Why do I restart my life once a year?
Restrict myself from growing,
Whenever conflict appears
I'm not passionate about anything
Restarting is easier than keeping on.
Even though I just want to be done
I start over

that deadened fingernail
first damaged long ago
not quite a lifetime but
time enough
          to feel that way
is showing signs of regrowth
partially shrouded but visible
beneath the lingering ruin
the fingertip was caught
ensnared and pressed
more firmly than
          could be endured
though care was provided
the bruising ran deep
and undermined any chance
of this body's repair
unexpectedly
          and unimaginable
in spite of this layer
of lamented keratin
there stretched forth
a sudden burgeoning
a crescent of cuticle
          and lunula
telling of the strength
of the fingernail to come

I am that woman
who takes a few steps and then
stands still in the wind
on her face, my skin

feels the world
new, the cherry trees
this walk to the store
on the corner around the corner

cars parked next to the sidewalk
are so much more than the view
of the windows all around, the gardens
chimneys and clouds, the wind

on my face, my heart
touched, pounding
in my throat, three times
I take a deep breath, only then

do I walk along the traffic
away from the cherry trees
to the store on the corner
around the corner

I have been walking in a dark cave
for quite a long time,
Never felt more caged and jailed,
as if I've committed a heinous crime.
Defeated and bruised
from the gold rush,
I heard songs of victory
in your calm and hush.
Little did I know,
I was just passing through,
forgetting all the woes and blues,
I walk towards my gold mine,
Threw all of my lights on the line,
Left my knives by the door, risking my life.
And little did you know,
you wouldn't just walk with me
through the dark,
but would even dance with me
right on my mark.
When I felt like I was
in an eternal night,
you came marching along,
my valiant knight.
Now we walk hand-in-hand,
I can see the light from our land.
Waiting for us there is our *** of gold.
I have all the riches in the world
from your kisses and by your hold.

How many poems have I writ?
And how easy has the process been?
To think and to conjure from my brain
Unto the printed page,

Ideas and concepts flowing
in a seamless joyous
Tide of vocabulary and
Profusion

Until a while ago.
When everything.
Just.
Stopped.

So what is it?
What is this ******* thing
That circumvents my joy
And my creativity?

Where is it skulking?
Coward! Come forth,
Be fought!
But it would not

Did not
And I did not write,
My pen was silent
But not my creativity,

Until I met some strangers
Who became immediate
Fast friends and true,
I opened up

And ideas flew,
Turns out
The block was that no one actually
Asked me to write,
No one and especially not me!

Well these new friends did,
And the blockage,
In that instant,
Died
And went

And so this verse,
Poor though it be,
And first in quite a while,
Has indeed

Snuck out

Under

The wire

Prophecies in the scrying mirror
Something had gone totally awry
I'd taken the wrong prong in the fork
And have been obsessively wondering why
My dreams and intentions were simple
Build a galaxy and life with my love
But he was just a crow painted white
The peaceful milky shade of a dove
This dream must come to a flat line
A ****** from within must ensue
This secret depressions gone on too long
A rewiring and new outlook is due