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!