The Row

The screaming curls the hairs upon my neck.

I recognize the shout before the tears.

I, being whom I am, get up to check

to find the scene has justified my fears.

The smaller child is thrown upon the ground.

The larger one has punched him in the face.

I interfere, as lots of blood is found.

The older one I soon put in his place.

The other children gathered ’round to see

have split apart as soon as I arrive,

the perpetrator proud as he could be,

the victim grateful he is still alive.

“They’re brothers!” says my son. “Don’t stop their fight.

It’s not your job to see if they’re alright.”

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Rush

The empty corridor awaits the rush,

still basking in its momentary peace,

serene, immersed in solitary hush,

that pregnant pause which grew until obese.

The door swings on its loudly creaking hinge,

all silence swallowed shockingly at once,

definitively shattering my binge,

the first to break the solitude in months.

Activity awakens deep inside,

relentlessly withstanding all the noise,

exposing what defiance failed to hide,

illuminating all as love deploys.

My heart is now an open book at last,

relinquishing resistance to the past.

Solace

How long have I been tensing both my shoulders to my ears,

taking my frustration out on everyone around?

It seems like it’s been going on for six or seven years.

Now the solace lost so long has once again been found.

 Breathing comes so easily, beloved peace at last,

never looking back behind me; I know this is real.

Now I’m certain struggles fought remain far in the past,

giving my existence an enlightened, weightless feel.

You Tell Me Now?!?

You’re telling me this now instead of back then?!?

I wish I’d known while unattached.

I promise, if I’d been aware way back when,

the sauciest plots would have hatched!

I didn’t think you had an interest in me.

You’d played it like you were so cool.

I’d love to seduce you; I’m no longer free.

Our one chance was back in high school.

We wouldn’t have married. We’d split in the end.

But, wow … all the mem’ries we’d have …

instead, you remained in the box I’d marked “friend,”

a fate we both know is quite drab.

I guess I shall daydream and that will be that,

for dreaming’s the best I can do.

So I leave you now, no real tits for your tat,

still wishing that back then, I knew.

heartache

growing up, I thought the word heartache was just a metaphor

but now I know that it’s literal and not figurative

it’s not a simile “like my heart’s being smashed on the floor”

real pain burning my chest, not its descriptive derivative

hot, enervating, radiating ache which will not subside

it’s all focused where my heart is physically located

not imagery in this poem, that’s how it feels inside

heartache’s an apt description that should not be underrated

pet peeve: people using “literally” when they don’t mean it

so I want to be clear that that’s not what I am doing now

this heartache feels like it might literally kill lest it quit

everyday it’s harder to say that’s something I won’t allow

 

 

 

 

The Like Button

We need something other than “like” we can click.

At times, it just doesn’t feel right,

for often I read things that make my heart sick,

but feel not to click’s impolite.

 

Inception

The first time I saw you, I felt my heart flutter.

The first time we kissed was so sweet.

The first time you entered, I felt a deep shudder.

It all made my heart skip a beat.

The first time the sun rose with you by my side,

I memorized every detail.

The first time you shaved the chin hairs from your hide,

you proved what I liked would prevail.

The first time we parted, I felt a deep pang:

the long stretch I had to endure.

The first time you came back, to that door I sprang,

your love for me my only cure.

All these years later, it still feels the same.

I pine for you when you’re not near.

I give myself to you, I take on your name,

and hope that my foibles endear.

Bury The Hatchet

We never will agree on the events that once took place.

By now, all we can do is start again and work from here.

Let’s both quit acting like we’re in a nuclear weapons race,

each purposely provoking, every action more severe.

There’s not a one of us who hasn’t someone else to blame,

pretending like our own mistakes are pure and innocent,

when really, in the end, our motivations were the same,

for none can claim so righteously he’s only good intent.

Let’s bury deep the hatchet and then move on with our lives.

We’ll share only the joyous and hold back our tongues in rage,

for when we look beyond, we see resilient love survives;

it still remains accessible, and pays the ideal wage.

Dinner Party

As soon as they arrive the mood is light,

strong appetites accompanying all,

the music and the table set just right.

My canapés do no less than enthrall.

They audibly appreciate the food,

“Yum-yum!”ing, “I want more!”ing, and the such,

all standing by the hors d’oeuvres like they’re glued,

all saying that they love my food so much.

The compliments don’t ever seem to end.

Each course I serve tops what could not be topped.

The flavors fuse to yield the perfect blend.

I’m Queen of All the Cooks! I can’t be stopped!

It worked with toddlers. Soon, I’ll try adults …

if only I can mimic the results!

The Lap of Luxury

I finally have folded all the clothes.

I washed the dishes and put them away.

I smothered all the bonfires that arose.

I cleaned up all the finger paint and clay.

I planned out all the meals we’ll eat this week.

I purchased the supplies they need for school.

I made the time to “play” some hide-n-seek.

I took them all for swimming at the pool.

I helped the eldest find his poster board.

I scraped the bubble gum from Boo-Boo’s hair.

I straightened out the wireless router cord.

I treated all the stains in underwear.

“You used to work before you had a kid?”

Sigh. ‘Once upon a time, I guess I did.’

Forehead Kisses

Your lips on my forehead can turn me to mush,

the upper and lower all tender and lush …

so gently against my own skin do they brush.

They instantly prompt a sensational flush

that sends my red blood cells down south in a rush,

imparting upon my pink places dark blush.

You then lay me down on a palate so plush …

  at first when you enter I suddenly shush,

then sing out elation, the way of the thrush,

allowing your magic to pierce through the hush.

I lose all control and explode in a gush,

in turn, then, inspiring romantic slush,

which measured in pounds would, upon any, crush.




The Road To Hell

The timid grey chinchilla has intent to cross the street,

considering his options far too carefully to move.

His true love stands beyond, yet he won’t animate his feet,

the pressure ever-swelling, adding something else to prove.

At last, when he is ready, traffic’s blossomed in the road.

It’s surging to and fro’ in a vertiginous display.

Anticipation mounts until he’s ready to explode,

his cowardice proliferating, much to his dismay.

His true love waits with bated breath, admiring from afar,

encouraging her quarry to come claim the prize he wants.

The Doppler promulgates the trail of every passing car,

his reticence interpreted as targeted affronts.

All day he sits and ruminates, comparing pros and cons.

He’s hoping she may come to him if he won’t go to her.

He looks up just in time to see her disaffected yawns,

his true love now retreating in a swift, indifferent blur.

“Not Me!”

I’m not quite sure who “Not me!” is, but he acts up a lot,

for when I ask, ‘Who did this?’ it’s the answer you’ve all got!

“Not me!” “Not me!” “Not me!” come your three voices, loud and clear.

You all must think I’m stupid, ’cause you all sound so sincere.

Oh, sure, it wasn’t one of you who put snails in my shoe …

that’s something that a 6 year old would never think to do.

You’re saying maybe I had left the milk outside to rot?

 “Not me!” appears to be the only patsy that you’ve got.

Perhaps it was your father who poured soda in the plant?

See, I would love to blame him, but that’s crazy, so I can’t.

I also know he’s not the one who left the water on,

or drew with my mascara until it’s completely gone.

I can’t imagine using magic marker on the cat,

or leaving a green puddle on the sofa where I sat.

The dog can’t use a doorknob, so he cannot let in flies.

He really is an animal; it’s not some great disguise.

It’s not like Grandma wets a slice of bread and puts it back.

If Grandpa ate that bacon grease, he’d have a heart attack!

Your cousins haven’t been here in at least a month or two.

Through process of elimination, it was one of you!

I’ve heard “Not me!” so much that now I’m starting to believe,

though I know it’s ridiculous … exceedingly naive.

But said with such conviction, that I’ve taught you all to use,

it’s tempting to just disregard the pile of damning clues.

I know I’ll have revenge when you three have kids of your own.

But in the meantime, I guess I must wait until you’re grown.

 

 

I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major Side Effect

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

I bring you many problems that could give your children birth defects.

I interfere with how the neural pathways in your brain connect.

I pile on top of other nasty health issues you now collect.

You don’t know if I’m symptoms of your illness or I’m indirect.

You’re worse than any time in recent history you recollect,

but need to take your medicine or your new organ you’ll reject …

so suffer through the problems that it’s caused that you cannot deflect.

If you don’t take meds everyday you’ll find you can’t get out of bed,

or possibly one day you’ll wake to find out you’re already dead!

In short, you’re feeling much worse than the last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

There’s aches and pains, a bleeding stomach, restless legs that make you cry,

edema, headaches, rashes, weird behavior, or your eyes are dry,

strong allergies that make the muscles quiver in your upper thigh.

If you don’t swallow quickly it tastes like you have ingested lye.

You know if you don’t take it you have health on which you can’t rely.

Sometimes it’s so bad you decide today you will not even try.

You take the drugs but often when it’s bad, you cannot figure why …

with all these side effects, to medicine you’d like to say goodbye.

You hope that someday you’ll be well so you no longer feel this sick.

But once you discontinue your bad health returns so lightening quick!

In short, you’re feeling much worse than the last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

Sometimes I cancel out the benefits, but you’ll put up with me.

You hear a buzzing in your ears that sounds just like a bumblebee.

To keep from falling down you’ll tolerate the shaking of your knee.

You’ll live with some results that mimic thrush or hepatitis B.

You pay a lot to feel this way. Your medicine is never free.

You’re real depressed ’cause this might be the healthiest you’ll ever be.

Your doctor says you’re doing well, though sometimes you may disagree …

and anyone who had these side effects would, but of course, agree.

I give you hunger so you’ll break your diet and gain lots of weight.

Your mirror shows you images you look at and then start to hate.

In short, you are much fatter than last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

 By now you have diseases that were caused by taking medicine.

It makes you feel just like you fight a battle you can never win.

You want to heal, but with your problems you don’t know where to begin.

You wonder why you’ve been struck down, like you’ve been punished for a sin.

The time rolls on. These days you’re not sure how long it has really been.

You curse the situations that your illnesses have put you in.

It never ends, the cycle goes on, stealing every urge to grin …

the smile you try to fake in public each day’s wearing very thin.

You wish you had a choice but you can’t stop your meds or you’ll expire.

You need these stupid chemicals. Your situation’s rather dire.

But still, you’re feeling much worse than the last time that your doctor checked.

I am the very model of a modern major side effect.

Lyrics ©2014 Bridget Ayres

Set to Gilbert & Sullivan’s “I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General”

–Public Domain–

Little Child

My little child, I’ve seen you grow so tall.

The top shelf is no match for you these days.

How times have changed from when you used to crawl!

You’re so mature  in oh so many ways.

You’re using words I have to look up now.

Your grasp of physics now surpasses mine.

You’ve learned, yourself; I need not show you how.

I wish I could reverse the march of time.

You’re old enough to make kids of your own.

Though, if you’ve listened, you won’t do it yet.

I bask in the good judgment that you’ve shown,

and hope the things I’ve taught, you won’t forget.

(And when you snap the photos that I’m in,

your height helps hide my horrid double chin!!!)

🙂

Ascendancy

Discounting its import, a grave mistake,

pretending sex won’t have impact like this;

it’s something you must tend to for the sake

of marriage and your precious wedded bliss.

If you don’t get along, you’re surely doomed,

a fundamental problem you can’t shirk.

The sex won’t be enough, as was assumed.

Both need much more to make the marriage work.

But even if you’ve roots so thick and strong,

as to remain so firmly set in place,

the problems will prevail when sex goes wrong,

and in the end, divorce is what you’ll face.

Good sex can’t save a sinking marriage ship.

Bad sex will tear an everlasting rip.

 

 

Adolescents

So, you want to be treated like adults?

Then you’d better start acting that way.

When I ask you just what you were thinking,

you have nothing (that’s lucid) to say.

“Can’t remember” because you’re “too tired?”

Then you’d better start getting some sleep,

’cause you’re going to need to think clearly ALL day

if this freedom is something you’ll keep!!!

“I forgot.” “I don’t know.” “I don’t get it.”

Well, then clearly, you’re not an adult.

Jamming your head so far up your own ass

is what yields, once again, this result.

Fool me just two times, and it’s shame on You.

But fool me three times, shame on Me.

Revoking your privileges only makes sense.

Ask again in a year and we’ll see.

 

 

 

 

To Me From You, Part II: My Favorite Machine

I am an engineer at heart, have been since I was small,

and nothing’s changed, it’s still the same, although I’m now quite tall.

I love to look within and see the way contraptions work,

to poke inside the mechanism, where its secrets lurk.

So I love learning all the parts inside that make you You.

I love to tighten properly your every bolt and screw.

I love your brainy gears that turned and made you fall for me,

all working in a way I trust, but never need to see.

All engines need to be maintained, or else they’ll fall apart.

I love to oil the valves and muscle tissues of your heart.

I love to groom my instrument and shine it up each day,

and brush the copper coils of hair your fine machine displays .

When I dismantle engine parts, I rebuild afterward.

It’s just a handy thing that I can do, ’cause I’m a nerd.

I wouldn’t want to tear your heart up. I’ll leave it intact,

the one machine whose parts I can’t replace once they have cracked.

I vow to keep you whole and give respect that you deserve,

to make sure that your love for me is something I preserve.

I’m sometimes asked which great machine I love to work on best,

which kind of  thing I’d give attention to more than the rest.

You are the best contraption one like me could ever want,

with gorgeous innards, outtards, perfect backside, top, and front.

No apparatus on this Earth intrigues me like you can,

my favorite implement to study since my world began,

for nothing’s like designing my own love affair with you,

 a work-in-progress, which, upon my death, shall not be through.

Euphonious

A symphony of word and breath and sound,

conducted by my lover’s vocal chords,

intangible, but fervently profound,

ephemeral, auricular rewards.

The oscillating sound waves reach my ears,

his exhalation warm, as is his heart,

as soon as I have heard, it disappears …

the impact will remain though we will part.

It comes to me whenever he’s away.

I close my eyes, pretend he’s here with me.

I’ve memorized, to in my head, replay

whenever he’s asleep or absentee.

There’s nothing in the world that’s quite the same

as how my precious lover calls my name.

 

adrenaline

heart racing

eyes red

throbbing center

throbbing head

toes curling

feet flexed

tension now

tension next

fists forming

blood boils

crippling fight

crippling toils

living raw

love burned

nothing gained

nothing learned

The B-Word

Young brother, now you’re talking, and you’re growing up so fast!

You haven’t been around to see what’s happened in the past.

I have some good advice I’d like to pass along to you.

It’s so you can avoid disasters Mom and I went through.

I’ll tell you right now, smarting off is not the way to go,

and lying will not work because she’s Mom, and she will know.

Just finish all your homework when your teacher gives you some,

and when it’s time for dinner and Mom calls you, wash and come.

But if you cannot handle it and mess up here or there,

the chances are, you’ll still recover. Mom is pretty fair.

And yet, there’s one mistake no kid could possibly afford:

no matter how you feel sometimes, DON’T EVER SAY YOU’RE BORED!

I promise when I’ve said it, I’ve regretted it all day.

I’ve wished so badly I could take it back, and go and play.

I swear all her suggestions when you say it are the worst!

So, carefully evaluate your other options first …

unless, that is, you’d rather clean your room and make your bed,

or organize your closet and your dresser drawers, instead.

Sometimes when I would say it, she would make me read a book,

by then, too late to say I’d give the TV one more look.

She also wants her garden raised so she won’t hurt her back …

which means it’s hard to move the dirt, and you‘ll pick up the slack.

She always needs the car cleaned out. She’s busy here, inside.

When her kids say they’re bored, Mom’s bag of horrors opens wide.

I cannot list all her solutions. I’ve lost track by now.

So fake a smile and wipe those grumpy frown-lines from your brow!

Just occupy yourself until it’s time to have a snack.

But keep in mind, if you’ve already slipped and can’t go back:

you’ll only make it worse if you should protest, pout, or whine.

So, learn from my mistakes, and you and Mom will do just fine.

Awakening

I’d like to say there’s anything I’d do,

no length to which I wouldn’t ever go,

no epic tale of woe I’d not go through,

no gesture graced with love that I’d not show.

I’ll rescue you from structures pitched with flames,

I’ll carry you at times when you can’t walk,

defend you when you when your foe unjustly blames,

and listen to you when you need to talk.

But I will not stand idly by and watch,

nor keep inside my words which bear the truth.

You’ve kicked your self-destruction up a notch;

no longer is this folly of your youth.

I’d die for you … that’s all I have to give.

But one thing I can’t do for you is live.

Poetaster

“A picture’s worth a thousand words.” I, too, believe that’s true.

I wish so badly I could paint or draw to capture you.

But I can’t draw or paint well, so I write some verse instead.

No matter how I try, so many details go unsaid.

In lieu of those, I’d use the plastic art forms if I could,

by sculpting you from clay or carving out your shape in wood,

thus catching all your nuances that still evade my song,

presenting your sweet curves I’ve been in love with for so long.

All those things above, beside, there’s still photography.

I never get the light right, though, so much one still can’t see.

They never do you justice, so it’s poetry I use.

I’ll try until I die to glorify my perfect muse.

 I’ve used a thousand words and I’ve repeated several times,

piling high upon my shelves those stacks of meager rhymes.

The proper thousand words to use stay trapped within my mind.

I hope, if I keep searching, that someday, those words I’ll find.

True Love

I love to be alone, just you and me.

You take me places I’ve not ever been.

You show me things I’d otherwise not see.

You never care what kind of mood I’m in.

You offer me your whole self, never less.

We do not play those lovers’ games or fight.

No matter how I feel, you ease my stress.

I want you in my bedroom every night.

I love the feel of you—your size and heft.

Your smell, alone, invokes the peace I need.

Sometimes I feel you’re all that I have left.

That’s why I make sure I have books to read.

You’re only more distinguished as you age.

I relish reading every single page.

Parallel

 I never said that I was more important than you are.

That’s just what your wild imagination chose to hear.

My explanations start, but you won’t let me get too far.

Please back off and let me talk. I’ll make my feelings clear.

I am no more special than another on this Earth.

That’s the first thing you should listen to and understand.

When it comes to others, I’d say I’ve an equal worth.

All I mean is that my trials and woes are just as grand.

With my plight dismissed I make a point to plead my case,

making it appear as though I think that I’m the best.

If I hadn’t had to struggle just to keep my place,

I’d remain here waiting for my turn, like all the rest.

Tabula Rasa

the debtor who’s avoided obligation comes to pay

finally the mist has cleared, evaporating fog

food caked on the dishes has dissolved and floats away

the collar engineered to shock’s been taken off the dog

the agitated whirlpools mellow into swirls, serene

the horse imbibes the water to which he’s been often led

past offenses all forgotten wipe the slate off, clean

freeing room to write another story there, instead

 

The Delay

The screeching of the tires defaced the air,

its echo blotting out the sun at first,

the crash that followed next a solar flare,

inflicting on its victims life at worst.

The acrobatic vehicle’s routine:

a horrifying double somersault,

no harnesses or god to intervene,

a graceful, irreversible assault.

Thick-skulled chimpanzees gripe; they will be late,

ungrateful they will live another day,

ignoring lessons offered them by fate,

presented in such glorious display.

I sit and count my blessings till it clears,

aware my own mortality yet nears.

The Immortal

she’s a living breathing organism pulsing

infinite stimuli always contributing

tidal waves melding harmonious convulsing

division of labor stresses distributing

the flock mentality fads cliques what’s hot today

follow the leader or maybe you become one

the vendor sets up his stall his goods on display

persisting till the horizon swallows the sun

the morphon ebbs and flows beholden to the moon

sleeping every night with one eye still open wide

repellent offerings moot the vibe changes soon

endless nesting dolls boundless potential inside

Indecorous

In certain situations … such as this …

no matter how portentous or austere,

the funeral of someone I will miss,

or moment that should fill my heart with fear,

I find that what I want to do is smile,

then burst into a violent giggle-fit,

the kind that sends me rolling in the aisle,

complete with tears and toots and flying spit.

I know that it is wrong, but I can’t stop.

I’m sure that I offend all within range–

this woman laughing so hard she might pop.

I know that my reaction must seem strange.

I’m sorry that your member made me laugh.

True justice could be served with merely half.

Unpolished

I saw you in the mirror just today.

You’d love the way the curls surround your face.

You wished you had my hair, you’d always say.

You do, your countenance now set in place.

 I came across an article last week.

A fascinating study had been done.

I quoted some statistics, like a geek;

your legacy is not to be outrun.

Engrossed in my beloved TV shows,

I’m caught off guard: I hear you laugh out loud,

for ev’ryday my laugh, more like yours, grows …

so many traits of yours I’ve been endowed.

Elusive still, your wisdom’s what I seek.

I haven’t quite yet mastered your technique.

 

 

 

I Had It Coming …

“Dear Mrs.,

     I am going,” said the note left by my couch.

“You suffocate me all day long. I’ve got to get away.

Throw pillows didn’t care to leave; for them I’ll no more vouch.

                                      Farewell,

                                           ~from your (old) Couch

P.S. I’ve something else to say.

Your sneakers up and left last week. They both made up their mind.

They feel so useless here, they’re gonna find some other feet.

You didn’t even notice. You just sit on your behind.

They waited till they had their chance and beat a fast retreat.

Your microwave is overworked. I’d watch out for him, too.

You’re stretching out your underwear. They hate it … so you know.

                                      And finally I leave you,

                                           ~Syonara! Bye! Adieu!

P.P.S. When  the others leave, just think: I told you so.”

Rain Dance

I love to spend my rainy days with you,

a good excuse to stay at home all day,

the freedom to do what we want to do.

Next time, there is a game I want to play.

I’ll drag you to the backyard and we’ll laugh.

Then, once we’re fully drenched, we’ll run inside.

We’ll grab a bottle, so we’ll each get half,

and lay down even though we’re neither dried.

We’ll both pretend we’re back in gay Paris

returning from our river dinner cruise,

so tickled our Parisian wine was free,

with soaking hair and soaking clothes and shoes …

then make love like we’re still in that hotel.

Instead, exhausted, fast asleep we fell.

possession

losing grip like an icicle melting in the sun

crashing down, striking man rather than hitting the ground

a surprise, the ancient asteroid, crack of a gun

splitting flesh, tearing what did not belong to him down

 havoc wreaked, spoiling ruins strewn about, a shipwreck

waning yelp, the lion mangled his voice with that roar

turning red, the scarf blazed an autograph on the neck

termination. absence of fodder for an encore

Opportunity

abandoning corporeal restraints

discovering your perfect chance to fly

no longer subject to the pain that taints

autonomy in infinite supply

absorbing new sensations full of ease

rejoicing as you’ll never fear again

unlocked now are the chains of your disease

no bleeding like a ruptured fountain pen

eluding facts of crime and war and hate

no challenge scaling rubble or steep scree

ascending high above embracing fate

examples you set writ on my marquis

all enemies are vanquished and dissolve

as far beyond mere humans you evolve

Mean Mister Blues

rhymaphilia

Mean Mister Blues pitched a tent in my shoes

last night as I did sleep.

Now in my womb, he made it my tomb.

He came for emotions to reap.

I’d try to fight to keep light in my life

but that result wouldn’t come cheap.

The windows unlocked, I just couldn’t act shocked,

and over the sills poison seeped.

I would scream out but that’d give him no doubt

and he’d find me before I could go.

Gnashing my teeth with such pain underneath,

that could only set Blues’ heart aglow.

If I lie still and give up my free will,

the tortures I might undergo

would leave me a shell while my pain is excelled

until agony’s all that I know.

Trapped in my mind with so much undefined…

it’s my happiness I will forsake.

I let him come and consume till I’m numb,

stoking his fires with…

View original post 32 more words

Clueless

 How dare you disobey by skipping town!

How dare you threaten suicide this week!

As far as jerkwads go, you take the crown!

I’m so damned mad, I almost cannot speak.

Who told you you could act like you’re a star?

Who told you those were okay things to say?

Who told you you could go and steal a car …

who taught you how to do that, anyway???

So figure out a way to get back home.

And come up with a good excuse (this time).

That ego that you’re using’s just a loan,

with which you perpetrate outrageous crimes.

I’ve never met a man as cheap as you.

I can’t believe the liberties you took.

When I say I’m surprised, it’s ’cause it’s true–

This wasn’t in the outline of my book.

 

Acid Rain

The tension flows freely and fills up the room,

condensing like dark clouds that bully the sky,

with clustering pustules that fester and bloom …

those unanswered questions about how and why.

Expanding balloons grow enormous and pop,

broadcasting a mist over all in their wake,

refusing to wilt, as their poison, they drop,

corroding facades, and exposing the fake.

Acidic remarks lash harsh stripes on the wall …

transmogrify love into caustic defeat.

They crush good intentions to dust where they fall,

ensuring destruction is swift and complete.

Stripes become solids, their coverage increasing.

Resentments pile high, exponential in growth.

Permanent statements– they live without ceasing–

obliterate all that was precious to both.

Unearthed

I constantly discover whom I am,

each new experience, a catalyst,

a psychoanalytic self-exam …

an invitation I just can’t resist.

 I learned, one year, that both my thumbs are green,

that horseradish and mustard stole my heart,

that I’d maintain an exercise regime,

that really, it is not too late to start.

But other things, I didn’t want to know,

like how harsh I can be when it gets tough,

that things I’d hoped were always, I’d outgrow,

that sometimes, words would never be enough.

 It’s tempting, to avoid perceiving more,

to skulk back in my cave and latch the door.

By The Gate

We stood there waiting for our boarding call,

the flight before not fully deplaned yet,

when something happened that would make me bawl,

a moment that I never will forget.

We heard the thick applause from near the gate.

It spread, all heads directed toward its source.

Six soldiers marched, returning from Kuwait,

their uniforms: Untied States Air Force.

A little girl stepped up, who’s maybe five,

and all at once a hush fell on the crowd.

She said, “Please Sir, my daddy’s not alive.”

And down to her, the gentle soldier bowed.

“Can I please have a hug before you go?

You look like him. I miss him really bad.

I wish he could be here to see me grow,

and with a hug, I wouldn’t be so sad.”

No eye within the crowded gate was dry.

The soldier swooped her up and held her tight,

as even he, too, would begin to cry,

along with all the men who fought the fight.

Saluting to the mother and the girl,

the soldiers left our gate with hard-earned tears,

the men who fought for freedom ’round the world,

immersed in grateful, patriotic cheers.

Before the men would disappear from sight,

they turned to find the girl and give a wave,

a gesture that would fill her with new light,

which she returned in kind back to the brave.

The Inevitable

Again, this May, I gained another year.

An extra inch or three are on my waist.

The lines upon my brow grow more severe.

My keys and purse are constantly misplaced.

I have to have these bifocals to see.

My sunglasses near cover my whole face.

At times, when I am tickled, I will pee.

I always carry safety pins, in case ….

Just yesterday I found a hair that’s gray.

I value having comfy underwear.

  Those memories I’ve cherished fade each day …

if there’s an app for that, I’m unaware.

I wish  I could remain composed and calm.

The problem is, I’ve realized I’m my mom.

Freeze Frame

I’ve never seen you look so sexy as you do right now,

your sweet blond locks combed back with not one hair that’s out of place,

the signs of effort showing in the lines that grace your brow,

the sideways glance that’s hinting at the smile upon your face.

The muscles in your arms are taut, and ripple as you flex,

as they would do if anyone would use them as you are.

The light from o’er your head has caught your eyes’ soft hazel flecks,

illuminating, on your cheek, your fifth grade gym class scar.

If I could freeze this moment, I’d relive it everyday.

I’d take it out and cheer myself if I am feeling blue.

Of all the special characters that you, at times, portray,

the one that washes dishes makes me want to say, ‘I do.’

Spontaneous Combustion

Without a warning, I can feel my heart explode in flames.

The tendrils curl and lap, consuming all its bitter juice,

incinerating ancient scars incised by lovers’ games,

extinguishing emotions that were never any use.

As lipids, dense, and rife with fuel, will burn and smoke so long,

my heart continues smoldering each day and every night.

But if enduring heat like this will make me brave and strong,

I’ll stem this conflagration raging on, no end in sight.

Asking For Help

askingforhelp1

Asking for help can be harder than not,

because both cause a pain that is real.

I hate to admit this is all that I’ve got,

and that this is the best I might feel.

askingforhelp2

I’m a young woman and shouldn’t need help

since most strangers assume that I’m fine.

I feel like a dog squeezing out a sad yelp

’cause I realized this body’s now mine.

askingforhelp3

At once, overnight, I became old and weak,

so I didn’t have time to adjust.

Suddenly, I couldn’t chew food, see, or speak,

and into Sick’s midst I was thrust.

askingforhelp4

 A placard at 19: admitting defeat!!!

It’s a thing I was so loathe to do.

I’m now twice that age, and perspective, my seat,

as I look back on what I went through.

askingforhelp5

I so wish that back then, I’d let ego go.

I wish I’d not cared what they thought.

I wish I knew then what I’ve since come to know

and the truth that the future has brought.

askingforhelp8

It’s not a character flaw to be sickly.

It’s okay to ask for a hand.

I’ll get there eventually, slowly or quickly.

Who cares if the world understands?

askingforhelp6

Sometimes I’m weak and I need extra time,

and sometimes I park by the door.

Sometimes I can’t talk, and it’s not a crime,

and some days, just to eat, is a chore.

askingforhelp7

But here, from my seat, in this tower of age,

with the wisdom I’d hoped would shed light,

I see the intensity’s not been assuaged.

Still, to make myself ask, is a fight.

Mating Rituals

You see the bowerbird collecting trinkets to adorn

his bachelor pad so he’ll attract a mate?

He only picks blue glass and wrappers, ribbons that are torn,

arranges them obsessively, then waits.

Now look at tall giraffes, who have some curious foreplay.

A male will smell her urine, have a taste.

If he detects she’s ready, it’s a go for them today.

He then proceeds to mount her with due haste.

My human male, anticipating intercourse tonight,

prepares, like any species on the prowl.

With music playing he will get the ambiance just right,

complete with Kleenex, candle, and a towel.

All Those Things We Never Said

Let’s say all those things we never said.

Let’s sit down and talk until we’re done.

Let’s rewrite our history instead.

Let’s pretend our lives have just begun.

All those things we never said are here,

all those things we owe the other’s heart.

All those things we held back are so clear.

All those things demand that we re-start.

Let’s carve out new paths that intersect.

Let’s embark on journeys as a pair.

Let’s embrace those feelings we neglect.

Let’s no longer hide the love we share.

When We Kiss

I so love the way you still look at me when we two kiss,

’cause each time we do, there’s a wonder alive in your eyes,

as though no lips brushing on yours ever felt quite like this,

as though I intoxicate, giving you fabulous highs.

I think of a child with his presents when Christmas time comes,

your face lit, so grateful to find, such a treasure, you own.

The whole cake is not what you run for; you relish the crumbs,

like tasting my kiss is the greatest one pleasure you’ve known.

It makes me so tickled to know my lips bring you such joy,

that they are the cause of the grin you display on your face,

which shines through your manliness, showing your sweet little boy

who’s spent all his life searching for my warm kiss and embrace.

Home, Sweet Home

homesweethome1

There’s nothing like returning home when I’ve been far away …

no, nothing quite as comforting as that.

I breathe in those familiar scents. In dark, I know my way.

I relish being where I hang my hat.

homesweethome2

My mattress isn’t perfect but I welcome every lump.

I know what to expect when I sleep there.

I never need good posture; I can slouch and droop and slump,

and check my email in my underwear.

homesweethome3

I need not amble through the lobby if I want to eat,

I make my own food and it tastes just fine.

I go about my business with no shoes upon my feet,

ecstatic to be in this place that’s mine.

homesweethome4

When I must leave here on my way to do this thing or that,

if I could pack and take my house, I would,

complete with driveway, mailbox, and of course, my welcome mat.

I’d even bring my quiet neighborhood.

homesweethome5

But it might be a good thing I can’t bring that stuff along,

that I must go without things I adore …

for being far away from them, and not where I belong,

just means I, then, appreciate things more.

Splat

goats-173940_640

*picture courtesy of PeterDargatz on pixabay.com

I’ve never observed you before with that look in your eyes,

your hair at attention, the veins bulging thick on your neck.

It took me a minute to comprehend, for me to realize

that you threw the punch that had put him face-down on the deck!

I promise you we were just talking; it’s not how it looked.

But still, it’s a compliment, you so protective and stressed.

I know that if he’d laid a finger, his goose would be cooked.

You sure made your point. He’s aware it’s for you that I’m dressed.

I’ve never before had a man start a fight for my hand,

and now that one has, there’s no need to repeat all this fuss.

You let me know that when it counts, my man will take a stand

and fight to ensure we two live our lives out as an “us.”

Scentsational Escapes

roses-194490_150lavender-275109_150

There are many reasons that a garden’s worth my while,

several ways to use a bright bouquet.

When I need some R&R, I like to bathe in style,

with petals in a colorful array.

I tear off stalks of lavender to beautify my tub.

I prune some fragrant roses still in bloom.

I gather up some blossoms from my charming fuchsia shrub,

and crush all to release intense perfume.

Just a snip of spearmint to temper all that sweet,

water warm, enticing, steeped with peace,

I lean back and inhale their scent, immersed from neck to feet,

basking in my quiet, spiced release.

*images courtesy of dhomi and robert102 of pixabay.com, respectively

 

Colonel Beauregard Bojangles

100_7315

I love my big, fat Ragdoll cat, named Beau.

His fur is gorgeous shades of crème and flame.

By far he is the softest cat I know.

His countenance is referenced by his name.

aa1

 He tops the scale at 19.5 pounds.

Stretched paw to tail, in inches, thirty-eight.

When Beau is brushed, he makes a trilling sound.

His waddle is the most endearing gait.

aa3

 A cranky boy, he speaks up when first touched.

From his great effort, when he jumps, he grunts.

A Ragdoll, Beau will dangle when he’s clutched,

but turns into a beast each time he hunts.

aa5

 He loves to have his big ol’ belly rubbed.

We do it all the time so he’ll feel loved.

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