9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.

Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like an offering.
The unrequited love
Of years to come
Glistens in his eyes
For but a moment.

Sharp young minds
Clutching magnolias
Spinning webs of imagination
Like silk worms and spiders.
The webs, soon to be tainted
With lies and flies
And magnolias.

Bright pink magnolias
Epitome of womanhood
To brighten the rainy day
When he layed magnolias
On his mother's grave.
Only a child,
Weeping into his father's
Sullen form.
To young to understand
Death.

Sticky young hands
Clutching magnolias
Holding them out
Like a promise
To remember.

All right, ladies and gentlemen, let's get something straight.
I'm sick.
Sick of checking all the poems
All about pain and
How horribly beautiful love is
The sadness that consumes you on the daily
Why don't we write about the good things
There is beauty in nature, describe it
Let the strength within you be nurtured
Have faith in those who trust you
I'm tired of wrenching accounts
Of the razor sliding across the skin like a pen on paper
I know how it feels to have pain
But writing about the bad makes the good seem gone
So smile at the cool grey sky
Taste the rain
Write something funny
Let movies inspire you
Drink a chocolate milkshake with a cherry
Using the spoon to eat the whipped cream
Write about how he/she/other
Has eyes that light up the sky
You know there is happiness in your life
Don't create a contest
It's not about who has it worse
So write about joy
Or a silver candlestick
Unleash the inner beast
I know it's tough to beat the baddest of things
Sometimes you can't have control
So let the hippogriff fly
Let the extras go
It's you versus the world
And I personally think
If you can't beat it,
Join it.
You all probably think I'm stupid now
For surely no one can know your sorrow
But heed my words
And write about lovely things tomorrow.

I saw her again tonight
That pretty, angry girl among so many others.
Her hair fell over her dark eyes,
A bitter frown on her pale face.

Her words are so brutal and curt.
She writes of stupid, ugly things
Battered, tattered things
I can't help but wonder
If that girl who hides behind
Blue skies and sunshine smiles
Popular friends and a rule-all attitude
Has a method to her madness.

I long to ask her, though I know I'd be met with trouble
Speak quietly and ask,
"What are you so angry at?"
Is it the world?
Her life?
The parallel white scars on her left wrist
Long healed, but unwilling to disappear?
Why does she feel like tomato juice
In a world of bubbly citrus?

Does she want to be relieved
Of whatever burden pains her?
Can she find the power
To release herself from her wrought-iron cage?
Does she need a true friend
As badly as she needs a real smile?

Pretty, angry girl, I wish I could help you.
I really do.

In my next life
I wish to be a saddle.
I love horses,
wool blankets,
the feel of old leather,
the comfort of a stable.
Yes, I love them all.
Mostly, though,
I love cowgirls.
In my next life
I wish to be a saddle.

r ~ 5/1/14

you called, i came,
that's what one does,
when a friend,
is terminal.

i watched you doze.
body skeletally thin,
face no longer yours,
more drawn and alien.
skin parchment draped loosely,
on a collasping frame.

quiet i sat,
not ready to disturb.
you woke and smiled,
with effort, moved
to bring me into focus,
you reached for my hand
and beckoned me close.
inside my heart lurched.
"glad you came, just needed
to see your face."
my smile tremulous,
as you gently squeeze my hand,
with all your strength,
"not long"
you sigh on laboured breath,
i nod unable to agree.

you slip back to sleep.
giving me,
momentary grace,
to gather myself,
my thoughts.
inwardly, i mourn your choice to cease the battle,
fought and won twice before,
but,
i know this is my need,not yours crying.
when stronger,  you as always, eloquenty explained your rationale.
battle weary,
knowing the final outcome you chose,
not to walk toward it,
but let it come, without fight,
for you, not fear,
but faith's reward.
pallitive care was all you sought.

the warrior woman,
had put away her sword.

you told me, all this, one day bright with sun,
as we watched my child play.
you ended the conversation with these words.
this is not suicide,
dear girl, but grace.

again you stir and mumble,

" live well my dear one"
"as have you"
my broken reply"
"go, for now there are others to see"

i put my lips to yours,
special in intimacy.
i walk from the room,
your salt tears on my face this will be my last time spent with you,
my mentor, my friend,
my sage wisdom women.

in the garden of death's place
i sit myself down
and water the world with my sorrow.

I crave it,
the smell of raw earth that is fertile
and pregnant with anxiety
newborn vulnerability mixed with a ****** innocence
desire, pure and unfiltered
in its most childish and embarassing form
the smell of raw earth is what I live for
when the grass has been torn up
and all that is there is possibility
roots snaking and enticing through
fresh ground, the birthing-place
of all things alien
familiar only to other aliens
I am new
and I can smell the newness here as I fill my lungs
with that which has been written and found filled
written and done,
dirt is the ankles of the world
the calves, thighs, and what's between them
forever moving and shifting restlessly, frustrated,
rising and falling beneath the soft fur of grass,
hoping
for the grace and gifts of the gentle soft
baby leaves and sprouts
to come upon the raw earth
and take it to its highest love.

Blood
A faint trail
Across a dainty wrist
To express emotions that
Cannot be expresses in words.

Blood
A wild gush
Of a wound freshly
Cut. Carved into skin with
The intent to harm. Maim. ****

Blood
Staining the
Grey pavement
A dark maroon color
As it drains from life into

Death.

The steady pitter patter
Of rain on windows
Like deft fingers on a hollow drum.
A steady chill
Of grey stretched across the sky
Like the cow hide pulled taught
Over the Woden skeleton of a drum.
Watch through windows
The rain that falls
From the clouds to the ground
Smearing across windows
In a drizzle of grey
Painting abstract trails of water
On the landscape.
Water will not scorch me
So I run in the rain
And feel alive
Yet wet with raindrops
That stain my clothes
With big wet splotches.
I escape the monotony
And the steady drum beat
When I run in the rain.