Prayers will help, the pastor said.
Hands joined, rest on her stomach,
the blue dress, neat and clean, her
hair set just so. Eyes closed, lips

mouthed prayers. Behind closed eyes
memories stirred, waking giants,
deep feelings woke from dark sleep.
Light from open window warmed

eyelids, skin, hands. She saw behind
lids, shadowy figures, deeds done.
Some other place, other time, all
remembered, recalled. She bit her

lip between teeth. Sensed the smell,
familiar scent, odour more. His not
hers. Side by side, smells, memories,
deeds and music, sensations and

feelings of uncleanness. Just this
once he had said. Just the once.
More after. Each time deeper, more
hurtful. None had known. So said.

Some must have. Time and tide.
She felt sunlight on cheek. Eyes
behind lids moved.  Shadows lingered,
dark room brought sweat and damp

beneath armpits. Clothes removed,
by whom? She or another? Where
was Mother? Father lost at sea. No
return, body lost, sea swallowed.

The bed warm, shutters closed, lie
still, said he. There was that candle.
Yes, remembered that. Light moved
in draft’s touch, slight, not overmuch.

She sensed even the now the then’s
feel, the touches, the pains, thrusts.  
Bathing brought no cleanness, no
undoing, no removing from mind’s

surface the worms of dark deeds.
Prayers will aid, pastor claimed,
what he didn’t know of, just general
stuff, depression, sadness on skin’s

surface, bags under eyes, weeping
over meals.  Dressed such as she did,
plain, no frills or glamour or over
the top colours and patterns. Not

wanting to attract, she clothed dull.
She had been undone, ill used, nightly
mucked, and unknown to Mother, ******.

After the bath the drying of,
the white towel under the
arms, over arms and *******,
between thighs, all over until

all dries or near so, and while
drying, she thinks of the long
afternoon spent, the meal, art
gallery and back to the hotel

for *** and talk and *** again.
She smiles, drying along her thigh,
here where he put his lips, kiss
planting, lips damp and wet, his

tongue lick lick, she laughs softly,
dries her buttocks, rubs and rubs,
and him reciting some short *****
poem, tapping his fingers along her

spine. She pauses the drying of, sits
and recalls the kisses set, the places
laid, the excitement caused and
raised and she in giggles near to

wetting and he laughing. After
the bathing, the rumination and
towelling all over, skin rubbed,
bath oils, powder, remembering

embraces, touching in places (what
would Mother have said?), and
he running finger along her nerves
and setting her juices to flow, then

have to leave, said he, have to go,
then gone, bed empty, space vacated,
scent left, odours lingering, still on
fire, unsatisfied desire. She sits and

puts down the towel, takes cigarette,
lights, inhales and thinks on and when
next and where, and if in truth, he’ll
come and (God be praised) ever be there.

A small child
Only 6 or so,
Runs inside from a long day's play.
So young and full of energy.
Shouldn't have a care in the world,
Except for the specks of mud on the floor,
Left by his own foot.
His father, a large and logical man,
Raised the boy right;
Manners and all in tact.
Yet when he walks into the kitchen,
While the boy is at the kitchen sink, washing his little hands,
He sees the mud.
And the boy sees him,
Smiles up at him with his missing-tooth smile,
But the dad doesn't see;
He only sees mud.
He storms over in two strides,
Grabs the boy by the collar and drags him to the spot on the floor.
The boys heart is racing,
A mile a minute.
Never seen his father so terrifying,
So horrifying;
Until a moment later.
As his grip released him, he fell to the floor.
He wasn't hurt then,
But he would be,
As his father's fists raised and fell upon his small body.
Impossible not to feel the bruises already beginning to form below his immature skin.
"Stop it! Why would you do that?" My mind screams at the man not worthy of being even called a father,
and for the boy as he crawls away into the next room and collapses at the foot of the stairs in tears.
"How could you do that to him?! He doesn't understand! He's just a little kid! He doesn't understand.."
My heart and mind scream together,
lined with hatred, through sobs of tears.
And then I see his future:
Self hatred.
Yeah he'll go far in school, he's a smart kid, but his emotional damage is irreversible.
Quiet because he forgot how to talk,
Never smiling because he knows what people are capable of.
He sees the world in a negative light, but it's his reality.
No trust, no love,
Just alone with his thoughts.
And that's when he's finally safe.

I am a poet
Hear me roar.
Hear my mind run
and race in madness.
Hear my soul burn
and crackle.
Hear my tears drop
into your hand.
Hear my pen scrape
away old ideas caked
onto your mind.
Hear my laughter spring forth into
your
bright future.
I am a poet.

Madness is addictive.

Spinning in unfinished circles and
cleverly hidden tea pots and
bright green hats and
leaves and things.
Having a vague and uninteresting effect and influence
on the people and
the pope and
the people of the pope.
Spinning
faster, faster, faster.
The lives around become a blur.
A memory of a
memory of a
memory of an
imaginary being.
Fast, fast, fast.
Crying.
Madness is good to slip into, they say.
Writing notes and
grocery lists with
your own blood and brains
and tears.
Repeating the lines of a memory
of a poem about a Spanish prison.
Crying on Death Row.
Walking down the street with hidden wings.
Cutting and trimming the
clouds and dreams.
Behaving well on Wednesdays
and teaching the dog theater etiquette.
Throwing bricks at the ******* next door screaming,
"Kerosene burns slower than gasoline!"
Signing the edge of a razor.

Life is bitter sweet for the mad.

An early November morning
It all started then
I fell in love
For the last 4 years
No one else
Gives the same feel.
Lost without you
4 years gone by
And all i want is one more day
A never-ending day
A day with just you and me.

The thoughts run through my mind a hundred at a time
Whether to let you go and hope for the best
or keep pushing through wanting to be with you

But it seems as though I can't get you back without giving someone else the pain I carry...
I never thought I'd see the day when I really questioned such decision
I want to be with you so bad but can't to see you hurt
or more surprisingly him hurt, I see how he looks at you

It's too late to apologize, but not to late to let go
The hardest part isn't having to let go but......wanting to let go
He looks at you the way I do and I see I could never be the one to take that from him
No matter how much hate or jealousy makes me want to.

It is the pain I carry
Not the pain he carries.
No one could carry it the way I have and do...