’ll just have to guess.
An important lesson nonetheless.
Promise me this,
For when you see a lighted window at dusk,
Take a moment,
For the sonder in all of us―
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No Longer Lonely 2/23/22 unedited version
You stumble along the uneven road,
Rocks and roof tiles.
You wonder if it’s gotten worse.
But sigh, one of relief
Upon the big mango tree.
You were so worried it’d been cut down.
The smell of the rotting mangoes makes you smile.
Paired with the buzz of hungry
Drunken bees.
Paying no mind,
You tap that old little brass bell
Hanging from the faded mailbox.
The small painted handprints chipping,
Soon no one will know it exists.
The once cream-colored gate,
Now a rickety yellow,
Creaks a welcome home.
Long-awaited,
Loyal and dutiful.
Seven years still, this moment fated.
The stilted house patiently waited
Just for you.
Higher than before.
Still smiling down,
Like a watchful mother.
The stairs anew, rebuilt.
The green door Mom painted
Showing it’s age.
The floral-patterned window blurry with dust.
Creeping in, vengeful moss and ivy have made its new home.
Another sign of the years lost.
The beloved front porch, warped.
The crushing weight
Of its loneliness.
You speak softly
So to respect its peace.
Like talking to an old friend.
A tinge of regret over the fallen despair,
Yet always, a timeless confidant.
Nestled upon the window,
The cedar planter box your Dad built.
Ironically, it did not whether the test of time.
Wilted flowers, drained of color.
Stiff, frozen in time.
Brittle and fragile.
A wiggle of the doorknob,
Unsuccessful.
Suddenly–
A quick movement startles you..
The figures through the window growing ominous.
You turn to look at the tall overgrown lawn.
Doubting yourself, you peer back inside.
Hand blocking the evening sun.
The gate eerily creaks
Breaking the once comforting silence.
A sudden urge to flee.
The warm welcome,
Now a cold goodbye.
The hair standing upon your neck
Dutifully alerting to a watchful eye,
Nearby, unseen.
You know that feeling?
Quick footsteps pitter down the brick path.
Hurried, gut clenching, your eyes darting round.
In the rush, you crush a rotted mango.
Each step a quick squish, an increasing pace.
Tripping over the rocky road.
With a ring of the mailbox’s bell, you dash–
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No Longer Lonely 3/23/22 edited version
You stumble along the uneven road,
Rocks and roof tiles.
You wonder if perhaps it’s gotten worse.
But sigh, one of relief
Upon the big mango tree.
You were so worried it’d been cut down.
The smell of the rotting mangoes makes you smile.
Paired with the buzz of hungry
Drunken bees.
Paying no mind,
You tap that old little brass bell
Hanging from the faded mailbox.
The small painted handprints chipped,
Soon no one will know it exists.
The once cream-colored gate,
Now a rickety yellow,
Creaks a welcome home.
Long-awaited, loyal and dutiful.
Over seven years still, this moment fated.
The stilted house patiently waited
Just for you.
A bit higher than before.
Still smiling down,
Like a watchful mother.
The stairs anew, rebuilt.
The dull green door broken and bulging from the sea air.
The floral-patterned window blurry with dust.
Creeping in, moss and ivy have made its home.
Another sign of the years lost, time reclaimed.
Perhaps a desperately needed life.
The beloved front porch, warped.
The crushing weight
Of its loneliness.
You speak softly
So to respect its peace.
Like talking to an old friend.
A tinge of regret over the fallen despair,
Yet always, a timeless confidant.
0 notes