someday it will be willed (have I told you lately that I love you?)

that the poetry ceases,
no more birthdays notated
calendar closed, the ***’s axed,
kitchen junk drawer, a consignment store,
no longer needed, the futility of saving
knickknacks, maximized, the no lasting
value proposition, realized, eulogized.

pictures of beautiful automobiles,
decorated with beautiful women,
will forever be last year’s models,
one calendar too far, not long enough

no more of

have I told you lately that I love you?

wrote you plenty love poems so, hereafter,
you won’t be bereft, left farklempt,
arranged one-a-day, on a timed delay,
so many more that will appear in your
inbox until you too, no longer choose open it.

no more “sirprising” I love you statements,
taped to the milk carton, it was so willed,
the daily counting, record keeping, who first,
how many, secretly added to a grocery list,
in stuff that was so beloved, exasperating,
making you just right amount of crazy, smiling....
someday it will be willed, so,


here’s the first of many more....

I always thought of her as a house.
Shelter from any danger;
Home for the weary traveler;
Warmth for those,
Who've been lost or cold for too long.

Her arms,
Like the walls of a house,
Keep me safe,
Sheltered and hidden
From eyes like stars.

Her words,
Like windows of a house
Make me see the world,
As if it is my own backyard.

Her smile,
Like a worn and patched roof
On a Victorian house,
Shields me from the worries of the world
That fall like cold rain.

She is strong.
Like that Victorian house
That has stood proudly
Through decades of wind and rain.

Like the walls
Of the age-old structure,
She has seen
And she has heard
Many things that give her wisdom.

Through generations,
She holds her family together,
She has rooms enough
For every person.

She is elegance.
And she is grace.
And she is that Glorious House.
And I will never,
Allow her to be knocked down.

I don't react anymore-
I rather quell the hurt with silence
and somber smiles.
I just explain enough to move on.
What's the point in fighting
or hoping or longing
when it's met with more
questions and doubting
regardless of how true a feeling can be?
It does feel good to respond with open arms,
love and no alarms.
Even though every time I let my mind go,
there is a 100 ft sprint,
lodged behind my ankles.
I guess knowing that I'll probably
lose my breath at 50,
keeps me standing still for now.
I rather be remembered for
being strong-
than never sticking around too long.

This town is hateful and cold
Its smothered my dreams since I was 6 years old
These people have nothing to do
But sit around and crush you

They shoot crude stares
How can I not be aware
they laugh at all I hold dear
Alas only three more years

Until I'm gone
Able to fly to my own song
able to awake to open arms
Free of all alarms

three more years
Till then I must remain here
In this secluded town
I will never let you bring me down