A careful hand, threading tracks like beads—
Each song a thread, a whisper's need.
A heart's collage of static noise,
Crafted hopes, hushed joys and poise.

The clack of play, the tape unwinds,
A story spooled in stops and binds.
“Listen,” it pleads, though words are few,
This mix, this bridge, from me to you.

In loops and fades, confessions spun,
The things unsaid, yet softly sung.
A borrowed voice, an unseen tear,
Echoes bound by magnetic smear.

Pressed to palm, the gift exchanged,
A quiet pact, a world arranged.
Between the hiss, in tapes grown worn,
A fleeting now, forever sworn.

The tower penetrates
the puffy pink
clouds, and the
horizon squirts
sweet rain.
My face gets
sticky.
She is the sky.

The sky is absolutely wrong-
Clouds just never look like that.
The tumbled shapes are so not right.
There is a norm for tumbled clouds,
But this sky isn’t even close.
The shadows on their bottoms also are not right-
That’s just not how the sky should ever be.

And…Oh My God !….Is that a rainbow?

But rainbows are supposed to look
Like horse-shoes planted upside down
With one end hiding a *** of gold-
Always, always, always…
That’s the way a rainbow works.
This one is a glowing orb
Shining on the tip end of a shaggy cloud.
It has all the colors it should have
And in their proper rainbow order but
It doesn’t have the requisite two ends.
It shimmers into disappearing edges
In the middle of the tea-time sky.

No chance of any *** of gold
From a rainbow never touching ground.

It’s absolutely wrong to be there
In the middle of those misshaped clouds.
Raising questions that have no answers.
Is this the sign that the Bible promised
To welcome in the final days…
And tribulation for a thousand years
When judgement comes to everyone
And all the hens come home to roost.
The world below, in utter chaos mired
Must somehow look above the trees
To see the Portents in the sky.
             ljm

Rhymed and metered
Or free as a waterfall
Abstract or lucid
Poetry - it’s loved by us all

Rich in images
Or to the point - blunt
Not so verbose
Or lined with puns

We have our own styles
Rambling or terse
Unique and different
Truly di -verse

dancing pirouettes
in front of my eyes.  Floaters
that jump up with surprise. Dimples
of cellulite on both of my thighs. They're

the grease on my kitchen stove. Circles
in my pantyhose. Embedded in
my carpet like carpenter ants. They
do the fandango every month

inside of my pants. The brown
stamp of aging on both of my
hands. They're cute
on dalmatians but not on

my pans. They litter my face
like debris on the beach. And
they're painted on my liver
like navy shirts thrown in

with whites and bleach. And X
marks it on a treasure I cannot
reach. And the sun coats my body
with freckles from the beach.

This is a fictional account, but based
On truth for many women. I was,
Myself, abused by an ex-boyfriend.

---

Here's the ballad of Hammer Hand,
I'm here to spread it 'cross the land.
He loved to hit, as you can see.
What he hit was mainly me.
He was a brawler in the day,
But I left him where he lay.

This is for you gals out there
Who are hopeless, in despair,
Who are battered, made to kneel,
I do this so we both can heal.

I was kicked upside the head,
But now ol' Hammer Hand is dead.

~~CHORUS~~
Hammer Hand, oh Hammer Hand,
Did beating me make you a man?
I have suffered your attack,
You have made me blue on black,
Your heart was black, my soul was blue,
Your soul was false, my heart was true.

~~~~~~

Hammer Hand was tall and lean,
He was big, and ha was mean,
He would snack and he would punch,
Then he would demand his lunch.
He used to hit me when he drank,
His breath was fetid, his body rank,
Whenever help I'd try to seek.
He would hit me into next week.

~~~~~~

Hammer Hand is dead today
And this is what I have to say,
I told him when he broke my teeth,
He would pay and come to grief!
Satan himself will take you down,
And you'll be six feet underground.

~~ CHORUS ~~

I'm a woman so you're bold,
But Hammer Hand, you're getting old,
Hammer Hand you've had your fun,
But don't forget I have a SON.
You can make me black and blue,
But don't you go and  hit him, too!
Don't make him hate you, make him mean,
Soon he will be seventeen.

You said a thing which I believe,
You said you'd **** me if I leave.
But me 'n Jamie gonna pack,
We're gonna leave and not come back.
When I die, at least I know,
Where I'm bound, which way I'll go!
Down inside you know as well,
You are goin' straight to hell.

Hammer Hand, O Hammer Hand,
Now we've left, are you so grand?
You won't hurt us anymore,
'Cause you're dead upon the floor.
I don't think that you'll survive,
Shot with your own 45,

It wasn't me, I'm not that brave...

T'was Jamie put you in the grave.

At sixteen he was pale and shy

But he put a slug between your eyes.

You made him beg. You made him bow.

Well. I hope you're happy now.



Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc aka
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) June 11, 2011

I was abused by an ex-boyfriend.
I made him leave.
Threw all his stuff out.
He stalked me for one year

wherever I go. They're high
as a mountain covered in
snow. They're deep as a valley
and swim around my head. They're

under my covers and rotate my
bed. They squeeze me tight like
a Charley horse, pushing me back
with all their g-force. I bump into them

stone cold sober, raking them up
like leaves in October. They're thick as
a French accent. And hasn't been one
I can circumvent!

Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.

In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.

I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.

You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.

You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.

All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.

I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.

I can’t make the blind walk,
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.

God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.

Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29mp3