Does he see your scars as battle wounds?
Does he understand the war being fought?
How your mind is fighting with itself
And both sides are losing.

Does he understand the days you get out of bed
Are battles won?
Does he know the nights you lie awake
Are battles lost?
How each day is a struggle to prepare your army?
And some days they just don't want to fight.

Does he tell you he'll fight the war with you?
Does he help heal the wounds?
When he holds you I hope it brings a white flag.
I hope his kisses are surrender.

~

irreverent place
on a laundry room shelf,
his is a figure serene.
source of comfort?
source of peace?
perhaps...
but oh, so much
more than that...
this is a crossroads
where absolution meets  
the gritty mundane,
where he became
her source of familiarity.
"good morning, Sweet Jesus,
i'm just here to wash
my ***** laundry."
no sacrilege here,
no... nothing profane.
from the hand outstretched
held out for the taking
who is this really,
this chalk figurine?
in tranquility certain,
a doorway between
human fragility and
perfection divine.
in life’s messy journey
our ***** laundry aside
how could one not feel,
more rinsed of life's stains?
Sweet Jesus, of course
divine cleanser, unseen
now, here on my mantle
my house feels more clean!

~

post script.

when a fellow treasure-hunter shared not only the story of  "Sweet Jesus" (a hand painted, european, chalk sculpture of a early-last-century, bleeding-heart Christ who was the long-time occupant of her laundry room closet shelf), but also an offer to bring him out of the closet and sell him to me (yes, it's true... i bought him for a few pieces of silver), i jumped at the chance to bring him to my mantle and determined to construct a fitting poem as a way to say, "thank you, Elaine!”  and to say unabashedly to anyone else, “i love my Sweet Jesus!  you are out of the closet... forever!!”

no sacrilege whatsoever intended
i dearly hope you'll not be offended!
:-) Steve

Even after all this time
You're still stained on my hands
Lining every crease
Embedded in my nails

I've tried to rid myself of you
Scrubbed my hands raw
Leaving pink and cracked skin
But your residue remains

I won't stop scrubbing till you're gone
Because God forbid
I accidentally stain someone else
With traces of *you

My darling,
upon the mountain's caress.
My ******-friendly mess
in a pineapple dress.
I couldn't love less
or less of you.

Young explorer,
drifting from world to world.
A huckleberry eye
that shifts from trembling duress,
with my hands onto her back.
Why can't life cut you any slack?
The chair is going out under
as the skies are mumbling thunder.
My violin underneath the sin,
sounding from within
"...I love you."

Broken water
bounce from cheek to chest.
Your breathing sounds the best.
With my words onto your lips,
and how the saliva drowns and drips.
I grip around your hips,
with the world releasing a boulder,
that drops upon your shoulder,
and I shake you senselessly,
why can't god set you free?
I can feel from you to me.

Blood, down, to ever and let go,
with your body in the snow.
My river-drowned girl,
engulfed by the swirl.
Love, oh no, from year to year.
Your words so everclear,
"I love you, too."

Silver-shiner,
moon-kissed and ever so,
your feet on the bathroom floor,
the kills from the handled snore.
What I wouldn't give to drink
from your fountain.
What I wouldn't give to die
on your mountain.
My darling, from colored-t.v.,
with a kiss and a motel fee,
I could know what the known couldn't,
with my fingertips where they shouldn't.
Turn down the volume and say
that you'll stay another day
or three.

i have become all the
    
          things you hate

(smoke and      bones

and         red lipstick)

but i    wonder if you

would   still   think  i

have the sun shining

outofmyskin or  that

i gave every   star its

place  in  the  galaxy.

you have to be careful
what you put in your pomes
and how you word your critiques

some poets are unique
and their retorts
are silenced

like their critics.