~

she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.

she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.

she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.

she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.

her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.

this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.

~

*post script.

cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.

this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss.  for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it.  we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer;  pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix.  unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it.   yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.

~

as she poses
for the boys
her irony is
on display.
the naked truth
not easily deduced,
it’s not just they
that's being seduced.
her looks they’ve bought,
no heart nor touch,
a stage, a pole,
for them disrobed;
“just leave your
money please!”
mum says, “ladies
don't act that way!”
but mum ain't seen
hard times like these;
“com’on mum,
let’s get along...
you gotta know,
its juxtaposition!”

behind bars,
for driving cars;
stolen sweets
were such a treat;
“com’on Judge,
rich guys got
more cars than sense,
what the difference?
if i take just one,
for just a spin,
the only joy
i'll ever ride...
and besides, he
left his keys inside
my valet shack.
those miles and dents,
that i put on, surely
ain't deserving this.
sweet fruit was
hanging far too low
for my resistance.
not my fault, you know;
it’s juxtaposition!”

he sits high atop
a silver tower,
set beside the ocean fair;
existence storied for
he climbed every floor.
they call them shares,
it's what he sells,
but this brand of
sharing ain’t
what his mamma told.
it's a shell game by
a different name;
for it's more his soul
that he has sold.
you could say,
“for a song his soul
sells short sales
down by the seashore.”
or, you could say
just what he says,
“it's juxtaposition!”

~

*post script.

what prompted this?  the city in which i live has the dubious and insidious distinction of having the greatest number of strip clubs per capita in these United States; not exactly something to be proud of.   and yet i realize there are many ways to sell one's soul.

truth doesn't have many sides; if something does, then we can't call it truth; for truth, like gravity can be called many things, but under any name we still fall...
and come up short!  

but then... that's just-my-position!

( lose the kid )*

~

in the summer of
his sixteenth year,
somewhere o'er the
continental shelf
off California,
while still at
thirty-thousand feet,
he threw him out.
without a suit
or parachute
he left him naked...
drowning in the surf.
i suppose he should
have thanked him kindly, or
said goodbye at very least,
a'fore that final shove;
he admits it was
a brutal move, and in
hindsight kinda rude;
yet sometimes a kid
must simply choose,
knowing that a better
time may never come.
and so the boy that
held him back from change;
impulsive child that
in the dormitory
no one friended.
the kid who spent
more time in trouble
than did he not,
just got up-ended.
yes, that kid who stole
his mother’s tin, full
of fifty yen pieces;
with which he bought
himself a treat
(or maybe two or three);
the one who on the long
train ride to school,
placed his chewing gum
between the closing doors,
then watched with evil grin as
morning masses poured on through
when they opened once again.
yes, this impulsive one with
boundless energy to scheme,
was deliverer to three
sweet, older sisters, of
spiders, snakes and countless,
blood-curdling screams.
one who stole the Lord’s name
Alfred Tennyson, that is,
who for a few days called,
another’s words his own,
(that is until another
set that record straight).
who terrorized four older
siblings and one younger too,
for sixteen diabolic years.
this heartless, evil twin
who always seemed to hide
some twisted humor deep inside.
becoming stuck, in the past,
like some old chewing gum
stuck between the doors.
and just growing older
wasn’t going to change
anything at all;
for you see, change within
requires an exchange without...
people, that is, who accept
the new, throw out the old.
but you know what's crazy?
no sooner had he lost the
weight of that old estate,
and pushed that kid aside
this thief, liar, cheat...
troubled kid and now...
a killer too ( and yet no
less would even do ).
no sooner had he landed in
these United States, his past
entire was left behind.
new and alive inside out
and he began to find,
to thrive... anew.

like a butterfly from
dark cocoon emerging for
his migratory transformation;
his trans-Pacific flight,
from East to West alighting.
thus began a future
full of blank pages;
a slate swept clean inside,
like that swift jet stream outside,
carried his 747 on
to brand new opportunity.
all for his rewriting, words
he’d never thought nor dreamed.
and although nothing else
had really changed,
on the inside he was
nearly,
mostly,
all the very same...

nothing that is,
except...

everything!

~

*post script.

though no blood was shed, all lines herein have some degree of truth; it's quite ok to laugh, to cry, to smile, or decide this is the worst you've ever seen. it's my life... well... the beginning of the new beginnings of my life.  

in reality we do not typically, when at the time of crossroads know it is at a crossroads we are standing, such being usually more readily evident in the rearview mirror. and yet somehow this sixteen year old knew he’d just been handed a new identity, and without any witness protection program.

because...
sometimes a kid just needs a new start!!