Walking home in the rain,
Carrying the groceries in one hand,
And a fallen leaf in the other.

Pulling up the hood of my mother's raincoat,
I take a minute to sit on a bench
While rain keeps pouring from above.

I stare at the leaf,
And then the sky,
And I realize,
This place isn't my home
Anymore.

I always thought
My home would be a familiar place,
But it's not.

I always thought
Home would be where my parents were,
Where my brothers and sisters were,
Where I've grown up,
And the place my friends live.

But I was wrong.

So just like how
Fall shows you that letting things go
Can be beautiful,
I need to let this place go
Too.

This just isn't my home
Anymore.

My home is a laugh,
A smile,
Warm arms around me
After tears and nightmares.

I care too much,
I get hurt too easily.
Fall too quickly.
This isn't my home anymore.

My home isn't a familiar place,
Rather a familiar face.

All strung
out
       on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
      that injected
the next defense
      to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
            of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
      the truth behind
the doors of
           beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
             vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
       in an ocean of sighs

Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
                       drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
    sick doctor
who shares
          this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing

In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
   who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
         the stars,
receiving their
            shadows
           of light
      like a blessing
   upon my
   nettle-stung
    tongue
and
       rise

I'm the cold hard ground
But she is the gentle rain
That makes flowers grow

She sits upon her throne
With a crown upon her brow
A tangled mess of dead vines and bone
She holds a scepter of rotted bough

Her throne is black as obsidian
The arms are made of skulls
Around her are her subjects
these regretful wails of souls  

This is now her kingdom
This place she was delivered
All consuming fear and fire
Where prayers cannot be whispered

Even though she did not want
She will be forever despite her quell  
She pleaded and begged all for not
She is now the queen of **Hell

Church bells ring of voices silenced
a darkened Moon is hanging low
crickets stop to hear the empty
as loving waters overflow

As angels call in voices singing
notify my heart goodbye
as deafened ears are opened up
no more tears are left to cry

Dying leaves, a crimson carpet
indigo ink at levied banks
waters flood my aching heartbeat
raising hands to you in thanks

Cloaking eyes, I'm in the shadows
petitioning  you another dance
whispering the coming reaper
if only I could have a chance

Softly come draped in darkness
ebony casts a ghostly glow
lovely bones in alabaster
putting on a secret show

Taking off the heavy waiting
holding down my paper heart
a poets voice cannot be silenced
by ticking hands you pushed apart

Silver tears they fall in quiet
in rivers taken right or wrong
releasing me & painful weighting
and sing me as I come along

Violins they speak so mellow
calling me as I go home
morning comes a glowing ember
left for you an Earthly loam

As the leaves outside are falling
and thickened air bids me farewell
whispering of my departure
& secrets I may never tell
although in this...
you mustn't dwell

Waving you off
in slow motion
blinking lashes bid adieu
darkened cloakroom,
veiling... hiding
memories of loving you

the only love
I  really wanted
the one I never... really knew.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Lavender and sage drift in waves of smoke
soft and subtle like your ebony hair flowing
through my fingers as my lips brushed yours.

Blood rushes to my cheeks and I gasp still-
fever overcoming shock as you touch me,
siren on land waiting for the tide to come in.

Once a hesitant explorer, meekly tracing your
beckoning curves and scars I now salivate-
wet with hunger to devour you inch by inch.

But we are little more than bleached bones,
memories grinding into dust with one foul move
blown away in the wind to feed new life.

why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds