Leaves

I slump down on the concrete bench,
Iced wind and wet droplets cling to my hair,
And I notice the yellow leaves,
Dancing.

And I fall away from the sounds
Of the shoppers,
Of the traffic,
Of my life.
Behind my lids,
I can almost see an old friend.

He never stood.
But sat contently,
Filled with the joyous labors,
Of three devoted kin.

He wore old bluejeans,
And a flannel button-down shirt,
And never failed to smile.
He knew he was loved.

We really brought him to life,
Bursting with red and orange leaves.
The painted smile on his face,
He played quite a vital role.

But Gomer is gone.
He left a long time ago.
And he took something of mine with him.

Leaves.
Leaves.
Leaves.
Why did you leave?

I open my eyes,
To see that I’m running late for work,
And that I still have two papers left to write,
And that once upon a time,
Was a long time ago,
And I shuffle off to work,
Through the leaves.

Leaves.
Leaves.
Leaves.
Why did you have to leave?

My Plant

Why is it so heavy?
Oh why is it so heavy?

I watered my plant,
But it won’t seem to grow,
Without you, being here.
It cries itself to sleep.

I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I only meant to save you.
From me.
From me.
From me.

I lit a fire in our forest
To warn you.
It burnt down all around me.
I couldn’t stop it.
And now there’s no oxygen left,
I deserve it.

Why is it so heavy?
Oh why is it so heavy?

My Oyster, My Slate

I’m giving back what you’ve given me,
The weight of your love is just too heavy.
I’m suffocating in this comfort you provide,
It’s my oyster! And my adventures, when I decide!

Things were rosy-darling-sweet,
Months went by, I had felt complete.
I sang to you of love and bliss,
Fell heels over head, sealed with a kiss.

But my wings are clipped by your own hand,
The year has flown away, the timer’s full of sand.
And I dream outside that garden gate,
I leave you now, to clean my slate.

Which Side of Time?

When I’m with you,
I feel warmth, or comfort.
I am a time bomb.
You keep me dormant.

When I’m with you,
High walls fence me in.
I am a rogue charge.
You keep me grounded.

But I love to hate those walls,
I learn to stand up tall,
And peer over,
Longing for,
The other
Side.

----------

Time,
To reconcile,
I say to the mirror.
And I summon my gall,
(whatever that really is)
And I tell you “we need to talk”.

The Words!

When it rains on my windowsill,
I cannot help but watch,
The glassy drops splatter.
Greedily, I watch their ecstasy.

Because I can’t get enough,
Of that slither-up-the-spine,
Burst of nervous bliss,
That sustains me.

And the words!
The moist, succulent plums,
And slick, pink conch depths-
Of our words. I could die.

So, I wait.
Not quite patiently,
For a time when our words,
Will reenact my raindrops.

Milk Pale

I find myself alone,
Without somewhere to be,
And I get stuck,
With these eyes,
That won’t stop crying.

They fill and fill,
So I empty them,
And they fill again,
Like a fertile cow,
Producing pail,
After pail,
Of warm milk.

Except these tears,
Aren’t comforting,
The way warm milk is.
They come because,
I’ve found myself unaided,
And I am uneasy,
Together with my psyche.

I need to be on my own,
The way the cow needs,
To release her milk,
But the tears,
Have no place here.

The cries fill my pail.
I skim off the top:
Condensed aching.
So I pasteurize my loneliness,
And swallow my tears, once more.

I want to tell him,
That I need real solitude.
But how can I explain,
That I have come unglued?

This pail keeps filling,
While I knowingly ask,
For a new set of pails,
To fill.

Aroma of Mistake

I inhale deeply the dense aroma of mistake.
It ignites my mouth, and my thirst is awake.

Like an ivy, it binds me,
I’ve been stymied.

Sweaty palms will incriminate,
As my clammy goose bumps congregate.

My conscience waits uneasily in the scale for my move.

Butterfly

Who ever heard of the butterfly,
Born purely and très naïve,
(And patterned wings so rare to come by!)
Curling back up, into the insipid brown chrysalis to die?
Never.
So…

Why do we become, that which we most hate?

Because we understand the pain, that is to desecrate.

My wings had felt the delectable breeze in every morning sky,

Until one day they shook with the weight of a thousand fractured lies.

And now I lay a crumpled thing, on a dirty floor,

With my own voice in my head,

Sadist, sicko, whore.

Boston Harbour

Black ripples,
wash against familiar granite,
worn smooth in time
with clanking halyards.

The granite seawall
remembers my heels,
banging silently
to the pulse
of my harbor.

The wind, here,
always carries away
the weight from my chest,
on a seaweed breeze.

I don't know
that behind me,
is a comatose city
that can't hear
the rigging's laughter
or taste the veritable calm,
that I cannot live without.

To Build a Hill

Today, I pulled a small, grateful ant
off the back of my tongue.

I was shocked.
I stared at my palm,
I watched little red legs wriggle franticly,
Before I swiftly flung him into the grass.

Hours later, pressed hard against the wall of my shower,
I cried.

Most days, I am the ant.
To be atomic, in an astronomic world,
Is grueling.

Not often enough,
Do we build our own hill,
But wait to be pulled,
From off the back of a tongue.