When I was younger, I had asthma.
I remember that suffocating feeling.
The panic, anxiety, nervousness striking my system all at once.
I never wanted to feel that again.

Fast-forward 20 years later, you came along.
The overwhelming feeling of asthma has come back.
I can't breathe.
You are asphyxiating me.
Yet, I find excuses, inhalers, to tolerate you...to keep you near.

Is it worth filling my lungs with chemicals just so that they can expand and contract?

He stood on the mountaintop facing north
Calling winds ,water and fire forth
He the white wizard and patron of the earth.

His rival conjured up all below the ground
Where souls burned and evil abounds
He was of a black moon and dead stars
Who was forbidden to enter heavens gates

On their knees they prayed for victory
The white wizard to the one in the skies
The black wizard to he who abides in the underworld
Where sinful souls do lie

North south east west
Chants muttered under their breath
Star covered staffs raised to the sky
The war for humanity had begun

Turn round facing each other
Now it was the destined hour
Commanding bolts of lightening
Through the air with just a glance
Spells, charms, ancient runes
Spirits cackle and rant

Now come the anger of the destroyer
He too had his tricks of conjure
A wall of poisonous smoke thick and deadly
From his fingertips came the cobra and adder

Inhalers of the soul attacked
Cursed snakes of the mind
The white wizard had the words of the holy
The power of the almighty on his side

It was a terrible battle
And it could have been the end of it all
Had the victory gone to the black wizard
The sun drop from its kingdom and fall

Though goodness and purity do not always prevail
On this day of conflict between the darkness and the light
Weakened the dark wizard could not overcome
And was forced to kneel before the wizard in white

But it was agreed between them
As each signed his name in blood
They would meet again in time
On the battlefield of evil and good

The white wizard and the black


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby

The pharmacist at CVS says I am not prescribed an inhaler anymore.
so in it's place.
I prescribe myself cigarettes

I need something to inhale
cigarettes seem a logical alternative to inhalers

deliberatly I decide to not drive
to the cigar store.
i walk to the cigar store.

it is far enough to be inconvenient
which means maybe
If I am not destined to buy this cigarette
I will receive an overwhelming sensation to turn back

I always add time for potential divine intervention to my agenda.
It happens often enough to be logical

we may have different definitions of logical

the cashier asks my age
And I tell him 21.
I am 22.
somehow In the confusion of waiting for god to prescribe me an overwhelming emotional reaction to not buy cigarettes
Instead of an inhaler.
I forget a whole ******* year of my life.

this is great context for
How I trust myself when making decisions.
which is to say
I don't trust myself to make descisions.

I buy the cigarettes.

upon searching for the optimal location
to loiter and slowly **** myself.
I stumble upon the old teen center.
the first place I was a mentor.

Out the side of the building
There's this rock
Long enough to sit five or so children
two laying down.
it's Perferated like a candy bar
each rectangle curved slightly
custom fit to years of munchkin ****

this slump right here
this slump is my munchkin ****.

each break of chocolate
on the candy bar rock
has a ladyslipper growing behind it.
tips of the five purple flowers
stretch to align perfect with the tips of our childhood belly buttons

humbled, I brush the leaves
excavate delicately
this heirloom.
I had forgotten.

The sky is recovering When I lay myself on the rock.
light grey clouds that want to cry
an optimistic sun that won't let them

I Cover my face with an old journal
made of old book smell.
I smile into the pages.
my lips barely touching the silk threading of her binding.
I've never breathed so intimately
a new lover.
the tip of my nose tucked into her spine.
honeymoon phase, Intoxicating.
Still excited to be in love.

there's breath here
wisdom in the records of
loving young,
cherrishing this new book smell.
Filling your chest with it.

When memories are tangible
There are no more expiration dates

Fill my lungs with
the crisp of unturned pages,
worn leather covers
Soft silk crosstitches

Kiss air into me
from the space between your lines.
I know how intimate an untold story can be.

Today I started breathing
I fell in love With a metaphor.

I never did smoke that cigarette.

I watched her tilt the cup
gently towards her lips
Sipping on her favorite tea—
one made of and for thought.
A late evening of craving kicks in once more.
Letting her eyes settle
on blank pages
of her renowned thick journal.
Yes, I whispered to myself,
Stay this way.
Keep thinking,
keep writing,
keep living.
She continuous in little furies
of the same drink order
and of colorful scribbles,
tearing little pieces of herself
(printed with her personality)
to stick onto the paper.
How much more ink will she bleed,
how much more tea leaves will she drink
to drown out her sorrows,
akin to those inhalers of burning leaves?
Among the words which sustain you,
overdose is the only one which doesn't exist.
You are addicted to tea,
to the world around you,
and to the words around you.
This is you, and this is how you live,
with an end waiting for you,
despite knowing it's only the beginning
whenever you hold your pen.
Your mind, tongue and hands will fade,
but your thoughts and words
will live on forever.

Thursday Morning  
Check out my books  www.amazon.com/author/richardratliff

Morning comes now
With no alarm no razors edge
Splash of warm water and a brush
Yesterday's slacks are clean

Instant coffee then
Inhalers, pills stool softener
Morning news email and Facebook
Breakfast from the drive through

Trash set out at the curb
It must be Thursday
Unless yesterday was a holiday
Have to ponder this

Must exercise on the treadmill
Twenty minutes slow walk
Some days more some less
Just keep moving is a goal

Guess I'll work on a poem
At least for a while
Till its time
To get my poppy seeds
From television for the afternoon

Evening news
It is Thursday
Better bring in the cans
Before harvesting the poppies
On tonight's cable

Copyright 2016
Richard L Ratliff

I write this with little force,

Autocorrect guiding my words;

Inhalers keeping this curse at bay,

Blades making blood flow.

I think of now with little hope,

Without a saving grace;

I think of now, a pitch-black room

With no one there but my demons.

Flurry of words seem to gush out of me,

As I hyperventilate;

Grief grows larger as they don't notice,

As these fingers grow numb.

I don't know how much I'll last,

Might as well collapse,

No matter how much I say I'll die,

I'll just live some time again.

But now it's worse.

Two and a half weeks into this quarantine
Rainy days and
no poems
No words forthcoming
All quiet
I decide that perhaps
if I just put one
Word
In front of another
And keep on for a time
Words upon words
something will come?

At 8:30 every morning
A man passes
walking a Pomeranian mix
A joyful little dog
(I’d steal him in a heartbeat)
They walk
He twirling the leash round and round
The dog leaping higher and higher still.
They dance together eyes meeting
and smile as I know a dog can
and I remember
how I would dance with my last greyhound.
We would tango and box-step.
I always led.

These days the little
Pomeranian can’t get his attention
anymore
The leash doesn’t twirl above its head
He’s pulled along impatiently
There are no more smiles
Their eyes won’t meet
He’s slow to realize that he’s become a drudgery
I want to yell out the window
I see you
EVERY MORNING AROUND 8:30!
Where’s your joy gone buddy?
Don’t you know that’s all you’ve got?
You’re bumming me out for real
and your dog loves you!
Wake up! You fool wake up!

I think that now I’ll walk to Ralph’s
I have various thoughts while doing so
Children race their bikes passed me
as if they’re in an entirely other reality
altogether
and
maybe they are.
The wind blows through their hair
effortlessly
As if it couldn’t mine.

Front lawns offer up fields of dandelions
as if their orbs the most prized bounty
Freshly mown grass smells new and clean instead of putrid, rotting in the sunshine
The fulsome wafts of springtime’s
jasmine and osmanthus heaving with citrus and pepper evade me as I pass their blossoms
Yet on the rare occasion a fragrant rose pierces through the weft and hits a nostril
but I can’t tell which bloom.

The smooth talking
homeless girl
has finally covered up that
diabetic open sore on her left ankle
the size of a flattened crimson football
which is something,
although I can see that
she’s being told to move along as
she just can’t sit anywhere she pleases.

I’m counting every time I see the word “dead” along my way.

In the store the ladies that buy
their bottles of white wine in the afternoon
are starting earlier now
with supplies and deliveries
unsure
It’s one thirty and I see
Two bottles of Clos du Bois
And four Domaine St. Michelles
in the cart to my right
and nothing else
as they do.
I’m not going to ask her
about her dinner party.

While I stare at packages of coffee
A man pulls off his mask to sneeze into the air before him
And I say to the older man approaching
I don’t think that you’ll be going any farther
in that direction.
It was under my breath.
He didn’t hear me.
I have a mask on.
He turned his cart around and walked back
the way he came.

I have this urge to talk to everyone.
I have this relentless desire for ice cream.
I miss everything.
Nothing here
will satisfy anything
to do with me.
Can one survive a global catastrophe
with candy and magical thinking?

Older people
And by that
I mean really old people
Eye me suspiciously
Almost fearful
As if I myself alone
embody
the menacing contagion
and I guess I could.
Perhaps I do.
It’s hard to read emotions with these masks
But their eyes seem terribly unkind and
brows, furrowed
One stares at me hard
with beady anger and a ready insult
another will jump me in the checkout line
and with great solicitude
unwrap her money from
the white notebook paper
pulled from the manila envelope
Now re-folded with
rubber bands and string
And placed back
into her chest
She is so sweet to the cashier
with her black acrylic wig askew
that he seems quite shocked to hear
she cut in front of
fifteen people
without so much as a word.
Who cares really?

My first mask made me sneeze for four hours straight and made my nose burn like a hit of **** *******.
I’ve been handed a free mask by
a representative
from my local assemblyman
made of a softer material
I find that
it won’t stay up and fogs the base of my glasses.
I don’t think it’s working.
It reads
We’re All In This Together.

I still can’t breathe.

The doomed asthmatic
selling his single ciggies on the sidewalk
dies on Staten Island
from a policeman’s chokehold.
Eric Garner
In those desperate last moments
of
his
2014
despite his pleas and confusion
surely there before him appeared
although not quite the end that he’d envisioned or feared
what with steroid inhalers from the pharmacy
a crystalline moment
when he knew without a doubt that
he’d never take another gasp of air
like a bloated goldfish on its side
expressionless and saucer eyed
outside its bowl
What happened to his mind then?
What will happen to mine?

It has been said that
certain tribal kings
have brought before them
after battle
their most worthy enemy
in the process of imminent death
while they sit in numinous splendor
and wait for that perfect moment
to lean in close to the mouth
and inspire greedily
the purest
most sublime
expiration of their life force,
now a pristine delicacy of the infinite,
for themselves alone.

You said I made the best mint parfaits,
was part of the cutest couple
wearing my urban cowboy duds
with the sous chef.
We'd immerse ourselves in the suds
at the ritual roundup,
stick amyl nitrate inhalers
up our noises & wait for the rush
to take hold.
I was never bold enough
to cross over the line,
enter never never land
& besides,
it really wasn't my style.
But I'm told
those were the days,
the days when we'd smile
wider than the universe.

Trembling hands remind me of the wind that blows with flair,
While the moonlight forbodes the coming nights with despair.
Loneliness is a cruel joke,
Lord, has thou forgotten me?
Silence once broken is more often than not- unkindly beautiful,
Some people lack the air that should biologically crush their lungs,
They are not forced to breathe,
While the rest of us,
Require more than just inhalers just to proceed.

I can't afford your death right now.

We gotta schedule somewhere between the next 50 to 60 years

Or maybe we stop being friends. And even then, I still couldn't afford it until the next 20 or so years.
At the least.

A funeral costs about $5000

Your death costs a chunk of my soul
Your death would shatter my mind

I'd spend a lifetime trying to pick up all the broken pieces,
And every time, getting cut by the glass

Your death costs a lifetime of hair dye from going gray before my time

Do you know how many inhalers I'd have fo buy?
I'd forget how to breathe without you

If you died, I'd have to pay more for gas every week
I'd go out of my way not to drive by your house everyday

I'd need to invest in an IV
Something to replenish myself after all the tears

I'd spend a fortune,
Spend a whole lifetime
Trying to get you out of my head

It's like paying someone to remove a stain off my brain
And that **** isnt cheap

So I can't afford your death

But if something does happen to you
And you leave me to handle the bill

I'll have to pay for a bigger coffin
Because I'm just gonna climb in next to you

from the moment,
such bright brown eyes
opened to view the world,
illness
acted as a close
companion.

she spent her days
in bright colored beds,
on tissue papered
chairs and attached
to medications,
respirators,
inhalers
icky cough syrup
and smeared
substances
with traces of
mint.

every school year,
it was a contest,
a game she often played
how many times
could she stay away?

when would the sickness
be the fool
and not the ruler?
when could she call the shots
instead of taking injections
to fight its virulent grip?

even as she grew older,
her skin grew colder,
the very blood in her veins
rejected her so,
in such a way
that summers were glacial
and her winters were
unbearable.
it felt as though death were a witness
constantly knocking at her door.

the pleasures of hunger,
were only a reminder
that food was a mere match
to the flames of discomfort.
how she slept at night,
knowing her loved ones
constant in a state of fright
that she may not wake up
one day from her slumber,
is one of the questions
with no apparent answer.

a bottle to aid in sleep,
a pill to survive the day,
a cup of tea to last the night
and tears wiped away,
how the little girl inside
wished to be in good health,
instead of sitting here,
curled up against the comfort of plush
pouring words into paper,
hoping for a way out of herself.

Nostrils clash gifting breathlessness...
Twists and turns lends sleeplessness....
Though on cosy comforts for a
peaceful slumber ....!!
And then ..
Interference of inhalers and steams
Aid in clearing war within nasal base
And  a feeling of relief  surrounds..
Though it's a bit away from feeling afresh !!