Lovely whispers cycling the night in
      Clearer than words ever could. His body
Emaciated and drenched in rainfall water
     Falling wishywashy on the mountain top
Which grips the sun as divinity-scannihg eye.

Met in icy surface that separates the dead and the living
From those who live in limbo;
      Purgatorial letters swapped
In gregarious burials that permeate a life of suffering
Better than any etched headstone could.

Would you trade your skin for water knowing
It'd save someone you never know?
Would you paint the sky gold with old red stars
Still poking through    just so

He knew that his journey was not just to die?

intrusive and violent thoughts permeate my subconscious mind. and i don't mind for the most part because self infliction will not start.

the thoughts sit and brews and stews — triggered by jealousy and self sabotage. when will my time come, when will i walk instead of run?

a cool breeze on a mountain top, i snap pictures of ruins and admire the past i never knew. what's old becomes new and what i knew becomes old.

the curtains unfold, opening the stage for an audience to view, no recording or flash photography while the performance is in process.

maybe someday i'll free myself from my own sabotage and jealousy. maybe someday there will be more freedom to be me and less time to worry about you.

You know it's funny the things that leave an indelible mark on our lives! 2 times when I was 8 years old, a catastrophe landed square on me that still haunts me... almost 55 years later. Funnier still is how alone I feel in this, as I've never seen, or even heard of it happening to anyone else! Surely it must have, (punched someone in the metaphorical gut - besides me)  as this cannot be the one thing that makes me unique among human beings.  We played real baseball back then, not t-ball and because we ( my family) moved around a bit during those years; that town and field time dates itself as the  2nd or  3rd grade, so I was 8 or just turned 9 when life turned on me...twice!! With the benches filled with the enthusiastic, happy faces of cheering parents and friends, the hot lights in a perpetual battle with the cool night air of early spring, creating a foggy haze that hovered just over our heads like a gray wool blanket and added something to the crackling excitement of this rite of passage. I loved it all!  I loved it for the excitement and I loved it because it was mine ( all mine) not a hand me down shirt or pair of pants! It was the first thing in my life, that was mine!  Because I paid for It by sheer sweat and determination! Paid for with all the effort made that took me from the Siberia of the right field - that 1st year - to pitcher/ first base the next! Yes, I loved it all; and aided by an even swing and a penchant for meeting the pitch with the sweet spot of the bat, giving me status and accolades that I admit was to be loved as well! All that mutual love made the pain of... well you will see!
    I found myself on first base, by walk or a fair hit, where I'm sure I was leading off and taunting the pitcher; as were my teammates on 2nd and 3rd ( a fact guaranteed to promote to a higher level our taunts and threats of stealing a base!) Yes! but what base? What with them all occupied. Bases loaded was almost a no steal zone! So then, with the resounding crack of a good hit filling the crisp cool spring night, we all 3 began to move around the bases, pushed by the 1st base coach and aided by the one at 3rd ,who was like the traffic light in human form as he urged us to make a left turn and head for home, unless the light went to caution or red. That then was the time to obey ( without question ) the traffic laws of the ball field!  Sometimes the signal went to caution, slowing all progress as everyone waited for the ball to return from beyond the wool blanket!  At that age we had no more free will than the merry - go - round did ,or the kids aboard it did ,when suddenly hijacked and assaulted by bigger and stronger kids bent on turning  it into that momentary " hell ride " while they pushed and pulled together, creating enough momentum that you were too  scared to remain and.too scared to jump! As bad as that was back then, I would have taken it 100 times to 1 in avoiding the catastrophe and walk of shame dealt me then. , The runners, all but the one going from 1st to 2nd (me) were running toward a coach. The one at 3rd base, now with the caution light shining ,then flicking to red as he saw the ball appear from the glaring haze of lights to be an easy catch for the outfielder in question! Then, just as sudden , the red went to green and the race was back on, aided by a collision ( usually ) of those not calling out " mine"  or someone else not hearing it. From 1st to 2nd I had not been guided by a  coach, but as I was returning towards 1st. I could see him waving me in, only to start waving me off, yelling at me to go go go!!
Clear in my mind  - even now - is the scene I turned back to as I went towards second! To my left, I could see the kid round 3rd and head for home, with the traffic light behind him bouncing and swinging himself around like a happy 10 lb. dog with a 20 lb. tail! To my right I saw 2 players doing an Abbott and Costello routine as they scrambled around, bouncing off each other while trying to retrieve the ball, and there, straight in front of me I see the returning runner land back on second and stick there like a lawn dart! From the corner of my eye, I see the winner of the scramble fling the ball towards home plate, arriving just in time to not get the runner. And then...  there's me, standing 5 feet from second base; lost, confused, embarrassed, and boy am I *******!   Now ******, it's not fair! I followed the rules and obeyed the signals.
   No walk of shame is nice, no matter how much dignity one might portray, but at that age, under those hateful lights and the faces of those mean people on the bleachers, who keep staring at me... I'm sure I was crying as I walked that long walk back to the dugout!   2 times that happened to me that year. It wasn't fair, was not right, and in point of fact,  it was cruel and heartbreaking! Why else would it still permeate my life 55 years later.? Am I alone in this club and should I let it affect my memory so? IDK, because as far as I know, it's just a one-man club and no others for assimilation.
  No one else has paid the dues to join  - that I know of - but  I truly hope I am not alone here, Okay so It happened and it broke me at the time, yes it did that, but it; also prepared me for life, and armed me with the knowledge that sometimes we must endure the pain from doing " no wrong"!   That's where that dignity comes from, as we take the walk of ( undeserved ) shame, with head held high and caring not if anyone sees the gleam of tears... that may fill our eye!

“Let me hold precious the memory of those who have crossed over by letting them be a part of me.” May I be granted with opportunities in my daily life to honor them through kind and loving actions towards others. When my heart is darkened by the strokes of pain, may laughter emerge from a deep fallow within me and allow for a moment of joy.

“Dissolve the haze of fury, and help me be patient as the puzzle comes together over time.” When I question, “Why?” remind me of my faith in Creation. Bring to light my roll in this becoming, and help me forgive myself for my actions that have contributed to my suffering. Grant me the space to be with my anger and move through its outbursts to its source. Implant within me the tools to feed its call for action with love.

“Mellow my hearts rhythms when it engages in a race with my thoughts.” Help me to stay present to my emotions so I can give them the acknowledgement they deserve. When the tears flow and my chest aches, allow the winds of my ancestors to create space within my heart for healing. Break down my walls so their love can permeate through my being.

“Inject me with a reminder that I didn’t come this far to abandon myself now.” Help me remember these prayers. Give them an open pathway to soak into my subconscious and become my way of living. May I swallow them and let them become my blood, my cells, my being - my foundation for higher consciousness.

May my grieving become a light in the abyss of the unknown.

The room is
thick with
darkness,
black shadows
and less
blackness
permeate
everything.

Then the
fog falters
a little light
enters,
and I can see
two reclining chairs
shoulder to shoulder
with my sitting form.

I see the fuzzy floor
and barely perceptible
dresser doors
with a small tv
sitting strangely,
familiarity
edging me onto
anxiety.

I know this place.
In dread I turn to see
the shadowy ghost face
of someone I love
reaching out to touch me.

Her grip is fierce,
and I fall back
in fear and
an aching sorrow.

I wake to the morrow,
as morning tears
slip in drips
down to my
dry lips.
Facing the grief
and the shame
of seeing someone
I left alone in pain
who died
years ago.

Poetry is hard to write when you have no more words to describe whatever you call heartbreak. At some point, the feeling of your heart residing in your stomach is no longer an anomaly. It's nothing. It's the full feeling that makes you feel sick and it's the choking feeling that comes at night before you brush your teeth. The sadness washes your face for you and tucks you into bed so you can focus on how heavy your heart really is.

It becomes your caretaker, in a sense. Because when you notice that your eyes have more trouble staying open than usual, sadness swoops in and whispers "hello, I'm always ready to help you sleep. I've been waiting."

And so all of the sudden you sleep so soundly, so heavily, that not even your dreams visit you. Your alarm doesn't crack open your eyes, the birds don't make enough noise to shake you from your own nest.

And when you have no one to drag you from under the covers, each day seems a little more daunting than the last. The love that you've been holding like a breath starts to stain the mattress beneath you and spreads into the springs, leaving a stench that can be similar to sadness, but sweeter.

When he leaves (and he will) this stench will permeate your own skin. He'll leave on a bright and clear morning with a suitcase full of your sacrifices. He'll load in on the plane and then lose it at the baggage claim. People will ask how they can help and he will say "don't worry, it's nothing I can't replace." And you will feel the exact moment he erases you from his being.

It'll feel like ice, but also like a searing fire, right through the middle of your body. And all he'll feel is a sense of freedom and a slight worry that maybe he left something important behind.

Love is like that. So filling and encompassing when it doesn't need to be, and so vacant when it really counts.

And it really counts when you come back to the place you thought your love kept up residence. It counts when you walk into your room and don't smell the same sweetness you remember. It counts when you've been craving love for weeks and return to find nothing.

Seeking salvation in a person is the most foolish decision someone in love can make. It's the downfall of soft-hearted people who think their person-hood is confirmed by how much of themselves they've put in the gaps of those they adore. And they watch them walk away with that bit of themselves.

Sometimes they'll walk close enough to one of these people that their body tenses, wants to ****** the piece back, but it's been so long that the piece has grown into the person they once were growing with. And it's such a feeling of emptiness and tenderness that it's hard to discern whether it's regret they're swallowing or a longing for the past.

In any case, poetry comes easier to write to those who have enough sadness to last three lifetimes.

.
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the grasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.
.