Miles to go,
I do recall,
82 years,
That was all,
It happened in bed,
I hoped he was dreaming,
Dogs howling,
Sirens screaming,
He was alone,
I still feel appalled,
“He died in his sleep, after a fall”.
©B L Costello 2018

prayer huddles
more like
prayer
hurdles

a conflict
roadkill run over
my four wheels
must jump over.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

i'm standing
in the middle
every cell wall
shuddering
at the cold hands
soaking through
my backbone

trying not to
shift my weight
or mix up my
hate to ease
these exhausted
feet of mine

do not tip
do not sway
do not tilt
i don't pray

nod politely
accept
the words they
speak.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

suspend your
smile
over your
thoughts
the way you hang
curtains in the
backseat of a hearse
say thank you
walk away

and do not trip
do not slip
do not crack
do not break
a sweat
do not
scream
the death
in your lungs
on your way
down

slipping off an innately
acquired grid and falling
into a vague state of
comfort between hell and home.

just place your feet
correctly
it's ballet
balancing the feeling of
your mother handing
you a bulletproof vest
before your
chess tournament

a dance of graceful
denial
a waltz i have
mastered
in my spare moments
between broken ankles.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

this poem is the
opposite of
watercolor silk and
cardigans
worn over any
truth i know

it's heeled boots and
red acrylic draped
on white
the eyeliner drawn
up around my
conscience

the way the
room looks when
it's empty
when what's
hanging over
the rafters
is shaded by
an enemy.

(hold your head up high
to look at the ceiling tiles
so that when you cry
your eyeliner doesn't run)

my entire life
feels like
a prayer huddle
prayer hurdle
roadkill run over
my four wheels
can go
no further

unless i
swerve
to avoid
what i so
desperately
try to hide

or run
right over
and destroy
the lower
parts of my
pride.

because at the end
of the day
when i bend and
fade away

when i can't stop
myself from
tripping and
slipping off that
grid upon which
my sense of
direction so
relies

when i lose
those games
i play behind
my eyes

that's when i hit
the dirt track
and circle back
around
until my legs
grow sore and
my chest
will no
longer
hold air

but i still won't
break a sweat
or scream that
death

because
my eyeliner
is not
what happens
to be
running.

They're lighting the
Candles
In front of the
Pulpit
And the edges of the
Music stands are
Wavering as the
Heat begins to rise.

The greenery
Around the
Cold windowsills
Just sits
There's a scar on my right
Thumb from that one
Time during Silent Night
When I got too close to the flame.

And I could reach out
And touch the table
They're sitting on
The purple and
Pink and
Waxen white.

I could come in the
Dead of night and
Light one
Flimsy match and
Watch all five candles
Drip down.

And then I could
Push the table over and
Watch the rug catch
And spread to the
Walls and watch the whole
Building take like a
Gasoline-soaked
House of cards.

But now somebody's
Passing the offering and
I'm scrambling for my wallet
The nickles and dimes add
Up to new windows but my
View never changes.

I used to eye her more than books.

She had good looks
and for me
in the library
she killed the dullness of patience
the stifled air of silence
with her lips' hidden smile
that was quite a diversion
from pouring over yellowed pages
all the while.

In the garden I sought my chance
but she resisted any advance
telling me it's not her
I needed to be in my mind
but a job I must find
for couldn't be raised a family
merely loving in the library.

I think she gave me love
when I needed a job
but by the time I earned the bread
she was already married.

Once I thought of her as Miss Giving
but now as I look back
I have serious misgiving.

The battle between
darkness and depression
is onslaught for any troubled soul
for it takes place much deeper
than any dug out hole
This darkness seems to just find me
Takes over my world into my sanctuary
It settles around the iris of my eyes
Turning me into someone who just seems to cry
Rooted in negativity and lost in my pain
Through my eyes it enters my brain
Corrupting my each and every thought
Breeding unwelcome memories that like to haunt
Spreading now like poison through my veins
Trying to take over till nothing remains
Writing words is my only defense
When nothing else I do makes any sense
The power of prose keeps that place deep within me
Safe and free from this darkened toxicity…

I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
I hear your laughter in my mind,
The clear ringing of your happiness,
And I just want to hear it again,
Mingled with my own.
I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
I see your smile under my eyelids,
Your body curled up on the couch
In my favorite red sweatshirt,
Your gorgeous blue eyes gazing at my own.
I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
I feel your arms around me,
The gentle rhythm of your breathing,
Your soft hair brushing my cheek,
And your heart beating within you, just for me.
I shouldn't write after 10 pm
Because after 10 pm,
Every happy or sad thought
Is traced back to you;
You are constantly on my mind,
But after the world turns off and the darkness comes on,
I can see you so much more clearly,
And my ache is renewed.
Please, someone stop me from writing after 10 pm.
I don't want this pain.