Do you hear the trees that talk in whispers
see the leaves that fall as spears
can you feel the mountains breathe?

I am ice in flowing rivers on a journey to the sea

Spring came early
and
fooled me

drip
drip
fall off the ledge and off on this trip of a lifetime

my life's fine
I'm just melting.

Swearing to God doesn't help me
the sea rises up before me
and I
disappear.

Next year
I'll be ready.

I beg myself, "Stay alive."
I am my own hero
And ******* it,
I want somebody to notice
The dying soul in my eyes,
The shaky voice,
The cold heart,
The scars on my wrists from an absent
childhood happiness
I'm drowning in a puddle,
Everyone looks at my collapsing lungs,
Too afraid to reach down
Save me
The words I scream silently everyday,
Hoping one day someone will hear
Save me
It's too late now
These pills look like a perfect
escape. -DDF

Once (not that long ago, perhaps, though we likely know better)
The summers were languid, liquid things without end
Each day fully equipped with a high sky,
The blue so all-encompassing, so all consuming,
That lazy fly ***** seemed to disappear
As if God had scooped them up like so many routine grounders.
We played, in a field long since abandoned
To crownvetch and scrub grass,
Twenty one--five points for those *****
The celestial powers had bobbled
And we were able to catch on the fly,
Three points if we took it on the hop,
One if we safely trapped it before it rolled stone dead,
And so our Julys and Augusts fluttered by,
Every bit lazy and aimless as butterflies or knuckleballs,
With the exception of the de riguer tribunals
In which the assembled debated and determined
Where bounce ended and roll began,
Where shoestring catch was reduced to single-point trap.

It all came to an end, of course;
At some point, we crossed a line
(Undelineated but firmly established nonetheless)
Where it was no longer advisable to attempt this at home,
Mere joy no longer an acceptable substitute for proficiency.
Find something else to do, kid, we were told,
And the bats went to the back of the closet,
The gloves and ***** consigned to a spot
(Where we would surely remember to find them)
Behind some canned tuna and Christmas lights,
The fastball blurring by us now,
The field a warren of subdevelopments and cul-de-sacs.

And so you’d forgotten,
Or perhaps just suppressed, the whole notion;
There were, after all, a gaggle of coupon books
With return addresses from an ever-changing confusion of banks,
Sales on pasta and milk, other fees and foundations
Politely requesting ones attention,
So you couldn’t be sure
That it was really the crack of an old thick-handled Adirondack,
Or the comforting thwick of the ball landing squarely
In the pocket of a Wilson A-2000,
Yet when you wandered to the window and peered out,
There they were, looking straight up at you,
Waving their hands like childlike Prosperos
Gesturing to reveal some fairytale glen.  
Come on back, they are saying, and you go down,
Powerless to resist, even if you had wanted to,
Returned instantly, seamlessly to a time and place
Where a shout of I got it! I got it!
Was all the prerequisite or vitae that was required,
And you are unable to bring even mock-edginess to your voice
When you insist I got that cleanly on the hop.  That’s three points.

Take all.
Leave me thin and bone,
Withdraw hope and home,
Shame me in every way,
Blind me, shun me
Punch me deaf and dumb,
Bleed out all of joy,
Fester *** and pleasure,
Blacken me a liar,
Circumcise my art,
Multiply a thousand times despair,
And present me death as a gift

Hobble my gait,
Drape me down in chains,
Rob me of all.
But leave me words.

Grant me poetry, one line, one spark
And the universe ignites again,
Let me roll syllables like dice
And I will chase passion to you,
Give me a sprinkle of syntax,
A magic dust,
Turns sound to shape and form.
Let me own letters,
And I will smuggle tears to you,
Crouch inside your dreams,
Spin the air into scent
Reflect in every mirror a lover,
Make clouds chant a monk’s choir,
Bend light and tie it like a shoestring,

Give me words, just words  
And I will stand forever.

Tying a string to loan
Coercing a poor country,
Under the yoke of poverty
To squawk and groan,
Also making
The noose tighter, tighter
So that aid it fails to garner,
Allow a hypocrite donor
To flog the receiver
Into a restricted domain
To every donor’s whim
Saying “Amen.”

Tragically, this way receiver’s
Development wishes
And growths’ talk
Will go up in smoke.

In such manner,
With malfunctioned cog,
Receiver turns
The tail of the donor dog,
.
On the other hand,
For donor’s
Geopolitical advantage,
With preferential treatment
The ingratiating donor’s pet,
Pampered, will enjoy
Jealously -strewn
Dream’s fulfillment
To its heart’s content,
While the pushover
Smothered, maltreatments
Has to suffer.

It is such strings
The pushover-made
Ethiopia managed to cut
To generate much-needed
Over 5000 Megawatt.
Megawatt, which commands,
On the back, many a pat.

In so doing
Ethiopia has set an example
Emerging countries
Could realize
Developmental take off
By own dabble
Ramming home donors’
Double standard is
What they can
Do without, while in
Birth cry bout.

Chopping the string
With a self-esteem knife
Ethiopia born GERD to life
Tapping Abay (Blue Nile)—
A confluence of rivers,
Which are rife.

Ethiopia is
Tapping its gigantic river
That originates from its soil
To do away with women’s
Back-breaking toil.

Ethiopia is harnessing
Its prodigal river
To avoid fetching firewood,
Chocked with smoke,
To prepare food.

Ethiopia is subduing
Its God-bestowed river
To outreach with light
Students that study
Late into the night
For want of
A reading lamp
That use smoky lantern
In far-flung corners of
The country’s
Schools’ map.

Ethiopia is
Forcing the river
Yield a hand
So that
Nation’ demand
Electricity—
Mushrooming industries’
Lifeblood—
Soon, will flow
Like an irrigating flood.

Ethiopia is
Taming the wild river
In a bid
Environment-friendly
GERD starts
Generating hydropower soon
To let the region enjoy
The unprecedented boon.

When GERD materializes,
The heinous, covetous
Donors’ pet ,
Which claims to date
The river is
Its exclusive right
Will be
Coerced to stop
Eclipsing the country’s
Affluence hope.

The less privileged
Round the globe
Which are
Under the same fate
Ethiopia’s
Development ******
Could emulate.

Soon Ethiopia will
Join the club
Countries marked
Industrial hub.

You know something?
Arm twisting
Is the mystery of the string!
So go for bootstrapping
Use shoestring.

You put a little glass box on the table
Said here's mine now show me yours
So I took out a piece of paper
And drew something like a shoestring
Now this is all I've got you see
I don't have very much at all
But this is down way deep inside me
So deep you would die from the fall

Entertainment comes in many forms
One without Nielson ratings
presents daily shows
below the garage gutter

Weathered leather shoestring
strains under the weight
of unfilled feeder
long exposed to wind
and air until
it's original surface
contains only flecks
of it's original varnish

When filled, squares of suet cakes
fitted between wire grids
entice chickadees
early in the day
before nuthatches, wren
and downy woodpeckers
peck and feed on the
nut, corn and protein
snack.  Bluejays struggle
without success to
hang sideways and gather
specks of nuts from the tallow.

Other large birds, cardinal
and red-bellied woodpecker
show-up the jay as they feed
with ease at the suet rack

Each day suet sinks
slowly descending until
little is found by
winged visitors

Begrudgingly he rises
from his chair, tramps to the
garage to find a new
insert for the feed box.
Hands, weathered like the
pine of the feeder
unpack the next cake
to refresh the lure
as the scenery of wild birds
return to their feeding
and refill his soul

In the weeks leading up to your death there was no fire in your lips and no water in your eyes and you seemed happy for a turn so I let it be; when you licked into my mouth and it felt like feather candy, like I’d ticked off all the right choices, no red lines and I thought that we were safe. As you curved under the inside of my birdlike wrists and fed me praise, kisses where you projected cuts I had no heart for sight and but knots to stomach, that you loved me a little bit. I loved you less than a bit, then, but maybe it was always like that. I wake up to your shoes strung on a wire and that is fine but; i see you strung on a wire and things are not fine.

I want my heart to feel like the great Salt Lakes, reaching towards each other, constantly suspended in the moment just before contact. I want to build this anticipation, but my patience is shorter than your last haircut, when we sat by the river to discuss model trains.

I want my mind to feel like a hummingbird when it finally lands to rest on the red plastic device filled with sugar water outside my mother’s kitchen window, but I’m quite a ways from home now and have been for a while.

I want my stomach to feel like the tree roots, the red oaks, the ones that dwarf me and that I know would let me get my favorite kind of lost in their home, the kind we planned on visiting after graduation, but I am usually stuck in maple sap.

I want my mouth to taste like strawberries, ripened scarlet in the sun, the kind my tall friend’s mother mashes up with sour rhubarb for the perfect jam to last us through winter, but more often than not, my teeth are coffee-stained and my tongue tends to be too sharp for delicate berries.

I want my skin to feel like satin ribbons, the kind that tie little girl sashes before holy events and parties where they dance on their father’s toes for the first time, and find it perfectly marvelous, but I am covered in scratches and marks from building enormities.

I am a patchwork from the most meaningless scraps. I was a junkyard doll with mismatch buttons eyes and melted cardboard shoes. My head is a garbage heap left out too long, my eyes are scooping all of it up, and my dress is made of someone else’s throwaway linen.  My aluminum can hands stretch out for anyone’s how-town while I think of shoestring revues and paper mache.

Living on a shoestring, but
I'm enjoying my Spring Fling

As the leaves breathed relief
upon their fabled flight from trees
I kissed the feet of the former me,
(Or at least the one who bleeds)

For freedom is just a season
that changes with the wind
without a rhyme or reason
unless its a song that we all sing

Only You know your truth
and if your life is being wasted
yet regret is a bitter blade from youth
that most old folk have tasted

but only a coward flees from dreams
and only the lonely are what they seem
yet most slaves forsake faith in change
when its paved the saviours way

Dragon
Swallows
Tail

Left arm
High

My boy Jack
Caramel and honeyed

Union of
Opposites:

Twenty-five
Years
Beyond odysseus

Wandered from you.

Your mother,
No penelope

My picture
Disfigured

Darted
Wounded

Cursed I roam
Wine-dark aegean.

Suitors succeed
And you are
Lost to me.

Goodbye telemachus

River boat gambler

Pencil moustache
Shoestring tie

How I picture you

Jack of hearts

How the ladies
Swoon

Was I worth the risk?
You were worth the sleepless nights
But was I worth the risk?
Of having a shoestring tie
Latch you to the world

Cut me off.
If you need.
Cut me off.
It’ll hurt
Cut me off.

Because I need you to be sound
More than I need you to be

A shoestring girl
Curled up in an attic
Who’s remembering a family
That’s picture-perfect
Using the dust
To form a father
A lively one
Who’s supportive
That hugs a doll
Made of scraps
A mother
Who loves
Without condition
That’s always scolding
Two brothers
A pair of woodchips
Who run all-day
On a concrete drive
Which lays in front
Of a cookie-cutter
Home
Whose neighbors laugh
And play outside
Where everyone smiles
Free of worries
About the future
Or what will change
Because the memories
Of that shoestring girl
Were morphed to be
Picture-perfect
Through an adolescent
Mind
Full of ignorance

Energy,
doesn't that equate with
positivity,
the more positive you become
the more energy you have?

a bit like,
Poverty,
the more money you earn
the less poor you are.

She is the ember, glowing amber in the ebony.
The promise of warmth, of home.
The air of her lingers on the pillow.
I want to hold it somehow.
Memory won't be enough.
I need a to stop time’s ever cruel hands,
to find the marrow and hold fast.
These ghosts dwell in my mind,
promising every sorrow.
Merely faceless shadows of childhood fears.
Latchkey kids will forever wear their
shoestring chains of being alone.
She returns with the ruffle of the sheets,
banishes the banshees to some distant land.
It will be days before they can return.
I take in her scent and smile at the knowing of it,
for now I have my Queen to gaze upon
transfixed in eros.
The heart’s fire
keeps the demons away.
She is holy,
mystic without knowing what she is,
only closing her doves eyes again,
only trying to find her dream again.
What do queens dream of
as fools gaze in awestruck wonder?

The owl was resigned to the fact that the cat had designed a new method of travel.
The string that was handy presented by Mandy, the turtle, would never unravel.

Perpetual motion brought on by the notion that holidays calm the hysterics.
Providing the crew had those jobs they could do that didn’t involve balding clerics.

After owl asking about multi tasking the cat decided to spin.
The string that was dandy and near to the sandy and frequently visited bin.

Realising the method was not going to pass so harassing the mass of onlookers.
The couple decided despite being derided to disappear dressed as two hookers.

The moral is this:
That an owl and cat’s bliss can only be found on a shoestring.
With strings and a boat and a gabardine coat, perpetual motion’s no new thing.

I’d trade a drunken uncle for five years of warmth
For a family rooted in chaos.
Your father recovered
But mine never will  (if I can still call him mine)

Envy is a deadly sin
a gateway drug
An invisible mistress

You have hand painted thighs from a boy who rearranged no
We both know him,
though you have been closer.
(LIAR)
But i'm still a fresh canvas,
Maybe a bit tattered, slightly greyed
But clean of self inflicted hatred.

I've never had to invent my own pain.
I know pre-portioned hatred
Another ******
Food lines
Bottled baths
Gunshot lullabies
Shoestring laced telephone wires.

I wonder how it feels to stand on the edge with everything to live for.
“We” don't do that
(even though I've only been halfway accepted as “we”)
I have someone to take care of.

I wonder if sleeping pills would help me too.
Packaged from white rooms with white lab coats and white skin.

I wish I could hide too
I hate that you don't have to
I hate that you'd abandon everything I’ve always wanted.

makes or breaks you
your life depends on people liking you
and people are fickle
but if they don’t buy you
you have nothing
you live your life
on a shoestring
and it’s getting shorter
you have nothing in order
no savings account
let alone retirement
no vacation money
and yet you write
because you must
and when people ask you why
you haven’t a reason to tell them
except that it’s your unrequited love
that breaks your heart
and gets you out of bed
every morning to tell them
the heartache that this has cost you
you’ve never been a 9 to 5 gal
you couldn’t fit into that world
but you aren’t considered in this one either
so, where does that leave you -
in neither

Blame is a funny thing it seems,
when the reality of your nightmares takes the place of plesant dreams.

You pray, and will yourself towards outcomes lined in silver,
cut deep, fire again, as you pull another arrow from your quiver.

A light at night that feeds as darkness flees,
desire consumed by placing doubt at the feet of make-believe.

You there, holding a smile hostage behind years of troubled abuse,
make peace, a tempting trait, finding a way to  hinder happiness’ truce.

One foot in front of the other, stubbed toes that follow a cemented path,
tears well up, washing smudges from the windows of your soul, you’ll laugh.

An advocate for all things ‘animal’, the scapegoat least of all.
Tying the knot, shoestring situation - wait for me, your beck and call.

deleting inconsistencies, stick around for a little while and you’ll see,
Self-love, outward hate, a slipstream race towards all I’ll ever be.

There’s a tactical, cumbersome advantage to living life so free,
the ability to live and love who we want, until that person decides to disagree.

Place an ear to my chest, and hear the rhythm of lies with each heartbeat,
In this day and age of open hate, no regard to civility, no reason to be discreet.

Advice to die by, said like this: love one another, and like yourself,
we only have so long on this earth before we’re taken off the shelf.

Age is just a number,
It's riddled on the skin,
It's never too late to wonder,
So then let yourself begin.

It's the fire from your belly,
Ignited from deep within,
So tying up all loose strings,
So saddled up to then say.

It's Never Too Late to let be known,
Perfected stage and out bring,
From this mantle to your home,
Led on a shoestring to each,
S T E P P I N G  S  T  O  N  E   of belief.

O'Reily@28032020