I've ran away so much that
I've forgotten where my home is.

can you lead me back to You?

Charcoal curls, green grounds
Brown branches, sienna shades
On pale paper of cold cotton
An arousing adventure…

Stop pretending that you know what he’s going through.
Stop wanting to make him feel normal.
Stop trying to keep him sane.
Stop doing things to help.

You can’t.
He knows it.
You know it.
You are fighting a battle that doesn’t need to be fought.

Love the parts of him that you consider busted.
Accept the things that are not normal. Embrace the fact that a sane person could not do what he did and be what he is.
Do the things that make him happy and not the things that are helpful.

He deserves to be who he is without giving up what he has become.
Not everything that is broken needs to be fixed.
Sometimes it’s better to love the mess rather than clean it up.

08 NOV 2020

Is it the red crescendoing of trees lining the icy lake?
Or the pebbles popping under the rubber wheels of my old car?
Is it the warmth of picking up wool scarves from their summer cocoons? Being shaken out and wrapped around cold necks?
Is it this lower state's familiar weather, blending brisk wind with bright sun? The way it heats the second-floor windows in the frigid mornings?
Is it the scents of sage and roasting meat floating through the door, welcoming me home?
Or the mismatched pairs of shoes kicked under the hallway bench?

It might be this last bit of Cabernet slowly tumbling to top my cup, or the ceaseless squeak of my childhood bed.
But yes, something calls me here, back to the beginning.
Back to the autumns of our home.

I half expected half hoped that you'd walk back through that front door again
and it scares me knowing that I don't know when or if you ever will again
because at this point I won't be there when you do

You know the song
So bring it on.
Football is the theme,
And England is our team.

We invented the modern game,
So losing is a shame.
But we are going to win.
Let the celebrations begin.

Bring on Croatia,
We know we can outpace ya.
As for France,
We’ll lead them a merry dance.

If it’s Belgium we’re happy too,
They always let you through.
Though nothing is ever certain,
Until the final curtain.

We’re owed (a lot) from Lady Luck,
But so long as we win, I don’t give a…
It’s time we won again,
Making boys into men.

I really hope we win:
Prepare for quite a din.
History could be made
That will never ever fade.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\7\2018.

▪◇▪ ▪◇▪

her cough
is a song

her silence
is that of healing

i hope
i hope

she is here
near enough
for me to hear

the sighs
i welcome her sighs
her
tired bones

i send hugs
to the next room
blow sweet kisses

there will be
no acknowledgement
it matters not

her cough
is a song
to me

▪◇▪▪◇▪

Copyright © 2017.
Christi Michaels.
MoonFlower-Fluer de Luna
All Rights Reserved.

this rush I feel
makes me ill
you left and now you're gone
but today you're coming home

a.v.

Touchdown on that blessed tarmac
Longed for this moment for days
Thousands of seconds it took
Finally expectation faces reality

A new abode  made amongst strangers
My bed made in a foreign Place  
Unfamiliar faces surrounding me  
They speak yet I don't understand
Far from all that is home

The days moved
No longer did I feel estranged
The local tune turned sweet
Elements  embraced me
The mosquito befriended me  
Strange food acquainted  my belly

Alas as soon as I settled in
Thoughts of home came knocking with rage
Shattering my new found peace
A battle between present and home ensued
Home did present a strong fight

The heart became set anew
The mind followed suit
Home was best, we resolved
The present was just a fading moment

Time dragged it's feet  
The food lost it's appeal
Present beauties diminished
Sleep evaded me
The night was a dreaded ordeal
The eye fixated on the clock

The good day did finally dawn
It was a battle now settled
Aboard that distance machine  
The temporary fades far from sight
Images of home bright and real
Home is the sweetest place to be