My mother was a bullet
Lodged inside my back
But not the bullet you may think
This bullet was beautiful
Hurting me yet shaping me
Ready to be removed though I was not ready
She however was not the first bullet
She was victimized by another bullet.
That bullet was cancer.
That bullet shot through my family.

My untrue fantasy,
I fantasize it every day,
Fantasizing how it would be wonderful if I had you,
Oh the world seems to be having summer all year long,
With you and me,
My untrue fantasy will never be true,
Fantasizing is the only way I could be with you,
I am not capable of doing so in the ticking world,
This fantasy
This fantasy will always be the most exciting play of
  
Hologram in my mind.

.
From out of the smoke,
And impromptu silences,
A lone piper plays at reels,
Beyond the borders, his knees
In a trinity of keys, breaching
Low dun black ****** hearts,
The public house is enclosed
Out in the open, under a plow
Of mossy stars, peat and bog,
Wrapped, within chanters throat.

Walking home, I saw him
Bright red hair and a drawn face
Fumble with his package
and fall
But I walk past
because I do not know him

The next day
I see his picture
as the headline of the paper
saying

Teenage Boy found
after having committed suicide

I read farther and learn
he had not parents,
only an abusive foster family

his package contained
pills from the doctor.
They were supposed to go to his sick brother
but he, himself, was sicker.

I remember that day
that look of fear
mixed with hope

hope that after he was done
he would no longer live in fear
no longer be scared

I remember.

But I also remember my feeling
my feeling of disgust
when he looked around after he dropped the package
as if scared
someone might have seen him
and punished him for his wrong-doings

But at that time,
I didn’t think he mattered
just another boy on the sidewalk

I did not stop to help
I did not think he mattered

But I learned
after being so close to another human
yet so far away

That every life matters,
no matter who they are,
or what they look like,

No one should have to die
in order to escape their life
in order to feel welcomed.

I only am sad
that it took a life to show me
that I didn’t know right away

That he payed the price
for my innocence.

On a perfect winter's day,
I passed the time away;
walking in the hills,
so close to home;
thanking God I had the health
to do so,
the sweet ability to roam.
To marvel at the scene,
that reflected nature's screen;
that sent pleasure to my mind,
of the meditative kind;
that of wonders often seen.

In the places seldom viewed,
in the caverns of the deep;
where the pictures still remain,
where the images still leap.


I have walked the trails of sadness,
where no happiness is found;
where depression lies within,
of the tragedies around.
But the light is always shining,
although hidden by a cloud;
the sunshine will break forth,
from the grey, low-hanging shroud.


Light will always conquer darkness,
it's the voice of God that's speaking;
and the soul is filled with glory,
soon after all the weeping.

The solicitous Self,
with and in each exchange
of conversation's
     volley of commiserating
                     commissary verbages
words of curbs and gutters,
owns not its guilt
knows not good will
             nor for those whom shatter
in our drowning hours, unstill...


The Self is begging
for your idolatry's bastions,
wants you to find it beautiful
and superior
     above any other

attention and ingestion
gorging and hoarding
     the tid-bit compliments
     the cloud nine glances
succulent smiles / flirtatious lick of lips

the audience pumping up
its hot air ego-balloon
to beach ball widths

     a deadly kind of perdition
     for you, character fool
                    careless and distracted
blase' as a toad on a stoop...

It is a ****

the amorous Self is
     harmless, the beginning seeds
and whimsy / at flowering
in your hands:
              fluff and puff intimations
child-like glee / pleasing / blowing
nonpluss dandelions
nonthreatening
       in ruminations  
       N' stuff...

but like any ****
when it spreads and takes hold
        the real estate of your time and soul
it chokes and feeds
off your serene prosperity
of peace of mind
of identity

a thief of your ideas
     makes your dreams its own

It suffocates all others
behaves with dismissive airs
      like you it becomes
                   you, who has watered
this pest and catered to its musings
      like a sudden sunrise it appears
out of the blue appealing
a dandelion, quaint & demure
                    yet alluring

The ******* that is the selfish
solicitous thorn
knows its own nature
     far too well
hides its hideous
kink so none can warn  
it is a war
      
with Self
the attention *****


Self being compelled
as all else
a parasite to its growth
a virus and its host

what she now only has to give
in return:

assuage
her malingered spell

she breeds in you
     a ghost of once you were
wastrel grime
wasted time
an empty shell

Abhorred.

Careful what the Self
is selling
the solicitudes
of obsessions  
Possession
Suffocation
                     not much else...


No succor for the Self.

Feeling hopeless and inane,
I understand that memory
pales compared to the present,
but sometimes you just
can't manage to escape the past
because life is mostly
a precious few tiny victories
and a great many huge defeats;
sometimes size does matter
and small isn't always beautiful.

  ~mce

The sleepy, starry eyed sky of night
Retires in an odd violet surrender,
Making way for a swiftly emerging dawn
As the viscous black blues of Midnight's celestial shore is waning,
They ebb into waves of apricot, magenta and tangerine hues
A solitary meadowlark perched about the ash grove sits quietly
Watching the remaining vestibules of fog drifting upwards, only to burn away in the heat of the sun
A cool wind blows in from the mountainside, whistling through leaves and rustling tail feathers
The scent of the far off sea tickles the old birds nostrils, holding the promise of silver backed sardine and beach scattered ***** legs
He feels the call of the spirit beneath him, arching his wings he leans into the breeze
A cerulean blue, cloudless skyline illuminates the eyes as he soars amongst evergreen hilltops and pine ladened mountains
His flight pattern as seamless as the air on which he moves,
His mind and body becoming one with the soundless synergy of the skies and the senses,
Bones among feathers,
First was winds, now is breathing.
He is the eternal
Infinite bliss indefinable
Ancient and etheric, a consciousness made complete