Saturday, September 18, 2010
Rain on my window mimics the grief that hides under pillows.
Why can it not quell the fires that fester,
Building bitterness, with no relief from confused emoting,
Lack of acceptance…
This is done now.
Let others sleep while you keen.
Do so quietly,
Like a ghost.
The chill is cause to pull one thin layer tightly over another;
Kid gloves are tattered, exposing white fingertips, chafed knuckles.
A diamond will not be parted with, kept rolled to the palm,
Keeping one solitary memory vaguely warm.
She has nothing now.
Stands on a corner with a sign
Reduced to a caricature of her former self…
Praying God no one identifies
The Maven of Maple Leaf Square.
Once a time of making lists, brewing grog, scent of cinnamon in the air;
She dreads the season
Of glittering store windows
Cheerful shouts in the streets,
Her head only filled with the odor of her rotting teeth.
She has nothing now.
Tearing a piece of stale bread, she fills her mouth,
While words fall out
Spoken to no one, as her eyes dart from nothing to nothing,
She is a shredded woman.
No longer thick of skin nor high of chin
Once she gave for the joy of giving
She has nothing now.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Nothing to Contribute
Set apart from the sparkling, snappy gathering,
Where relationships and ice melt with the same rapidity,
His semi-glazed observations
Of clever conversationalists
Whom he would dread sitting next to on an overseas flight
For it may be assumed
Nothing to contribute.
Reserve mistaken for animosity;
Asthma for anxiety;
And is accused of offering little companionship.
Desperately plowing his mind for one kernel of reflection
So as to join the edge of one cocktail huddle
Only to discover the topic he mistook for economy was
A discussion of Matthew McConaughey,
He turns on what is perceived to be an attitudinal heel
And captures the elevator for the next ride to impartial pavement.
Disappears into the shadows, in clouds of deeply inhaled,
Exhaled smoke; his footsteps forgotten before they can echo.
Failure to notice. Painless lack of impression.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Condition of the Human Heart
The condition of the human heart,
As defined in the compassionate sense,
Is of delicate nature,
Fragile, like the wing of a butterfly;
Once pinned and no longer in flight,
Yet such a thing of beauty
When seen through the radiance of a sunny day.
The human heart is
Easily broken, like the fallen petal of a red rose,
Symbol of splendor,
Crushed underfoot, gone unnoticed,
Left to the wind, a future of dust.
One can protest the very existence of being born
Why am I here?
To live in mystery of the moment when even the protest
Ceases to exist,
And takes all the secrets that craft a lifetime
(Tragically short or overwhelming fulfilled)
Of the condition of the human heart.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Weapon of choice
He claimed it was his legal right,
Protection his ultimate need,
From varmints that came out at night,
And thieves with an unhealthy greed.
“I’ll lock it up and hide the key,”
He told his mothering spouse.
“The bullets and the gun will be
On opposite ends of the house.”
“That hardly does you any good,”
She made her point quite clear.
“If you must protect this brood
You’ll need to have it near.”
Jimmy was a most curious lad;
At dinner used his mouth to eat
While listening to his mom and dad,
Chewed thoughts as well as meat.
In the field out back the grass was high
And the crows flew overhead;
Raising rifles they aimed for the sky,
Jimmy and his best friend, Fred.
It didn’t seem to them that morning
That anything bad could take place.
The weapons they’d borrowed were marked with no warning
Of the tragedy the small town would face.
Little did he know that what goes up,
Earth’s laws dictate must come down.
He fired and gave a command to his pup
To go fetch a bird on the ground.
Poor little Fred never knew what hit;
The bullet went straight to his brain.
He was dead in less than a minute.
It wasn’t a bird that was slain.
The little dog barked and jumped on Fred,
As Jimmy plowed through the weeds.
One small eight year old boy was dead,
But both of the children would bleed.
In a small town, word travels quick
And stigma becomes who you are:
The boy that shot little Fred Schmidt
Would never go very far.
Both were students their teachers had thought
Had the promise of men who’d be great,
But who could predict what the future brought
That would be Fred and Jimmy’s fate.
Fred in a grave when just a small boy
And Jimmy who never forgot
The day he discovered what he thought was a toy
Ended two vital lives with one shot.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Back into poetry blogging. I had a long absence. Mom was diagnosed on May 28th. My life took a turn then but things are getting "back to normal" now, but without Mom in my world. I miss her every moment of every day.
Today's prompt is to write a poem, using a line from a song. I have chosen:
“And sometimes there’ll be sorrow.”
From *Little Green* by Joni Mitchell
I’d have cautioned you,
Had I known,
Of the bitters life can bring;
But there are no warnings for earthquakes.
I’ve not been able to make choices for you.
Not that I could have shown more wisdom;
I was just a mere child. So I have been told.
I have grown as you have grown,
To losses and heartaches,
Happiness outweighs all these things,
As I told you:
One joy dispels a thousand sorrows.
But you prefer rage and resentment;
Perhaps it is the drama in your blood.
Z is for Zero-Down Don
He’s busier than anyone
With something going on,
Making deals and fielding calls;
He’s Zero-Down Don.
He can get it at a bargain,
Anything you need;
If you say you’ll get it cheaper,
He’ll refuse to concede.
He’s got friends in higher places,
He can haggle with the devil
And negotiate with flair.
If your phone rings in the morning
And it’s long before dawn,
He’s been up all night bartering.
He’s Zero-Down Don.
Be it microwaves or jewelry,
Televisions, cars or bets;
He knows someone who’s sure to help
To improve you assets.
For cruises in the Caribbean
Or smuggling contraband,
A package to deliver;
Zero-Down Don is your man.
In case the deal goes awry,
Or the transaction seems bizarre,
Be advised: Don’t bother Don.
He’ll be in the bar.