Hope, again

People speak about hope as if it’s the water with which they can put out their fires.

I did this also, describing hope as a dear friend that would hold my hand and console me during times of need.

I called hope my window, ajar to the possibilities that lie waiting in a brighter future.

But hope has been a cancer, leisurely eating away at the contentment I create after loss.

Today I will stand on a mountaintop and declare hope as an adversary.

Hope has forced me to become a realist.

Heart Strings

I am a steel bridge, supporting tons, on my back, never failing.
I am an airbus, carrying many, across distances, never slowing.
I am a dump truck, shuttling waste, into mountains, never complaining.

I can spin any rough thread into golden tales and sell you down a river.
I can sing juicy declarations and convince you that I am all you need and more.
Well, anyone that is, but You.

You know that,
I am a rainbow, displacing light, from my bones, never quitting.
You know that,
I am a haystack, offering respite, in my arms, never tiring.
But You know that,
I am an old scar, prompting nightmares, in your heart, never losing.

If I once played melodies on your heart strings like an angel with her harp,
Cant you paint with my sweet remorseful blood over the dark canvas I left you with?

Pawn

Another day dawns
as we march in place
We are all but pawns
Losing a rat's race.

Time's Little Secret (written 3 years ago-it's now become pertinent)

Anticipation is a slowly filling balloon,
Minimal helium intake,
Rising, swelling ever so slowly.

What if this balloon never seemed to fill completely?
Watching, you pray for more.
Hoping, begging it to stretch just enough.

So, I sit patiently on the floor in the dark.
Fat tears line my lids as I wait.
Can I attain what I am seeking?

This balloon struggles, it seems, to stay depleted.
I coach it through, almost pleading; “fill, fill!”
But alas, months pass and it continues this unhurried process.

My hopes erode, a perfect castle of sand washed down by the sea.
What if it never fills? Should I wait, forever?
I fear I am being foolish.

The future holds all Time’s secrets.
I dance around the question nervously,
When do I give up?

Crusade

I sorted them by shape and size,
Even chose to alphabetize.
My process slow and systematic,
As I placed each item in the attic.

A gauzy film of dust amassed,
Over these memories of my past.

Mistakenly I let fall, my line of defense,
And the dust disappeared at my panicked expense.

I retreated at first, like the girl from before,
But the stinging of old was too sharp to ignore.

‘Guess the war ‘aint over’, I have to say,
And so I battle the demons of yesterday.

Hawk Song

The clever cleaver is mincing words while the tablecloth fabricates a tale, woven like Anantzi the Spider’s glittering web, so delicate it falls apart in our hands, As we all wash off the cold blood in the fountain where we lost our youth some years ago.

...So I, stop and catch my breath because this year, I’m going to be older, and these friends don’t seem to know it, So I look above me and realize that I’m, No longer an ant on a big red checkered tablecloth, I am a hawk circling above, ready to barrel down and watch the fear smeared across the faces of my prey as I make my move in this world that has never offered me so much as road-kill...

Today I stepped out of the darkness.
I've been hiding, with an ignorant smile across my face, for a year.

This time last year I was ready to jump into the sun, but instead I sank into shadow.

Time has been pushing with steel hands on my spine, urging, demanding me to move forward.
I've resisted with every tool, every atom, every seductive smile I could muster.
I won.
I successfully made no progress.

So now I build an arsenal.
I'll drill out all the old and construct a model of the self I want to be.

The Lioness has been sleeping.
I'm going to feed her all the dreams and wisdom I can gather.
Then I shall set her loose on the world.

Se reposer dans la paix

Cancer crawls through veins, in vicious barbarism.
It marks the wicked source, of an emotional schism.

So we dine and converse of anything eternal,
An autonomous king became paternal.


If his life was known for pacifism,
Why did death offer only cataclysm?

Maybe fate will have us meet once more,
In a different time and on a distant shore.


Dedicated to God Murphy

The Stars Don’t Go Out

The stars, well, they haven’t gone out,
Although most days I wish that they would.
They blaze through my lids like acid,
Imprinting Your face in my eyes.

Each shadow on the wall,
And every storefront reflection,
Takes Your loyal shape.
You’re always one step behind.

I awake alone and curse,
And pull at my hair as if it could remove the guilt,
Or the ache that’s resided in my throat,
Since the day I knew You were gone.

I smile and kiss the boys.
I wear a perfect mask,
To hide my absent gaze,
Although they wouldn’t care.

Unconscious

Unconscious, as we step onto one million minute fragments of historic
rock. The beach.
Unconscious, as we jaywalk through one million bustling bodies. Our community.
Unconscious, as we grab our lates and The Times we forget to give thanks.
Unconscious, as we virtually communicate, we've forgotten how to use
our given voice.
We stall and try to ignore the feeling that were losing our grip on
the fundamental elements of humanity. We rush even faster to work to
avoid running into that elderly neighbor who still writes letters by
hand, bakes and donates to charity. But its catching up to us, just
as the landfills begin to overflow and the ice-caps we should have
protected melt into our homes, we will be reminded. Even if its just
one person at a time, we shall overcome.