A boy sat on a grassy bluff outside a village.
Long ago. Far away.
He sat. Staring down a winding trail.

That boy would watch the trail in misty morning dew.
Often he would and for years it was a rituai.

The women of the village
Walked that trail down to the river. Down to the rocks.
With baskets peched atop their heads and arms hung by
Their sides.

Down the trail to river rock. And churning emerald
Pool.the river was the cleanser and the rock a pounding tool.

A long procession of balance and grace. a practice old as time.
Then back the trip of swaying hips and poise. In young or old.
The rock. The grace. The. Quiet noise. A pageant.

That boy was me
That river rock still calls the women
Slow procession. Natural and endless charm.
The rock. The trail the emerald tide.

The womens hips. The undulate .
The basket never falls.
The river calls.

The onset was a subtle thing;
a clumsiness, a loss of grace.
She who had been strong and proud
was, suddenly, listless, out of place.
A weakness in a muscle here.
A spasm in a tendon there.
The prognosis, like a hammer strike
to the unsuspecting steer.

First came the cane,
Then came the chair.
Long before them
Came the fear.
The loss of strength
And motor skill
Lou Gehrig’s illness
left just her will.
Yet with that will she loved her man
Wrote a book with just one hand
Saw as much of the world she wished,
left them wanting one last kiss.
Then, when breathing became a chore,
She didn’t do it anymore.
To be surprised by death, she felt
Was the best way to manage
The hand she was dealt.

I am war,
I am bleeding faith
Turn away once more
Indifference,
Is a killing grace
Whispering  misery
To innocence
Feasting at
Tears of despair
In untold numbers
The lives I have spent
To gift you
The death angels stare
I don't think people
Even realize
I was born
In the depth of their soul
Fading to black
Seething In lies
Being human
Is consuming you whole
Now listen at the weeping sky
Hear mother's raging
Watch children die
chaos being the stated goal
Drink of war for your share of the lie.          Hy

• Part I
  
  I feel the sunshine,
  The warmth and the beauty
  Of it on my face.
  
  Sunshine in my heart
  Making me sing a sweet song,
  A sweet melody.
  
  Sunshine in my face,
  Leaving me it's pretty grace,
  Of it's love so warm.
  
  Sunshine in my head,
  Making me think of my friends,
  And my parents dear.
  
  Sunshines on you, friend,
  Makes your heart light and happy,
  Makes you feel carefree!
  
  Makes you want to dance,
  Through fields of everlasting
  Sweet and soft flowers.
  
  Sunshines through dark,
  Making everything light,
  It is day again.
  
  Sunshine forever,
  Even through dark times in your,
  Beautiful-bright life!
  
  ~Marian~

i am an asshole

and I feel weird

all the time

and I have mood swings faster than the striking of snakes
and my rage comes like hurricanes
and my euphoria like spring rain
quick and furious

i am bitter like
wormwood

and i laugh at things
i shouldn’t

and i wring my hands
and bite my lips

and glare
i have no social grace
and i dislike more things in this world than i can admit

but i make you lunch.
and let you cry on me
burn candles
fill your pockets with lavender for luck
and witch bottles full of blood and my hair
and pour salt
and put on party dresses
and pick flowers
and bring wine
and i pour fire in the mouths of those who hurt you

and i abandon you for days
when the dark in my head
gets too loud
but not really

because

i think about you all the time

it’s just

i don’t want you to see the lightening striking and the

lion roaring and screaming in my mind
when i tally up my skin
and empty my stomach i

don’t want you to see
and

i don’t want you to abandon me

so don’t

fucking leave me

don’t abandon me

and i know you need space too
because i can be suffocating
but
when i disappear into my own head
people don't miss me
like i
miss
them

when i put so much effort into being
a some-what human being for you

My mom only three
Not a single memory
Of that big tall soldier
Used to bounce her on his knee

The Irish man gone,
Grace raised her little girls.
She pierced their ears and
she brushed their curls

And every month she bought two bonds.
Told them stories so they could go beyond
the iron in the ground, the lumber on the hill.
That small town two girls watched out the window sill

Between the man’s death and hers
Grace lived 50 years
But still she loved him
And the daughters they held dear

Words are letters only,
The sounds they disappear
It’s the sadness in our hearts
That will keep our grandma near