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I had
my seven bridges road

watered potholes full of river water and muddy toads

Black moccasins . . .
poison pastors
in disguise

******* on frozen popsicled lies

I had my reasons
that made the tires spin . . .
under
the southern stars
and cotton candy skies

I had my moments of love's respite
while I rearranged
the letters to the questions why

No matter how
it mattered
it doesn't anymore





I once drove
over seven bridges
on muddy roads . . .
in fog and moonlight
but I will no more

no not for you anymore
Time passes as my name must be a long gone Memory
Stars die out, as you must tire from my apology
A singular, repetitive one, in a hope you say Hello one day
That we meet again, you look my way, and for one time to say
"I love you."

Constantly seen messages, Constant messenger pigeons
They console me, gently chide, tell me to let be
Yet every time it blurs my vision
That the prospect to becoming a lover and father one day
is tearing me apart

To use my youth denies accountability, blame others ruins my integrity, To say my mouth had enough, disregards the truth
My words followed the dark path my heart made, My youth turned adult
Can time, that heals wounds, still turn me into captivity
Where my own bedroom feels like a peaceful prison?


Can it be so easy to hate everyone, and wish they'd die?
Even the ones I love who I wish expire and live in the sky?
That my begging, tearful nature, is a crutch, and turns my fleeting independence
To a childish dependence
On others to send you messages I wish I could do myself

I believe God will bring her back, and bring me peace
But do I deserve such a charitable Deed?
I pray, cry and hope indeed
That his divined intervention intercedes

That a measly 7 months of silence
Can never compare to an eternity where death doesnt guarantee our souls meet
Tested by my patience
Willing to lose the sheep and honey bees of this world
For the bunny I sold away in anger
Something that came to me after a long wait for any form of peace.
Now that we are on in years,
celebrations change and dwindle
to little remnants of tradition.
We are two stragglers
from life’s journey,
Left behind by the young,
No longer nurturing him,
yet tied to his well-being
even as we wait for his call.
I celebrate Yule not in our home,
but by imaging his joy beside a tree,
his exchange of gifts with her.
And I recall the first Christmas
with my husband, falling asleep together
under a mammoth tree filled with light.
We made ornaments for fun
and poverty didn’t matter.
I wrote a poem for him,
decorated with scenes of our life.
And now, we are too weary
to celebrate like that.
It is as if we pore through a box,
a ragged thing, dragged through time,
looking for souvenirs of joy
and memories of the life we had
when he was here.
I think this poem speaks for itself about our experience this year. Our son moved far away and cannot just pop by for Christmas or dinner from the next town. It is definitely a new stage of loss!
I knew the world
The world that I knew
Kept me spinning
On its axis
Still my feet firmly planted
Scented flowers, whirled down
Free, fresh off the tree
They fell on the lawn
Did they know, the cycle of renewals
Further they flew, blown away by the wind
Each spinning like a pinwheel
The paper flowers
Planted on the railings
Colours abloom
begin the
first day
new year
with
thumb and forefinger,
tracing in no organized
specific pattern upon
her arm’s smooth skin,
just a sliding meandering

she grabs the intruders
for a squeezing acknowledgment,
unnecessary, for the sensation
sensual is shared equally,
soft, of course, but so far beyond,
there are elements that lie beneath
that requires mining deep within
yourself, contrasting currents that
soothe the heart and yet, electrify,
simultaneous, a concerto for
piano and violin

this delightful touching is the stuff
of poetry, a wish, a commandment,
for long after after the first day of
the unknowns of the measuring stick,
a ruler with 365 ticks to check the
day’s of time concludes, the touch
will be
implanted on thumb & forefinger’s
cellular memory, and be carried on,
reusable, recycled, even biodegradable!

but then heart hears a lyric,
she is living proof
and now!
happily concluded,
is a poem that is gifted
a title, entitled, certified,
and recorded for

*every ordinary moment
when memory is required,
and the thumb and the forefinger
can be diverted to write this all down
for the day when a memory fades,
and the skin is eroded!
1~1~25
Through poetry, I found my voice.
Lost, long ago, shame gave me no choice.
I used to speak in front of hundreds,
thousands even,
and now I don't speak, I listen;
to the ballads;
to the tunes of the heart; the words we don't say.
The beats are the words I wished were okay.
But, by not talking, I had come out of sync
with who I became, needing to re-ink
Become proud even, to reclaim.
My voice sounds different now, softer and older, but the essence is still the same.
A little tattered
Broken

A little shaken
Shattered

A little scattered
Rattled  

But a little fixed
Mended

A little patched
Stitched

With gum and glue
Old and new
Needles and pins
Tonic and gin

Up and down
Round and round  

I soared
I dived
I survived

With hope
Though a little weary
With a smile
though part numb —
I wait
wondering what’s to come
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