The sounds spill from my mouth.
"Aahhhghhshhhspliminohhhh"

I look for words,
wanting to make some kind of sense.

That day you took your life,
I remember standing in my kitchen,
Wondering what will I make for dinner tonight.  

It's a cruelty of life, this going on with the mundane.

My world crashes like some
Like some
<insert a favorite cliche here>
Like some
<worn out country song>
Like some
I don't know what the **** to call it,

<It just ends.>

But the crazy, sad, infuriating part is this:


It doesn't.

Life just goes on.

And yeah,  I  cry while  I'm chopping the onions.

I cry when I am folding the laundry and I  come across a sock that once cradled your foot, and I  think,  

"What the ****? It's only a sock!"
Not some shrine to the foot that was:

'I love the ground he walks on'

But that's what it becomes.

Then I  just make those sounds.

"Aahhhghhshhhspliminohhhh"
"Whatwereyouthinking? "
"Iloveyouforeverwhy?"

https://youtu.be/HXD3StsKCJk

What oozes out
                             (between the lines)
the scent of shaving,
your lean leg,
those dancing eyes,
waffles.

What can't escape
                                (the boldface type)
the door that slams,
your heavy feet,
dark eyes demanding
waffles.

What remains
                          (the words that blur)
a broken dish
your cracking wit,
my steady hand, now
waffles.

In the garden she digs furrows
with her broken clock hands,
plants time in fallow fields.

On hands and knees,
the moist crumbling soil
spills through determined fingers.

With watchful gaze
they wind,
they spin.

She repackages her purpose into
tiny tin boxes,
folds the brittle paper of years ticking by,

molds origami shapes:
the thousand cranes,
one croaking frog,

and stuffs them there.

Iamb, iamb, iamb, I plod along
in verse predicting I could write a song.
To call upon the muse of higher power
pour some wine, kick off your shoes and glower.

While putting best foot forward, don't forget:
cliches are lines that surely **** your wit.
Reality, you say, bears greener grass?
Abstraction always steps across as crass.

It's true you could walk on like this for days.
Your meter's tight, it rarely ever strays.
But what of clever feet and sounds succinct?
If images are dull, your verse will stink,

As blossoms dance upon the redbud tree
and oceans fill your squid with ink of glee,
remember what your mama always said:
mixed metaphors fill readership with dread!

Say: sonics surely sock a swelling swale,
Entwined, the twisted tongues tell not your tale.
Less is always more, the teachers say.
If tricks you train, then please just walk away!

I never knew how hard it really was
to write a poem that might parade a buzz.
I thank you moderators and big brass
for sticking yours so fully up my ***!

The great blue heron haunts the reedy bank,
and combs the midnight waves with razor eyes.
He trolls the river shoals on spindled shank
then beaks his prey with sudden, swift surprise.

In shadowed silhouette his figure begs
my mind to plumb the depths of darkened mire.
But diving there, I rise with naught but dregs,
no meal of meat, no answers to inspire.

The heron pauses thoughtfully mid-stride
to preen his dusky feathers in the glow.
He ***** his crested head to leeward side,
then darts, once more, with certainty, below.

Aloof to prying gaze of passersby,
he lifts majestic wings on moonlit sky.

His letters scatter loose upon the ground,
She clenches fists despite arthritic hands
that rail against the words she never found.
To spite the golden noose of tarnished bands,
she douses tomes and quick lets loose a flame.
A tendril's curling wisp of past desire
snakes toward the sky. Still the ash of blame
survives the ceremony's futile pyre.
What fire ever burns away the dross
or dulls the tempered edges of we're done?
Yet embers coax; they succor heat not lost
to years they burned together each alone.
The groan of ache sounds low within her hips.
One letter saved, pressed tightly to her lips.