Hear me! Hear me!
In my head are thoughts abounding,
Yes, and insights truly astounding.
A wealth of wisdom, a trove of truth,
Waiting to flow, from me to you.
But please, Dear Listener,
Don't ask anything from me.

Listen! Listen!
Seek to understand and you will see,
The indomitable strength of being me.
Open your mind, focus your attention
Dear Listener and receive my cerebral invention.
But please, please....
Don't ask anything from me.

Yes, Dear Speaker, you are truly amazing.
With eyes of fire and a tongue blazing,
A mind like lightening, a voice like thunder;
Three mouths, no ears, a modern wonder!
A head so full there's nothing to give,
And so, of course, Dear Speaker,
I will ask nothing from you.

A declaration of outright war,
followed her through the egg-white door.
Courage bellowed to hold the line,
but Fear already crept in behind...

I think Boldness ran first;
Wit just froze, likely to burst.
Bravery scampered close behind;
Their rapid retreat was well-designed.

Pride nailed my tongue to my teeth,
Fear breathed a sigh of relief.
Scorn decided she wasn't worth it
Seeing that she's less than perfect.

Apathy quipped, though a little tongue-in-cheek,
It was really he who had made me so weak.
"But enough of all this idle chatter,
after all, it doesn't really matter."

Of course, Pride would have none of this,
and began to expound on why he must exist.
Scorn simply sneered, Fear again panicked,
Apathy yawned, the Insecurity team was frantic.

The chaos of war crashed and clanged
Emotions surged like boomerangs,
But the arguring ceased and the silence broke,
when Courage stood, and Bravery spoke.

Old women are forgotten wombs
whose graceless bodies have fed the world,
then been sent to sit in its shadows...
not quite seen, unacknowledged
and without nurture.

Old women are crucified with the nails
of oppression and poverty.
Invisibility swallows them when
age freckles out-number the fresh
patches of youth.

Old women have scarred and calloused
knees from kneeling in submission to
lesser minds that felt bigger for the
looking down.

A rosary of sorrows is strung through
the weary fingers of old women.
They are hung on the crucifix of youth
and beauty to wither into dust.

Old women have crabbed and ruined toes
from shoes worn too long - that a child
might have new ones.
Alone in cubicles or corners, frayed photos
beneath their coats, old women remember
children that have long forgotten them.

Old women do not seek a man’s arms...
for that is not a refuge, but a honeyed trap
where souls are flayed and burned.

Old women talk to themselves because
no  one else has ears to hear, or words to share.
Even their echoes are faint and whispered.

Such wondrous minds...libraries of living life,
vision and experience...left untouched because
they are not behind a pretty face.

Behold the woman....she is a wealth of wisdom
and power, beauty and courage - to those
wise enough to touch her power.

Her reckoning will come...

Until then - she endures.

Morning

Softly fall the bright yellow beams
Across the hardwood floor.
Awaken as the skillet scrapes
Across the iron stove.
In rhythm with the fizz and pop
As eggs and bacon fry,
And blending with the wind-chime song
Of black-capped chickadees.

Afternoon

Ambrosia air breathes calming scents
Of grass and lake and farm.
Pillow-down clouds and sultry sun
Reflect on sleeping ponds.
The sounds of summer pulse and course
On waves of humid air.
The maple crack of a wooden bat;
July's favorite pastime.

Evening

The apricot horizon fades
and bows to glowing moon;
While fireflies flare and fade into
The silver stars above.
As mellow as the mourning dove,
The distant owl sings.
Sleep well tonight, for tomorrow will be,
Another midsummer's day.

A kind of blue lay
thick over her,
swallowing mouthfuls of suffocation
and drowning in nourishment. It's times like these
when the person you are today
doubts if they can reinvent themselves in time
for tomorrow. Blue is everywhere
like your perspective is bruised
and it feels like hell.

The familiar grip of apathy
makes everything foreign
and you're wilting under water like
some kind of mutant...

Observing people talk with an unrestrained
fluidness is enchanting and why doesn't
your erratic behaviour include something useful
in its repertoire? You swallow things that burn
but spit it out again because
all the nerves in your system left you
for a love affair less volatile.

This kind of blue is fickle. Its melancholy
in a heartbeat. It makes you lie awake
in bed until the sheets have lost the warmth
of your empty touch, examine heartbreak like
its a specimen of a scientific experiment. It makes
you hyper aware of nostalgia at 3am. It takes your
breath away and clouds your eyes with an absent minded
look. It's a surge of sorrow and a burst of hope
unceasingly whispering in your ear...

Someone's talking but you're not listening. The world's
troubles are rippling through you, and
this kind of blue makes you silent.
This kind of blue is you.

"Do you...?"
The elder asked in late September,
It wasn't difficult, I knew the answer,
But still I paused, briefly undisturbed
And every detail, I suddenly remembered:

Glancing look
Batting eye
Short of breath
Long sigh.

Chest pocket
Slightly pounds,
Deep breath...
"Nice to meet you"

Charming smile,
Class Monday,
First touch,
Dinner Friday?  

Silent pause,
Checks calender
"That'll work!"
Phone number.

Sweating palms
Nerves swell
Deep breath...
Doorbell.

Dad's request,
Home at eight,
"Movie premier?"
Second date.

Hand in mine,
Afraid to miss,
Eyes close,
First kiss.

Throat tightens
Tears form
First fight
Cheeks warm.

Things I said,
Were never true,
You see... Because..
Well... "I love you."

Bended knee
Golden band
White box
Take my hand?

Five maids
Five men
White dress
Violin.

Chest pocket,
Slightly pounds.
Sweating palms,
Nerves swell.
Throat tightens,
Tears form;
"Do you..?"

The elder asked in late September,
It wasn't difficult, I knew the answer.

Hope.
Hope is like the air inside a balloon;
You only lose it
when you chose to let go.