the lyrics intimate, me inside recognized,
and I find it hard to believe,
not to recall my chest actual
aching from a lost love, a busted
heart,that my family physician told
me not a thing  to be done, and time
the only known cure and that was
only twenty five years,
a just short “long time ago”

but there is no such a thing as time
when the wounded heart is pierced fierce, there is no round the bend visible to tell
you, love will come again; and you’re so
cautious,  won’t trust, to open, but irony it’s
the only way to find it one mo’ time, to
give yourself up in whole, not just parts,
and you “discover” writing poetry helps,
and a new life long habit is forming that is a kind of meds that you disburse to oneself

later be
this song below, Bonnie Raitt
makes you ache with her rendition
keeping no secret she’s been there truly

used to look to ascribe fault, but learned,
t’was a time waster, more accurate, each
of us had our own fault lines, dormant,
till not, and when the lines touched and connect, it was an earthquake off the scale,
and the tremors just keep on coming

but the chest ache was so intense, close
my eyes, and relive it,  and makes me
feel kinder, more human, less angry? more forgiving cause there is no mark of Cain
on someone’s forehead to indicate that
one is suffering the aftermath, the aftershocks, of this loss, so be patient
when encountering a human who sighs
out loud often, as often as as
every breath

listen to the song, it will untie your chords,
maybe making some memories resurface,
for better as it is part of writing
only love poetry

“It's me that shines and sparkles
when others strike you down.
It's me that rises firmly,
well-planted on the ground.”

They send you to the gallows
with unrelenting doubt
and perch me like a songbird
upon a stem, devout.

And preach to you but one psalm
"you will not sing again,"
be still, that cry inside you
shall wake me in the end.

Oh, life may cut your feathers
and cage me deep inside,
begrudge, that I may offer
your will, your soul, your pride.

But know I yearn to fly high,
soar free and reach for stars.
It's me that shines and sparkles
the dimmest from afar.

Still some will prune your flower,
dead head me 'til I dry,
reseed me in a garden
with never-ending lie.

Despair may even charm you,
bereave me on a bed
and cover me with worry;
of glimmer not a shred.

A rose that will not wither-
the one inside of you.
A bird that never quivers
when but the sky is blue.

I am the tender branches,
me, I'm the humming bird;
the only psalm that lingers
when all of them are heard.

It's me that shines and sparkles
when others strike you down.
It's Hope that rises firmly,
well-planted on the ground.

scraps and scrapes of
scripts,
from tears and  zippered weeping of
rips,
lie upon my consciousness like pimpled
irritants,
begging for compassion wetness of
completetedness,
but time is a bitchye mistress, fools not with
suffering,
so herein dispatched one of many driftwoods
dispatched

and let us say
who’s up next. Amen!

~for you, girl~

words have definitions; shades; moods,
even within the contextual moment,
the coloration sometimes is discolored,

one person frantic is another’s
normal
passing fancy
insanity
quiet
overwrought silliness

frantic is a continuum’s conundrum

and oft the hubbub coverhup lends
a veneer of urgency importance
when knowledge acquisition is iron
irony, best when well chewed, quietly
considered and consumed with the
perspective of addition and subtraction

what we know is more than yesterday,
and less than what we will one day own,

for the only purity of learning is that’s
final refining is never ending
the artifice of deadlines,
gradation vis-a-vis
all the rest, is not a
distinction  worthy of
distinguishing

your human value is beyond compare

exactly!
the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of
ego to one side, and so should we all,
not
be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers

you are quality, and that is the only
qualification you will ever
acquire and require

and in my naïveté
I reflect looking back
and give you here the
free use thereof,
of its worth, you will
determine
but in summary judgement:
always keep thinking
ridicule is ridiculous
but best when applied
by oneself to oneself
with a

“***, did I really think:say that?”
and laugh out loud at our human
foibles, especially our own,
with a wry smile, admitting
some of things we conjure up
in all seriousness are

are the funniest things we’ve ever heard