"sanding" poems
With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
Spatula and bourbon paint with blood,
In an attempt to woo Dracula’s mud.
Walking down an alley cat zoo,
Along came Sid with Captain Voodoo.
Painting, decorating, sanding and building,
Cleaning mountain goat’s spectacular guilding.
Given a job however dull and blue,
Being a decorator is what you should do.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:39 AM UTC
they're nothing but glorified bus drivers, said my father after i told him i wanted to become a pilot.
the opposite of love is not hate, but contempt.
what causes the kodachrome to fade little by little to grey? is it really bred of familiarity. the wear of gradually learning the truth about somebody. the minutiae of the everyday sanding away at the idealised, sculpural dream.
or is it triggered rather by the dull shock of an identifiable disappointment; the inevitable transformation towards sallow disgust justified by the devastation of slap-to-the-face betrayal or loss.
must we fulfill the dream simply to learn that it was only ever empty?
my father, a devoutly unspiritual pragmatist, had nevertheless as a young man fallen in love with the expansive embrace of the blue above. the son, grandson, and great-grandson of farmers, he worked his hands down to shredded red sores to put himself though flying school only to have his application for a commercial licence rejected due to a doctor's confounding eleventh hour diagnosis. colour blindness. an all-or-nothing man, my father never once returned to the enthralling blues, yellows and pinks offered up by the cockpit, and from that point forward became a farmer.
i gave up on the thought of becoming a pilot, and later, (much later), developed a fear of flying.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
she brings him tea,
a piece of cheese late morn
for he has been toiling since dawn
his plane shaving the wood reverently
the old oak speaking, though not complaining,
in a language the man does not understand
a coughing code for loss, forbearance, acceptance,
redemption, he hopes, for the boys keep coming…
first from Ypres, the Verdun,
now the Marne
before, he heaved hewn planks
for the hopeful homes, built their pantries
to be filled with the bread, the kind milk
now the sawn boards are for those who once
watched his labors, but no longer hear the simple
sounds of sanding, sawing
or anything at all
most of the lads do not come home,
their souls and bodies left to rot on the blood sullied grass
or buried shallow, naked in the French soil, but all get a fine coffin
thanks to the carpenter’s wife, whose babe was the first to fall,
who demands for them all, a holy horizontal home to be built
and, empty or not, placed gently in Anglican ground
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Two small boys stand in the forest,
huddled around the burning husk
of an old go-kart.
A mute snow falls,
sanding away the sharp shapes
of evening.
As the tired light fades
back into frayed rows of black pine,
the boys begin to silently sway.
And soon, they nestle
in nightshade, are bewitched
by the murmur of milk.
Their eyes reflect the Moon.
Not her blush. Her distance.
Transfixed by the twitch of fire,
the still of night, the boys stare
into the metal husk at their feet.
Their hands begin to flutter
as in a death dance, moth-like,
delicate as rice paper cranes.
Small dim creatures,
cliff birds, hollow with desire,
tangled in night drapes
and flame.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 4:12 PM UTC
The other marjoram and the clothes
Are chimes inverted for her story,
What if we had chives, asparagus?
And what, asparagus, if we had chives?
Why did all that rain fall
All day in the grounds
And on the bird feeders,
And through the clearing?
The neatest patrons are back,
Their statue tortured by your autumn sweater.
Then there is the storm of receipts.
The salad bowel needs sanding, but not this
Fall. Scatter the remaining marjoram like dust.
Sweet peas from melancholy gardens
Sautéed over her faux tofu.
Fruit flies like a banana.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
“From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”
–William Shakespeare (Prologue to Romeo and Juliet)
I was hewn from the helpless limbs of a tree
Which could have grown
To become something magnificent
Through sanding and carving
Through varnishing and the work of human hands
I was formed
In a way, the tree which was mutilated to give me life
Was a foreshadowing of my truncheon fate
I swing through the air once again
A weapon in the hands of a vehement oppressor
Skin splits
Blood sprays
Bone shatters
Bodies litter the dust
Staining the earth with crimson testament
To the cruelty I have wrought
Some of the figures are marred
Reminiscent of the tree from which I was hewn
Which died to give me life
The dark throng of protestors
Are but mortals
Faced by the immortal power
Of those lighter beings
Who wield me, mercilessly
I wish to weep
For the destruction, pain
Anguish I leave in my wake
I wish I was still a living bough
Capable of shedding resin tears
Capable of yielding to greater forces
Not to force the vulnerable to break
But I cannot weep
I cannot yield
I am a baton
A weapon in the hands of those who swore to protect
Yet scythe down those who rise to protect what is rightfully theirs
Ancient grudge of black and white
Break to new mutiny of segregation
Where civil blood of those who seek protection
Makes civil hands who swore to guard them
Unclean.
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 6:59 AM UTC
The grey lines etch
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.
A blade makes contact through the fine, stone mist.
Stagnant, sanding down the beating end of a hammer,
Trapped shapes appear,
Revealing new ways to approach
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.
Aug 29, 2022
Aug 29, 2022 at 3:49 PM UTC
garage tools
orbital sander sanding away
big it up for the orbital sander
getting sand on now now now
hear the orbital sander sand away
orbital sander
orbital sander
orbital sander
sand sand sand!
like his mate the orbital grinder
give it a good grind
grind away on the go
watch that baby grind away
orbital grinder
orbital grinder
orbital grinder
grind grind grind!
hydraulic ramp going up and down
no car is too heavy
fantastic hydraulics
touch of a button up down up down
hydraulic ramp
hydraulic ramp
hydraulic ramp
lift lift lift!
laser gig perfectly aligned
laser beam on target
crash damage repair perfection
laser accuracy beyond compare
laser gig
laser gig
laser gig
laser laser laser!
boss is doing a ******* eppy
the tech is too reliable
he bosses and bullies
his young apprentices about
sweep the floor
male the brews
fetch the butties
you ****** slaves
boss boss boss!
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
Scouring walls
sanding hands
grazing galls
varnished strands
upward stroll
winging tips
silent roll
grooving rips
sighing depths
whispers fall
staining breaths
unknown wall
senses bare
flooring sand
wetted air
dripping gland
morose dew
sickly lashes
mourning pew,
perching ashes
sleet-river veins
mist-tide lobes
stringing strains
vermilion globes
pale slim
stilling beat
liquid brim
sinking seat.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
We are having a big white wedding,
I can't believe it,
We are so ever happy,
I don't believe it.
I look out to the decorated pavilion,
And I see all the white decorations,
It's too white,
It was too ******* white.
There was something I could do,
I needed to add colour,
I needed the depth of colour,
It had to be red.
The things I sought for were not hard,
The things I found were quite useful,
I went and found you,
You were in the garden hidden away.
You found her again,
After I told you she had to be gone,
She saw me first,
That probably wasn't the best.
I went up to you first,
And pulled out a six inch blade,
I put it to your throat,
And I hear you whimper in pain.
She tries to back away in fear,
I pull a gun on her,
She suddenly stops,
And the both of you just stare at me.
"What's wrong babe?" I say to you,
"Are you getting cold feet?" I say,
"What the **** were you thinking hunny?",
"Didn't think I'd find out did you?".
You just stare at me,
Eyes filled with fear,
Just looking at you exploded anger within me,
You had to be taken care of.
I turned to her,
She was terrified,
She had no idea what I was capable of,
Neither did I but I was about to find out.
The roses in the garden we were sanding in,
Happened to be white,
But they were about to change colour,
They were about to become blood red.
First I shot her in the head,
It blew backwards and covered the roses,
Next I took my knife closer to your neck,
I got real close to your face and looked into your eyes.
Your eyes looked empty and filled with fear,
I said "Are you ready for this?",
"Are you ready to die?",
He just looked at me with fear in his eyes.
I took my knife and dug it into his throat,
His beautiful dark red blood sprayed everywhere,
It was all over the roses and my white dress,
I couldn't have been happier.
I walked over were the entire crowd was,
Were it was the brightest,
It had to be changed,
It had to be covered in their blood.
I walked down the aisle,
Everyone was gawking at me,
I decided to be civil with these people,
So I turned and shot every single one of them.
I looked around and saw the gorgeous colour,
The colour of life,
The colour of death,
The best colour ever created.
I was a quick shooter,
So it took merely two minutes,
Two minutes for forty people,
Those forty people were including my family and his.
As I saw the blood splattered chairs,
And the splattered carpets,
All the blood covered bodies,
And the now red piano.
I dropped the gun that was in my hand,
Turned and just stood there,
I just stood there in the silence,
And looked out to all those empty chairs.
I walked to the beginning of the aisle,
Grabbed my bouquet that was now red,
And started walking,
I walked through the blood puddles and head pieces.
I reached the end of the aisle,
Where the priest laid dead,
And I turned and faced him,
And said "I do.".
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:02 AM UTC
I walked alone that afternoon, the middle of December
an unusually warm winter
65 degrees, I shed my jacket with memories
of shivers
On the playground, with the taste of slides, and foursquare, on my tongue, I
Ran through the swings and monkey bars and laughing children, I
Laughed into the wind, chest forward, hair flying, eyes invincible
Eyes like fire
Rain came without warning and your footsteps caught up with mine,
In rhythm with the beat of the drops
Our hearts beat in rhythm with the drops on the asphalt
I walked alone, but you crowded my thoughts
Brother, you haunt my mind with memories of when we fought
I’m running again, to shake off the wetness
I’m shaking off tears, I swear I’m doing my best
It’s the only thing left I can do is to cry
And breathe, sometimes, without knowing why
This moment is silly I’m thinking
A private moment like this, how
Invades this feeling
of sand, it’s sinking
And I’m waist-deep, in my own wasting speeches
And your voice is caught in between, like leeches
On my skin in the places I can’t reach
I remember orchards, and peaches, and sweetness
I am the feeling of remorse, my hands are coarse,
My throat is numb, my God, I’m done, I’m done, I’m done –
But I can’t stop
Sometimes
The walls are magnetic and they dictate my moves
Keep pulling me back and forth, back and forth,
It’s no wonder we have such problems of self-worth
and the kids these days
Have such problems with shame
I have such problems with shame
I threw your picture out the window to stop my madness
Were you serious when you said my voice meant less?
It resounded and warped “I am meaningless”
It’s replaying now, sanding down the most vulnerable places in me-
The places I told you how to reach-
to be unrecognizable
I’m wondering what will happen when I can’t recognize myself
The room is shrinking
Make a decision, says the sun
Crawl away, says the moon
The stars can’t tell you what to do
Swoon
Throw a tantrum
Throw a large, heavy object into something precious
Throw away everything material
Save your memories, and your body
Jump – somewhere beautiful
Claim your stakes somewhere uncharted
Write, write, write, write, write, write something nonsensical
Write something perplexing
Something annoying
Something you can come back to in the times you need space
(Welcome)
Feel safe; this moment is whatever you make it
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
Woke with the sting of regret, it’s been too long since I fell,
I missed the rush of fresh air, I missed the taste of the smell,
I was in love with the tightrope, the stained glass of her eyes,
Bowed by the weight of surrender, I settled for compromise,
Watching those false idols dance, turning wolves into sheep,
As we played coy with the monsters that sang us to sleep,
I had a million places to go, and so much I’d hoped to say,
But I wasted another tomorrow thinking about yesterday,
And those sticky situations where we all came unglued,
While I daydreamed a sky that wouldn’t mirror my mood,
A slow dance with routine, and every face looks the same,
I was choking to death on the stale taste of my name,
So I started sanding sharp edges, hoping that I might fit in,
I spent a year writing my ending, so I could finally begin,
Dusting off open road acrobatics, I twisted south by the sea,
Searching for the rotting remains of who I thought I should be,
But it was just another battle that I lost to the war,
The same wrecking ball feet with new roads to explore,
Nothing quite felt right, my fingertips became springs,
I’d lost the girl to save the world, and other foolish things,
It was my first last-ditch effort, my best second guess,
I painted myself into a corner of the picture of success,
Fifteen-hundred miles, and still felt so far out of reach,
Until late one night my phone rang as I walked along the beach,
I told my story to the old man as he listened patiently,
When I finished, he calmly asked me to turn and face the sea,
He said, “The ocean is the journey, the sum of all you gave,
Do not lose perspective; this is but a single wave.”
I drove home that night and slept for the first time in half a week,
And when I awoke, the path before me didn’t feel quite so bleak,
I realized there’s no shame in letting someone catch us if we fall,
And that being lost is different than being nowhere at all,
I learned that each story is a lesson, not merely a scar,
And that all we have left is not the same as everything we are.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
Water erasing stone,
Color uncovered with each intimate drip
Sandstone? Granite? Clay?
Always shifting.
Life shaping faith
Beauty revealed with each piercing drop
Belief? Truth? Hope?
Oh, how it keeps shifting.
Life sanding stone
miles traveled
conversation, laughter, grief
all sacred sanding, dripping, cutting.
Absolute? Sorry. Safe? Please.
African refugees
and Muslims and holy characters of all walks
sorting, sifting, shifting me and my deepest held belief.
Kneeling on a roof in Delhi, bearing witness
to a thousand rasping coughs offered to heaven
as one desperate prayer,
ascending with the eternal incense
of countless cooking fires.
Simmering in the Carolina sun with Waleed
warm words and a tender heart
intimacy, intimacy with Allah
present the way Aquinas could only hope
for all of us. For me.
Certainty may resist dripping
but the cost, the cost.
Forced, formal, cheap, and cold.
A fearful response to the stunning destruction
of being created.
What if your faithfulness is foolishness? Who are you,
if you miss
the beauty of every drip?
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
It Was the Wind. I.
It was the wind
That comes through me
1,000 songs of voices singing
penetrating to
my bones
incomprehensible
stories
all electricity
and fire
and I could ride you
blind
through miles of time
never truly knowing
the words with which
to make you known to me
but we I feel
though not I see
It was the wind
That wore a
whole in me.
It Was the Wind. II.
It was the wind
ceaseless howling
a never ending
cacophony
of sad stories
and the unreasonable
wear
of time
blowing deep
sanding down my memories
where-ing away my
mind
everything gives
to the wind
find me here
If the wind hasn’t
yet picked
me
clean.
It Was the Wind. III.
. . . it was the wind.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 6:54 AM UTC
In the hopes of melodramatic expression,
We use overused combinations of words
To cook overcooked works of "completion",
But we never truly grasp
The hand of death,
Nor have we truly grasped
The possibilities this universe,
Or even beyond what this universe,
Provides.
We bounce the ball of clever word-play
On the playground of our understanding,
And though our playground's small,
We aggrandize it to be more;
In our heads, it reaches the shore,
And we play even in the fall
When we're not supposed to, sanding
down the ball with our bounces and our days.
Whether we wish for certain weather
To rain or shine on our heads,
Few will have that weather affect them
When they do not wish it so,
And they will be in the know.
They will hear the thunder through their phlegm
And they're the only ones to tell of it on their death bed.
They're the true poets, not us, whose spirits are still light as a feather.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 6:32 AM UTC
The bitter taste
that brings back greasy dread
and aching everything.
limbs that fall shaky
with your bitter taste.
*nuzzling coarse whiskers upon my panes.
with your bitter memory,
nestling coarse whicker inside my brain*
I can feel all that I believed.
when the back of my arm
rubs this stain from my red and smacking maw
it's in my skin.
it is my skin.
biting black. cutting coffee.
dripping, tearing down my throat
sanding off my lips with coffee grounds.
And all this for a warm belly
that can heat only my flesh.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
I think ordinary things
Are beautiful- sanding outside,
Freezing, looking at a busy parking lot, beautiful
In a halo of streetlight illumination, pockmarked with
Shadows of wondering people.
And I want nothing more than to
Reach behind me,
Feel your warmth, find your hand, hold you,
Let you see through my eyes, our eyes.
As I stand, though,
Cool night air bites into me.
No searing, comforting heat available,
Only me. Looking outwards, finding
Beauty?
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
What is the measure of a soft touch
& one you want so very much?
It's a satellite orbiting my skin
sanding out the flaws,
buffing it to perfection,
helping with our direction
a sugary confection,
It's whatever you say it is,
In a **** deep voice
against a feeling bone,
one who's so accident prone
taking all seeds I've sewn
oh those winds have blown,
and its when I'm alive
It's how we thrive
like when an orchid blooms
adapting to the core changes,
the smell of that perfume,
an intoxicating waif
a drowning plume,
standing strong
where I belong,
in the shining summer sun
a tantalizing sweet
& such a lovely treat,
unrequited & uninvited
haunting & wanting
in a ghost town,
where you take care
of needs
measured in your helpful deeds,
those rugged hands
are taunting,
& in those selfless demands
I feel a fire
please take me higher
I'm begging
& on my knees
oh hear my pleas
I burn here in desire,
Yes I'd give in
It's not committing sin
I'd tell myself,
as a love strong
door opens,
& we begin.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
Stories of hope series #4
The elder
His wife died fifteen years past, and he knew
Living with his children would not last.
They would want to put him in a assisted living home
Just so that they could be left alone.
They could not foresee that one day they would be elderly.
They joked about him becoming senile
But he knew that would not happen for quite a while.
He was only sixty two with so much more living to do.
He knew the only thing he had left was HOPE.
And with life’s burdens he would have to cope.
So he decided to go back to school
And learn a new trade, and show his family
that he could make the grade.
He learned carpentry, and bought all the necessary tools
And what he couldn’t get , he borrowed from the school.
He already had in his mind of what he’d like to make.
And he knew that a long time it would take.
He decided to get the WESTERN RED CEDAR
For its softness and durability, and aromatic smell
This wood he knew would work quite well.
He found the perfect picture of what he had in mind
And viewed every detail and every line.
He wanted it to be about three feet tall
And two feet wide because that size would be just fine.
He started off very slowly, just chiseling away.
And sanding it down perfectly
For that’s the way it had to be.
He used each and every sculpting blade he could find
To define each and every line.
He did each part with delicate care
For with this piece there was a love he shared.
Slowly but surely it started to take shape
He was impatient, he could not wait.
But he knew that this was the way it was meant to be
So that everyone could see the beauty that had to be.
He worked on it every day, and his worries
Seemed to slip away.
Being put in a home was no longer his concern
And that his children would have to learn
That as long as he could breathe and walk
All of this was just talk.
This sculpture became his obsession
and his passion and made him grow strong
And doing this is where he belonged.
His teachers were very impressed and said
He was the best student yet.
They said that this was a work of art and of beauty
And should be put on display
And that for this the public would gladly pay.
He knew there was something missing
And that it was not complete,
and this problem he would defeat.
Then it dawned on him that it was needing color.
He needed the darkest blue and the deepest brown
And went about painting it without making a sound.
The darkest blue was for the piercing eyes
And the brown for the shoulder length hair
This was the perfect pair.
For three months he had toiled with perfection
For this was of the LORD and his resurrection.
And this was how it came to be
That this elder found harmony
HOPE IS THE KEY TO SET OURSELVES FREE
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
Haven't freestyled in a while
since my name was Kyle
1 out of 10 in the room I'd revile
but I got the world swoon over this goon style
9 out of 10 be jealous of the attention
I be getting how fast these legs run a mile
**** it give me 500 miles
and I would rush 500 more
just to kick in the door
Of whack rappers, hit the floor
That's the D-E-C-K I pray to start my day
not doing this for pay just to play and say
what I need to say the state of the States
Got me in dismay as they pave way
For old goose stepping ways
Like **** learn history
About ****** and his story
Of the rise to glory of the Fascist party
and the deaths of Jewish minorities
That they had as priority
Along with any other minority
that wasn't white skinned with ***** grin
or Aryan origin on that topic it's La Fin
because South Park had them Laughing
and sanding me in wood shop
So going to that school had to stop
so I dropped out by expulsion
which fueled the propulsion
Out of my mom's place
At sixteen I started to chase
independence
'Cause that's all that made sense
I couldn't live on cents had to make dollars
Dreamed of being a baller shot caller
Show poster on the wall sir
But my crafts had to be refined before
I could start my spiritual war
Let my mind soar like a kite
In the white clouds past nine
Turned the phaser to eleven
As shrooms shot me a glimpse of heaven started making bread sans leaven
sick of toaster leave-ins knead the flour
need the flower extra sour
though diesel to ease all the pain
And refrain my brain
From seizing and freezing
The mainframe of my nervous membrane
I swear I'm not insane
but it would take me days to explain
The pain that had me nearly slain
so ride my thought train
'Cause I hate planes & listen to the refrain
you feel this profane pyre burn hotter than
blue flames from the butane or propane
Not real champagne lest it be made in France mane
where they sniff the Caine more than oxygen
I am the Champion.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
Hey you
What is it that you want?
Why do you suddenly seem like a distant stranger
Towards whom I only feel disdain
A newness that I m not amused of
Not is it my routine to refrain,
But from you all I want is to flee
All I want is some chains to be broken and free
I want to rediscover the corners of my surroundings
No I do not want to do it under your strings
All along, this was supposed to be an experience of Glee
But I only feel thoughts so sick n hence sound my plea
Being dissociated from you may make me a mad woman
But wouldn't it be grand to feel afterall like a human
All you have done is playfully stirred my ego and confidence
And here I m broken and lay like a toy ready for good riddance
The things I used to like seem to be distraught and don't fancy me no more
Making me question my stand my past my future beyond this shore
At these times when well trodden paths are being chanced by adventure's slaves, who refuse to leave trails in sand
I walk under the spell of fleeting pace and unenthusiastic shroud
Please oh please get me out of this deep fraud
Not seeing enjoyment as goal nor death
But I want to be happy I want to be good
I want to stop the spite and feel the rejuvenated breath
Oh you disturbing thoughts.. May you just rest in peace
While I try to piece together sanding down the edges and joining the crease.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
The leaves have fallen, the trees are bare,
snow is falling, gently swirling, in this Winters wind.
The birds are silent, the air is still, no song to lift a sluggish eye, or warm a frozen soul. I walk alone through silent streets, braving the snow clad wind, and the icy winters chill. I walk, breath frosting out in icy patterns, crystallized, hanging there, for fleeting moments, before they fall and float away, borne away by a gentle breeze, an icy touch of soft farewell. The leaves are spinning, ahead, behind. I walk through, scattering the subtle patterns of wind and leaves, to create a swirling maelstrom of snow and wind, left to find their way in the evening dark of winters day. I see her face, in the brittle leaves twisting in the breeze, and in the icy snow drifts, piled against a winters tree, features soft and crystalline, illusion drifting from place to place, born along by winters breeze. I watch her, unseeing eyes shifting, seemingly, from place to place, movement of these subtle snows. I watch her, numb, my eyes pinned to that illusion of wind and snow, a subtle torture, amusement for the gods delight. I watch her, hands straying, falling, reaching, questing fingers searching, finding, clasp that chill uncaring steel. I raise my hand, white and cold with winters frost. I see her. I know her. I am lost in this winters chill, grief and pain numbing me, stilling me, my heart is cold inside my chest. Fingers white, frozen, hand numb, rises, cold steel shining in frosty light. I am frozen, still, eyes fixed on shifting snows, her face still, sightless eyes hold mine, transfixing me in frozen space, eternity held in sightless eyes. I see her. I see her. I....know...her. She smiles gently, eyes soft on mine, black hair stirring in gentle breeze. I........see.......her. She sees me. She sees me. I close my eyes. I know her. I.............know.........I see..........I see her sanding there, pale, smile frozen on icy face. Waiting for me, alone, cold with the chill of uncounted winters. Waiting for me. I go. Goodbye..........I.........am.........going..........My frozen heart waits beyond, still, numb,....waiting. I am going. I am filled with love and loss and grief and pain. I am going. Do not.....mourn.....do not.....grieve.....I am going, the winters lie heavily, a frozen weight on bleeding shoulders. I am going. do not.......mourn me, for I go to peace and a frozen heart.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
steel wool woven into my tendons
pricking stringy veins
in vain i wore you
steal me some wool
for a sweater too scratchy for my pink skin
steel wool on a kitchen sink
sanding my baby forearm pink
stringy veins leaky weaky
making stained sweater splotchy
your lipmarks my hipmarks our ripmarks
thank you kindly for a lovely sweater cheri
i'll wear it till my pink ripens raw rotten cherry
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
life’s slippery slopeyness
keeping us on edge
moving forward
avoiding Sisyphus’ fate
preparation is paramount
educating ourselves
for proper execution
of meaningful moments
discovery and discernment
stoking passion’s fire
fear of failure and
mediocrity’s nothingness
quieting doubting demon epaulettes
turning our mind’s soil
to aerate our roots
fomenting growth
with no need to impress
others or self
or even think in those terms
exploiting one’s own personal
weaknesses and strengths with
grace sanding smooth
rough passages
today’s deferment is
tomorrow’s regret
posture your head high
with joyous eyebrows
feeling alive
appreciating the privilege
of the fruit of your passion
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC