she silenced her phone
trashed the social media
cast off weary fake friends
ceased to lay eyes on junk
or accept empty invitations
she was like a tree or a flower
rudely dug up and replanted
in a grotesque garden
there was one way to wholeness
one unrushed road to finding self
and it wasn’t out there
or hiding somewhere
it was a gentle determined stroll
the deep measured cleanse
feeling the slow but sure growth
down to the roots of her tingly toes
until she and the earth around her lightly sighed
Let the binding fall to the ground
those things that once were you
let them drop as late leaves
see how easy they go
that is how it is
that is how letting go can be
When all you were has passed
you will laugh wearing your new skin
proud… with sunbeams in your eye
you entirely cast off your old self
I also posted this on Soundcloud as a spoken word poem.
There’s a drawer
With all the stories
i’ve yet to write
i seem to have
lost the key
life is like
a little kid
there is more
crayons in the box
that there is
of forty-eight colors
of one-hundred and twenty
that there are
so many shades
of love and anger and peace and despair
and absolute bliss
and the ability
to express them all
in the palm
of your hand
and absolutely wonderful
every day is
a new sunrise
a new chance
to transform into
the butterfly you
want to be
go out there
and change the world, kid
There should be wings of a hundred birds
to churn this scorch with breeze
to dry sweat
to soothe the ache
of a post-noon day
There should be varied
and a thousand greens
with all betweens
of innumerable trees
till the blue of sky
blends their deference
And the river heaves its way along
eternal mission of earth
...Heaven-- sure misses so much some days
Transcended as it be
Replete with rains
and relief of clouds
The Angelus in the distance....
with its affluent affinity for air
Revelers leave their party debris
for those making sure
not a sign is left....
We sort and fold, collapse and pack
Somehow between chairs, tables
cans and bottles, assorted trash
crouch on the levee
wander and stare
aimless amid tall dry weeds
Inhabit a bench, a moment--
filtering through our fabrication
Wind to dissipate our purpose
Trees invading abandoned fields
“The poor you have with you always”
“I'm not drunk,”
she drunkenly proclaims
to no one
Leaning over her opened beer
seated on bench adorably painted
with joyful hands
Who fondly held or hoped for her?
days of dirt troweled a shadow
in the sweat between her *******
Filthy tank that barely covers
How they find themselves established
as we make to leave
WE, of our homes and cars and jobs
and plans of escape
This was observed after an event supporting the rehabilitation of the Lackawanna River.
There was little left,
On the fields.
The rain had come and gone and it was dry again.
Dusty hands and dusty faces frowned.
Dusty shoes kicked the powder ground,
Heads hung low in the slouching and shaded doorway.
Squinting eyes looked up at the yellow bowl,
Hands covered creased foreheads,
Mouths chewed tobacco in the thin shade of a dying tree.
There was little left to talk about and little less to see.
Children lost marbles in the heavy dust,
And mothers take deep breaths.
The sky turns the colour of dirt and rust.
Another day gone and there is little left to love.
She brushed the ash off her jeans, though managed to rub some in.
She separated the roses from the weeds, but a few petals ended up in the bin.
She tried to let him down gently, yet she managed to bruise his heart.
She is full of good intentions, but sometimes her plans fall apart.