It’s complicated…


And comes in

Varying shades of gray…


Up the scale

To sweaty FUSCHIA

Or down the scale

To dismal BLACK


Let it be

What it be…

Because

It is…

What it is…


Don’t overthink it

Don’t micro analyze it… or

Make excuses for it… or

For the lack of it…

Because…


It’s complicated

Love is…


And comes in

Varying shades of gray

With regard to this grieving process…
how is this supposed work…?
is it okay to be sad for me…
but happy for her…
cuz Cancer
(with a capital “C”  
outta respect)
is a low-down cruel *****…
But she gave that low-down cruel *****…
A run for her money…
A hellava fight…
And now her race is run…
And it’s a win/win …
Or maybe it’s a no brainer…
And I’m sure that there is at least one more cliché that I can use here
But **** it…
It’ll  hafta come to me later…
Cuz my skin itches…
and I keep looking over my shoulder…
feeling as if someone is there…

When, how or where we are born
Matters in which we have no choice… and
Dying is something we do
All alone…
At the appointed time...

In the when and the why of the thing,
We may or may not
Have a voice

But it is these
Hard and Wonder-full
Seconds… Minutes… Hours… Days…
Between
The moment we’re born
And
The moment we die
This accumulation of lessons and experiences
Known as
Life

These are the moments
To make a difference!
To share smiles and tears
To halve our worries
To help shoulder our loads
To make lighter
The Moments of Strife

Don’t give me flowers
When I am dead
Give me my flowers
Now

And don’t be heart-broken
When I leave
If in your heart
When I arrive
There is no smile

Don’t “fall out” or swoon... or
Hug my casket and wail
Rent your clothes... and with ash,
Your head,
Anoint

Because
If you have the chance to be loving
Right now
But do not…

Could be supportive
Right now
But choose to not…

Beloved
You’re missing the point...

I’ve got nothing but love
And will love just as much
And for just as long
As allowed…

So don’t give me flowers when I am dead
Give me my flowers
Now

It seems that after
Thousands
Of words
Hundreds of thousands
Of expressions
My fount has
Finally
Dried up
Maybe it’s hormonal…
(cuz this happens)
Or
Maybe I’m depressed… and
Need some ice-cream
(cuz ice-cream always makes things better)
But
I just don’t feel like writing anything at all…
No thing inspires me
To expound upon it
Can’t even seem to write
A bad poem
Unless I count this one
And I don’t
But I do admit
It is bad
So I will re-start
This bad non-poem
And not talk about
Hormones or depression or ice-cream
(even tho ice-cream always makes things better)
I’ll not expound upon
How I am un-inspired
To ever again
Wax poetic…
But will instead merely query~
Has my fount
Truly
Dried up?

Some time ago.. I decided
To not allow
Your problems
To be
My problems
You gon hafta pull that wagon by yourself…

Hell… my own load is heavy… sometimes real heavy…
And I just can’t pull yours and mine too… though I do sometimes try…

But I’ve found that when I try… for too long…
I start to droppin’ stuff… and then I feel bad…If it’s your stuff…
And I feel worse... if it’s my stuff…
Then it’s not just heavy…
But it’s heavy and dropped stuff… and

I’m scramblin’
Tryin' to make sense of it all… or fix it… or patch it... or clean it up… and
It’s affectin' me… and my head aches… and my stomach hurts… and
I’m wonderin’… why…? and
I’m countin’… how long…? and
I’m wishin’ somebody would come along… to help me…
To pull this load…
Until finally…
It came to me…

I need not allow
Your problems
To be
My problems
You gon hafta pull that wagon by yourself…

There are elevated thick spots
Directly beneath the finger next to the pinky…
From my share… and on occasion
Other folk’s shares of
Hard work… and
I don’t mind…
These aged hands… that
Once gestured prettily to
Wave away a swoon… or
Disperse the heat… or
Point a direction… or
Pat him on his chest while
Girlishly giggling “boy you so craaazy…”
Now with their
Raised and rugged veins… a
Narrative of my life… like
My Mother’s hands… and
My Mother’s Mother’s hands… and
I don’t mind these aged hands… that have
Patted the babies… and
Held faces to kiss away tears… and
Spanked some tail so the police would never have to…
No-  I don’t mind…
These hands that have
Stroked… and
Rubbed… and
Massaged…and
scrubbed… are now
No longer so pretty…
No longer so dainty…  but like
My Mother’s hands… and
My Mother’s Mother’s hands…
Each line is a tale of it’s own… and
Every ache an account of the past… and
Every callous a memoir… and
I have lived a love filled life… and
The years have given so much to these aged hands …so
I don’t mind…

I don’t pretend to understand

your reasoning or reasons for un-embracing

Leaving broken and unsure and having to learn

the hard way

how to do it…

I don’t pretend to comprehend your

outspoken pride

in my enlightenment

as to the true nature of aloneness- of alone defined;

abandoned; forsaken; deserted; solo…

but I learned dear mother…

A minnow… in an ocean of sharks…

I learned…

Without your guidance or assistance in any way…

To survive

To walk like a woman

To spot evil

To spot evil

To spot evil

I almost didn’t live through that one

But I lived dear mother…

Without your aid or comfort in any way…

I lived…

My heart kept beating… sometimes to my chagrin and dismay

I awoke every **** morning and began each day with

Anger and distrust comfortably in place...

Until after way too many years

I realized…

Just because you gave me life

Does not mean that you owe me anything more…

Maybe in some nice holiday story or on the hallmark channel

Do loved ones actually love each other

But not in our reality dear mother

Not in our reality…

So I load my clothes and my spirit

some fried chicken and my beloved

(yes dear mother… the universe has given me true love)

into our all-terrain vehicle

and prepare to make this thousand mile trek to your beside…

still pained… but even now

the dutiful daughter

even now…

as you die…

What lessons will I learn from this dear mother…?

Without your disdain or hindrance in any way

What lessons will I learn…?