Emma Pickwick

Mar 2015

Rob Rutledge

We ride in on night winged eagles
Three harbingers of fate.
Circling over the city of the dead
We land awkwardly at the gate.
Trudging through the streets of mist
Treading on cobbled hopes,
Gathering jackets close
We barge through crowds of ghosts.

Three wise men, with nothing much to say.
Gather round in the rain by the side of the Grave.
Bringing the gift of silence,
Golden memories and mirth.
The city takes another back into the earth.
The rain starts to lighten, a feint mist
Over fresh turned turf.
The burden is lightened
The journey back is not so tough.
Even the city of the dead is filled
With towers of love.

Mar 2015

SG Holter

Three (part three of the ******* triology)

Here I sit, fog-eyed from yesterday's
Wine; the last sounds made still in my
Ears; her laughing at my reply

When she asked why I was getting
Out of bed: "To go jogging," and when
She love-sarcastingly giggled, I

Laughed back: "I love you, but ****
You," and she laughed even more, and
I'll be ****** if that sentence itself

Isn't as much poetry as anything else.
Her, love and I; all three together at
All times, bruising and scratching

And moving in bed, or hand in hand
Asleep on the sofa, still fog-eyed from
Yesterday's wine and having

Had enough of everything the world
Has to offer lovers on a Sunday morning.
Sometimes poetry is the only

Remedy for Life. Sometimes poetry is
The only voice in the world.
The sound of the love between us.

The act of fingertip on touch screen
Etching a moment into cyberstone; quill
Of 2015, chisel of Today.

Sometimes poetry is our newborn;
Love manifested; product of our
Scratched, bruised morning hours.

Are you writing about me, she asks.
I lie.
*No.

Emma Pickwick Mar 2015

Lessons finally learned

I don't look at you the way I used to,
Just see the sleeplessness in your face,
I don't follow you the way I used to,
You were never worth the chase.

You wore out the strings keeping us together with a million little lies,
After years of nearly severing them,
Now I've cut all the ties.

I can't keep reading the apologies, like a suicide note, every time.
Leave you hanging by a thread,
But in the end, I always die.

I don't know how I ever let someone like you find their way under my skin,
Finally got you out,
Now I'll never let anyone in.

Feb 2015

Sjr1000

Riding on the Borderline

I was invited,
She was dressed in red,
A long sleeve blouse
to hide
the upper arm gills,
Cuts inflicted with
perfect knife skills,
Invited by the friend
of a friend's friend,
That never slowed her down.

She appeared before me,
Inviting me to her bed,
When I said, "Hello"
She was wounded and insulted
and told me to go.
When I started to leave,
She lay on the bed,
Threatening suicide
if I left.

She held me in high esteem
or so she said,
When I came forward
she told me to "drop dead. "

It's a black and white world
in her head
with no hues or colors
but dripping dread
it's what happens
with trauma's invalidation,
No boundaries, no barriers
rip tides running
takes her under.

Everything changes in a
moment
from tears to rage
and back again.

"I'm warning you," she said.
A gut check,
I thought I was up
to the task,
When she was silent,
I just had to ask,
"Is there anything I
can do to help? "

She jumped out the window
made a mad dash.

I sat on the curb
to consider my fate
smoke my last cigarette
she had taken my pack.
I fell into my shoes,
Staring,
Waiting for one of them
to move.

"I love you sweetheart" she said,
"You'd better go,
I love you sweetheart
don't go away.

I love you sweetheart
stay here - no not
there
over here. "

A dancing puppet,
I learned to love her truly.
I made the moves,
Learned acceptance, too.

Then she saw you.

I returned from the borderline
a little less smug
not so refined,
Now late at night
when anxiety has passed,
She comes into my mind,
I toss and turn
fall off the bed,
I don't know if she's
alive or dead
in
heaven or hell,
A test for all those
who think they know love.

If you fail, you pass,
If you pass you fail.

Beware of uninvited guests
dressed in red.