I’m distributing
the wealth of my wisdom
in that real laissez-faire way.
Between blacks and whites,
My service? It’s grey and uninviting
As I’m uneager to please,
fighting friction with ease
and pictures and writing.

This King’s Road
My rose petal garden
As I pick myself up from my roots.
I shake and shiver,
Jitter and jive my way through
This living almanac                  of fate:
Some Velvet Morning in my cup
Of coffee,
     Some luck,
     And a mission          to create.

I write in the mornings, first thing,
and I want my pens where I placed them last time.
Black ink, V5s.
And here I am scribbling with a marker
you got at that conference last summer in Hillside.

“2022” it reads.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
The soft words of your deposit
encourage my acceptance of their kindness
and suddenly,
There is new money
in this old bank.

   I’m thankful for that.

   I’m thankful for you,
   this Great Design, and now
   my pen inked blue.

The water on the ground
Is no longer fake,
As I take a look in the rearview.

Huh, I’m crying.

And it’s in this moment
I take a second
To accept the fact

                  I miss you.


Oh how I wish
I’d known,
Before driving
These backroads   alone
My heart and soul
Are objects of old,
And bigger

                          Then they appear.

That this pathway to heaven
Gripped by desert horizon
Was just escape for a women
Who cannot function
And is blinded
                          By fear.

Well, that’s life.

I tried.
Goodbye.
I ride.
Until the end of time,

                          My dear.

She won’t yell
She won’t fight
                              
                              or cry,
                              or scream.
I'll write.
You'll listen.

Let me tell you
What I mean.

The handbook of my heart
Is one
For the birds,
As I am
Because I do
When there simply aren’t words.
So Sunday’s swan song
These little loaves
of love—
                    A bread of pray
                    For a safe journey home
                    My sweet turtle dove.

Me and my journal
Got those old country blues.
Turns out,
White hot heat
Doesn’t make
for a 'Brown River, Smile'.

So,
    I cried some.

Then bought eggs. And flour.
And sugar. And butter, for cake

    And made one.  

Because young life during hard times
In old country
Isn’t left with much else
to do–

    Just make something beautiful
    And hope to get through.

A maiden of winter
Born in dead weather
Looking at heaven in a sea of the sun.
Trading violent winds for violent heat,
Reflecting
In these violet hours of golden glows
And suddenly
Everything’s new.


Goodbye
stillness,
coldness,
soulless                   blue.

I don’t know much about god(s),
But I do know a lot about water.
And
If there is
A god
She was sitting right there in that bucket
Carried by Bly, carried with grace
And on the beads of her work
That streamed
down
her
face
Right to her smile.

Her smile.

So seemingly undeserved in the context
Of the situation,
But she taught me that.
And hope
And love
And to be patient.
Because this is one life
And they’ll “get theirs”
In the next one
But try to have faith
And give hard in this one
Because in the middle of all of it
You can’t control any of it
Except who you choose to be,
Regardless of what you’re working with.

So, while

I don’t know much about god(s),
I’d like to believe I do know plenty about me;
And I’m choosing to sit,
         Forever, underneath a magnolia tree.

Sometimes it’s just nice, to not be nice

To not be inviting

To not be warm

Relief:                                                        ­                  that’s love.

Not having to perform,
Just be in my form

To not do anything about anything
When there is something in doing nothing
With people who despite everything, think
                                                                ­               I’m everything.

I can’t tell anymore.

Being outside                                                          ­                 Being indoors

   ***** laundry overtakes my drawers.two days dirt saturates my
  pores.texts and calls being ignored.avoidance of all commitment.
          
I’m scaring myself.
                                                              No­ one around to help, to witness.
            What to say of                                     i s o l a t i o n  
                                                             ­   If it gives me a different sickness?

I think it was Dickenson who said:

                                                  “My river runs to thee".
Or was it me?

Because if             I am                     full circle
                                you,                    my­ every degree.

After I left, on my first night
Prompted my journal, describe your now past life
Perhaps, things like:
The telephone boxes,
                     The theatre, the foxes,
                                            Ben, Battersea or the eye.
At worst, at best, simple a request
But against my behest,
I Immediately flustered
As only memory my mind mustered:
                  That feeling felt when I caught your eye
              
              And I just wasn’t ready to ask myself why
                 
I wasn’t able to say         
                                                                ­       goodbye.

I guess what often said is true,
Like what last heard to me from you:
                     You run from things you cannot deny.

I passed by a wedding,
Yesterday.                 Two lovers
                  Embraced
Smiles bright
On their face
Even though                  sun hot
And breeze hard to find
Joyful their hearts
So didn't they mind
For I?        Old sadness came by
For what they had
I surely                       would not
Regardless of the gratitude
For what I have got
The vision before me
As I walked up each step
Nothing could stop me:
Oh how I wept.

No, I don’t want to die.
I like writing poetry
I like to cry
Enjoy my art!
For it comes with heart
No need ask why
Let your mind be free, be dark,
                                          be soft!
Or if you insist
I’ll leave you with this:
You may, of course kindly, just *******!