My Baby just called.
Bummed that the
Plasma Bank turned her away.
Veins too damaged for a Give.
Her blood no longer worth $40.
♢
The Silence
The Long 
The Empty 
The Long
Moments that tell me she
doesn't have bus fair, because
she lost her job last week.
I paid Her rent. A safe room in
a good house that helps me
sleep at Night knowing she is
warm in this deep of Winter.
♢
Imbued with emotions,
I quiet...
My Center 
My Heart 
My Mama Pain
She tells me she was
near Home last night.
Wanted to see the Kitties.
Lay in her Bed.
That's all Mom, that's all...
♢
The locks have been changed.
She does not have a key.
Finally found a ride home
in the middle of the night as
I drank six hours of sleep.
♢
Heart of My *****  
My Spirit.
Taken from Us
Taken from Me.
Taken from Herself.
♢
My Hurt
My Anger
My Disbelief
That something
stronger than Love
dictates her Desires.
She is only 19.


Copyright © 2015. Fluer de Luna.
All Rights Reserved.

~Christi Michaels~MoonFlower
~Fluer de Luna~

thirty-five years
since Mark gunned you down
thirty-five years, passed
like a long sleepless night
that ends with taunting morning light
no brilliant sunrise grandly pronouncing
a glorious new dawn of man
although that would have been your plan
with your entreaties to give peace a chance
and imagine, imagine, imagine

now I kneel in this rain gray park
like a reject from some holy ark
a pilgrim in doleful disappointed pose
after seeing what your earthly brothers chose
was not to imagine a world of peace and love
but to wear reality like a cast iron glove
making mockery of your martyred chants
proceeding like a billion scurrying ants
deaf to your childlike pleas

across the soaked soil where your ashes lay
yesterday and today…and tomorrow
I feel the soggy sorrow
that you would have felt
if you could still see
all the rage of humanity

Smooth, aquatic harps play.
Falling on eachother with
Sweet sounds of
Lush Harmony
Melody when the
Wind blows
Collaboration.
Brings joy to the soul.
A natural
Artistic song from nature
Falling H2O

there are lightning rivers running from the mountains
tree tops swinging menacingly atop the scalp of a human
moss tangled in toes there are flowers singing with the clouds

in the unfathomed depths of an eyeball we see the vast expanse of space
pulled eyebrows and eyelashes on the desk by the blank notepad
unkempt fury pressurized in thin glass bottles

look at this unfamiliar air between us
look at this forced civility

where have the nests been dispersed
when was the last straw that twisted your neck
bit your ear and tickled your toes

the green apple appears red in the periphery
look closer because there is truth in the mud

a blue lotus
ever blossoming
a belch of the marsh

who are the ones that observe these thoughts
who is the one that chooses them
every moment a different person
never the same
the past and the future are here to stay

everything is now
don't sell yourself short
disconnected appendages
a ghost within a shell
a high strung harp

sugarsand whiskey pit
blackberry blossom
warped wood

today
      smells of
              cut grass
                 stuck to
             flesh
     in the heat of                                    
       summer                           you
                                             tasted
                                          so
                                     familiar
                                   and i
                                  thought
                            your glass
                       would shatter
                             if i laid
                            my hands
                               on you
                                    so
                                     i'll pretend
                                         you're a ghost
                                                instead          
                                                  and say
                                                     something like
                                                      my river
                                                       is on
                                                     fire

their walls pale peach, eggshell
tiny flowered paper in the dining room
wood panels in the den

but then, when the boy's voice changed
and hair began to stubble his face, he painted
his own space

eleven by a dozen feet,
all scarlet as Camara rose  
though the can said,
“Passion Red”  

when daylight shined
on these crimson plains, his mother swore
she saw flickering flames  

the boy told her there was no fire
but to extinguish her ire, he painted again,
a stark white, but in just the right light
she still saw a simpering glow    

off to college he went, a full day
she spent, pressing the roller firm against his walls,
extracting every red drop that remained, until
again in perfect light, she was certain  
she saw imps and fallen angels  
dancing in delight