From the word,
I've been away,
Creating rhymes,
Had taken a break.

A conversation, just yesterday,
Got me thinking
for the written word,
I still do crave.

To write about love,
To write about fear.
To write about life,
Or this field right here.

With every word I write,
I seem to remember,
The wall's not down,
Though the ladder is near.

Thought I'd grown up,
Left behind my poetic years.
Now I realise,
I stopped out of fear.

But all the while,
I was blessed with an ear.

For now  I can hear,
A rhyme within a smile,
Entire ballads in her eyes,
And the beauty of a tear.

I am neither the past present nor future
I am a love lorn ghost
And
I am cursed to find true love
As I get reborn and reborn
Finding the lover
Who I lost centries ago
In a land of hills
In a land of mountains
In a land of deserts
An exotic place
Where the curse started
When he died.

The bright blue bottle hit me like a hint of death
      on the breath of Spring.
I imagined it being tossed out a truck window
by underage teens fancying themselves clever
      and mature and immortal

as if the earth had willed upon them
      that her stolen treasure, Aluminum,
be returned or she’d cause their truck keys
      disappear for all eternity.
      I picked up the blue bottle

tried to feel resurrection
      in a recycling sort of way
felt instead only the hollow emptiness
      of mindless eternal reincarnation.
Winter had been long this year and lately
I fantasized resurrection more than usual

at a field where I stopped to listen to meadowlark and field sparrow calling for mates or alerting everyone to the sin of the blue bottle.
Several deer grazed the unseen first greens of Spring near skunk cabbage and coltsfoot.

At a small stream, I cupped my hand into the icy fast water and raised it to my lips, then splashed my face, then splashed some more, more,
then knelt, both knees at the streambed and submersed my face and head,

in self-inflicted baptism
      for my own blue bottle sins,
opened my eyes, exhaled all my blue bubbles, for the longest of repentant moments,
      pulled out of the water
      gasping the holy Spring air
      for dear life

and thereafter walked each step
      in the garden of resurrection.

No longer a thought
within my brain,
the mortician lay me
down to sleep

a scream i refrained
surfaced as white
within my eyes
that none had bought

my vitals he checked
and thumped my nose
as a creep
then:

a bath and massage
no dance but song
two strong hands
then set my face

arterial embalming
then drain/eject
it's all the same
the cavity --
aspirate and concentrate

The humming thrumming
burning desire
escaped as soon as with
a pop I fled my skin
and faced the choice
to do it once again.

:: 10-23-2018 ::

With the moon glancing into my window
And a quilt hugging my body
The wind moaning
And whistling
I become a ghost
Hovering
Through
From one world
To another
Evaporating
into a
new womb
Ready to be again.

-Sindi K.

@Sincidyy

2018 - I see you smiling at me while we’re watching a play. I get this feeling I’ll never know your name.
1918 - Returning home from war to find you with another man. A story in a story, a sadness in the sad...
1818 - Now I’m a Frankenstein tormented by a monster.
1718 - I arrive in a New Orleans where soon I forgot her.
1618 - The execution of one of the greatest explorers makes my heart afraid to find a new lover.
1518 - I’m in Italy now admiring a Michelangelo, passions are burning and you’re my new antidote.
1418 - In Florence there’s talks of a new cathedral, competition in design yet to you there’s no equal.
1318 - From the English the Scottish fight for independence but I would sell my soul just to be in her presence.
1218 - From Acre I leave for Egypt, a crusade of the soul, but I gave that to you not too long ago.
1118 - A new pope on the throne holding a king like he’s owned but you’re a free spirit and your name... I won’t know...