I choose my battles wisely
I choose my words carefully
I know when to retreat
I know when to be quiet
and my silence says everything
but it’s her lack of understanding
that will not listen yet she continues on
as all sense and logic goes out the window
I watch the lips move frantically
I watch the chin quiver like an earthquake
I watch the inferno eyes flare up wildly
as sour tears roll down sullen cheeks
I remain unresponsive and copacetic
which drives her into total madness
more and more she continues on
as my nerves grind down to sulfur
and my worth gets skinned alive
she has stripped away everything of mine:
happiness, joy, dignity
there’s nothing more for me to do here
but sit and wait in my own mind.
I wait for the energy to deplete
I wait for the useless rancor
and rage to die down
I wait for the flustered face
to release the stress and fear.
better days will come, this I’m sure of
but not right now, right now I’m thinking about picking up my daughter from trick
or treating while she slams doors and hyperventilates over things
I couldn’t quite possibly
comprehend.

~

his call to dew
lands on my list;
leaves these
hands a-wringin',
a most sweaty
palm encounter!
the shelves behind
my closet's door yields
not a single rament;
no festive threads
to adorn these
aching bones.
none to hide,
behind or 'neath,
my frail frame
unclothed and bare.
words that once
fell neatly from
these lips, and
prose that flowed
like notes of gold,
a tapestry of hues,
to wrap my soul within,
now lies still, silent.
****** river dammed,
no clothing formed
to dance upon this loom.
but taking the cake,
this lover leaves me
waiting, wanting,
at this counter.
only, just desserts
within my reach;
though none of
choicest choosing.
seems all my friends
are winning,
writers righting
wrongs alighting
alone, am i
the only losing!
my dew list but
a faint mirage.
to this mistress then
i bid adieu!
knowing vastly more
the notes of being,
to do's becoming
but a distant path!

~

post script.

as this feeble frame slowly ages, its output diminished with each passing year, it wants to believe it's only 20, but these bones and joints say otherwise. nowhere is this more evident than in the words that become stuck between synapses and pen.  so when a beloved fellow poet pitched a "call to arms," this was the best this mind was able to muster. here's to hoping it's just a momentary lapse in creativity!!  

cheers to all you aging poets!!  Steve