Limping through the streets at night,
A toy soldier, with all his might,
Living life whilst on one leg,
Crying tears, he starts to beg.

In this rain he can be seen
From door to door, for he seeks
Something but he doesn't know
For what purpose did he live for.

The rain pours down, the raindrops thicker,
In anguish with his hand on the trigger
Shooting the sky, his face turns grim
He curses the being that created him.

This toy had forgotten the meaning of love,
Useless, thrown away and shoved
Like trash, to the side of the street,
The gears rust and the joints creak.

His master gave up on his use,
No more fun, now all this abuse
Led to his life being thrown away,
No love ever came and no love will stay.

Drenched up to his red petticoat,
This drowning flood will make him float
Away from the wonders of life,
He tries to speak but ends in strife.

No sound can come out,
No sound will come out,
No sound can ever be heard.

For you're just a toy!
A place to belong?
Hah! That's completely absurd.

Winding himself up one last time,
He knocks on Door No. 9:
A mansion, pillars, and marble grand,
The gates open and there she stands:

A slender figure, his saving grace,
A caring master with a beautiful face
Who could prevent his lonely death
If not for his dying breath.

"You are broken, but I won't mourn,
I'll heal you until you are reborn.
I'll make sure you feel love again,
You'll never be hurt again my friend."

With her words and angelic gesture
No words weaved could ever measure
The serenity of her caring voice,
The scale at which it brings rejoice.

*No sound can come out,
No sound will come out,
No sound can ever be heard.

But trust me when I say
There's someone out there
Who can listen to your soul,

The deepest, darkest parts
Of your every being,
With the intention of
Healing you, saving you,

Making sure your every being is loved,
You will find what you are looking for,
in Her.

When I was a little girl, I loved to play with dolls.
On Christmas morning, I would wake up
And a beautiful, pristine little doll sat beneath the tree.
Encased within those shiny plastic walls,
Displayed like a piece of fine art at a museum.
                            — Except, I could never stay behind the red velvet rope.

I snipped, and slashed, and cut away,
Until her plastic fortress was breached.
She was mine.
I stroked her soft, fine hair,
Feeling the silky strands upon my fingertips
And I whispered in her ear
“I will love you forever”.
She looked upon me
With bright blues eyes,
Rose painted lips,
And a compliant smile.
I knew she was mine.

And then I would play…

Yank the blue polka dot dress off her slender figure
And contort her delicate frame into any position I pleased.
She was mine to love.
Mine to control.
Shoved her into my backpack and brought her to school
Grubby little fingers reached out to play with her:
The girls playing dress up,
The boys playing dress down.

And now, her once silky hair,
brittle strands of straw,
So wild and tangled no comb could soothe.
Raced to the kitchen, grabbed the scissors
And hacked away furiously,
Somehow believing I could fix her
With the very scissors I used to break her protective walls.

Now found myself staring wistfully at the dolls with long shinny hair
When my mother took me to the department store.

Then one day, as I played with her in the backyard,
A leg popped off and would not go back on.
So I threw her disfigured body in the trash
Atop the rotting carrot peels and broken egg shells.
That compliant smile shone through,
Begging me to take her back…
                     — But I had a new doll now.

Years later, when my childish things were packed away in the attic,
I sat upon the park bench in my blue polka dot dress,
With shimmering locks cascading softly upon my collarbones.
And you told me I was your Mona Lisa.
You told me, “I will love you forever”.
I smiled
And promised I would do anything to make you happy.

But then you started coming home
With alcohol on your breath and wrath in your eyes.
And struck me for all the things I did wrong.
I said I was sorry,
Promised to do anything to make you happy.

But it was never enough.
You threw me upon the bed with fury glittering in your crimson orbs.
Took me with carnal lust
That never seemed to ease the hate.
And left me broken,
With blue fingerprints imprinted upon my porcelain skin.
— And never came back

Now, when people ask me why I never let my daughter play with dolls,
I reply:
Some things are better left in the box.

Feb. 2015

this writ,
content so obvious,
it begs,
why even bother...

Pen Man Ship

this is who you are,
this is your scent, scripted,
the parfume that memory triggers
declarative self-examination passing grades

if pen and paper
are your skin and blood,
then you, man,
ship to shore,
skinned alive,
in poems verbose spill all

ship in ship out,
the glories and the dreads,
expel ink oceans glorious India blue,
rivulets of tributaries,
spillages of what~where,

you are pen
you are man
you are ship

where intersect these routed things,
one is voyage~bound
for parts unknown

the pen be the oar,
and the man, the ship,
and when the sails raised,
the wind never fails,
only there is no
dead reckoning -

for there are no
landmarks observable
when sit~stand
to commence sail~writing

each writ a latitude recorded,
each poem a longitude drawn,
all together, a
body of work,
all together,
your life's coursework
is the captain's log

Pen is the Man is the Ship

in everyday words
he answers
the questions life poses,
in everyday words,
he realizes
the answers he (doesn't) posses,
with each passing poem
the ship, righted,
though the heading
remans unknown