Just Like A Woman

You focus on the act,
The ridiculous derring-do,
Laughing at me
Cause I chased away
In my rumpled ******,
The woodpecker that **convulsed
Our house at 5:00 AM,
With a decorative pillow.

Focus on the results, says the
Results-oriented man.

Has Woody ever returned?
No and his fate is still unknown,
He may fly forever neath our trees,
But now he knows to stay away
From me and the risk of my pillowy pillory!

P.S. I may (or may not)
Choose to disclose
That upon my return
The house still shook,
From someone's uproarious, convulsed
Laughing at a city boys country heroics.


10:30am
June29 2013

I swallow hard
I can see it move down my throat
The slender curve of my neck scarred
The memory fights to stay afloat
It claws it's way back up and in.
It's scent tearing at my skin.
For a moment I hate her.
The girl standing before me,
I hate her for giving up,
I hate her for giving in
I hate her for not being stronger
For letting her weakness win.
But I can't keep breaking mirrors,
and hating reflections.  
No good can come from hating what others have done.
She fought, she screamed, and cried.
I f**king tried.
I can't be a slave to yesterday and my thickening pride.
I followed a dream over the horizon.
Swam in the dark side of the moon.
Felt pleasure, love, and freedom on the other side of that dune.
But I only hold the reins to myself
I cannot control them, or him.
It's just me, overflowing, and full to the brim.
Then she stands tall, her slender neck strong, a deep breath drawn.
And strength brings color back to her cheeks.
The hatred, and memories gone, placed firmly in the past.
And I recognize myself again at last.

the boy enters when he knows
others will not be there
in prayer--their silent entreaties
to a god he is not sure
listens or cares

morning after mass is best;
the bouquets are fresh
he can smell them once
the scent of the early
worshipers fades:

the pipe smoke from the old man's
coat
the widow's perfume which lingers longer than the ammonia stench
of the holy homeless who is there
every day

Christ watches over this:
a white marble man bolted
to a cross, witnessing
this spectacle for millennia

long before this cold statue
was placed in this cathedral,
he was there, the slaughtered lamb
cursed to die again and again

that is how the boy sees it;
not a promised life eternal,
but the same death anon,
anon

the pounding of the stakes,
the blood offering: the old man, the woman, the mendicant
all crucifying him again with
each plaintive prayer

once their odors fade,
the funeral sprays, the bouquets
remain--cut, dying flowers,
a fragrant impermanence
with no expectation for life
beyond their time in the
vase--no imploring a godhead
for forgiveness

no demand for blood
and perpetual death

only a little water for their brief journey
in fragile glass

We are the scribes,
the poets that open hearts to change the world.

We are the sages,
that move cross desserts that need our lyrics as if water.

We are ground breakers,
who lead the many to travel in our vortex of words.

We are special ones
who awaken mankind inside love
launching dreams, trust, and peace.



StarBG © 2017

you are flat
frame is reverse
be sensible