Broken Pleas

Lord, hallowed be your name. Merciful / Lord
                                of reconciliation, hear my / poem as prayer; these broken
pleas in lines,
Lord; /                                        
                                                                             metronomic musings,
unmusical, / heavy with fear.  Lord, hear not my
                                       numb speech /
                                                                                                      but the token−
                                 the meaning.                                                            Take
away / the hindrance of self−
                                the sense of− and leave / with me a greater sense
of your presence; / Your spirit within revealing signs,
                                                                             sight / restored
                                                                       and light.  Within this rare shining, /
shine through
the gift of losing self to You. / This vital understanding
awakened / only in sheets of grace poured out and down /
                                and seen in strips of visibility, / so release me of all pride,
                                                         generate / humility and create connection /
                                                          so I might dine with you in communion /
drink from goblet
                                                                                              of signification /
                                                                                             my sins forgiven
by sipping tipped back / offering and again in harmony / I pray Thy kingdom
come, Thy will be done…. /
                                       Amen.

The Sunday Whirl
                                                                                                          

Surrender

So, I drip sap for you.
Wrangle
words.
You are my vice.
You are mine.
I have given
up the fight, tired
of pretending
there's anything
                    I want
to write about but
you.

dverse

Struck by Lightning

Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity. – Joseph Addison

What if I want to write another poem
on love?  Would that be alright?  Would I need
to apologize?  Last night, the rain fell
just when we were thirstiest, and
as I held you, I listened to the whack
of water smacking against the window.
I watched the drops stain the glass, the blowing
thin-twigged bush outside our bedroom that I've
paid more attention to of late, greeting
it when I wake in the mornings, its gold
buds barely visible except in light
of sun rising.  I am trying, lately,
to form new habits, to notice the small
beauties that surround me and to practice
gratitude.  So, last night when the storm came
I remembered that you love my touch, that
the way my fingers skim your back sends chills
so I traced the outlines of your tattoos
again and then attempted to recall
if I’d ever had an experience
like this− if I've made love to the background
sound of thunder and rain pelting louder
than the music playing to set the mood
and if I have, I can’t now remember
so even though I knew I left my books
outside in danger, I stalled, centering
in the moment, hallowed by our presence
and our choice to still and to acknowledge
that inside love there is something holy
to be revealed so even beckoned by
the worry for my words, surely soaked by
now, I waited until I felt the beat
of your heart slow down.  We unfolded
bodies, redressed and walked out into
the rain, letting the cold drops pelt our skin
welcoming the blasts of wind because in
the desert, we’re parched and storms are something
of a thrill, but still, after rescuing
the abandoned books, we sought safety in
the car, enthralled like children, saying, “Did
you see that one?” whenever lightening flashed,
hunting the sky with eagle eyes for streaks
so as not to miss one and I wished for
a moon roof because they seemed to strike right
above us and you said you could under-
stand how people could want to chase storms and
I nodded and said I understood why
kids and dogs are so afraid of thunder-
storms because even inside the bubble
of the car, the sky lit, at times, so bright
and there seemed to be no seconds between
that and the thunder that I couldn’t help
imagining what it must be like when
one is struck by lightning so I dabbled
in the fancy of our house on fire
even once we’d fallen back into bed
but then I remembered that once before
I’d been struck by lightning – it was when we
first made love, so I settled down against
your warmth in the hollow of the blankets,
fulfilled and remembered that nothing bad
had ever come from entering the storm.

The Sunday Whirl

Framing

This is a man

This is a woman

this is a man-

in theory,
     he is more than a boy

this is a woman – in theory
sometimes,
she feels, still
like a girl

this man is metal –
     solid, shining

this woman is medley of lustrous facets
polymorphic

this is a man with two children

this is a woman with four children

this is a man with two children- both
boys  this is a woman with four children-
one boy, three girls – respectively

the children all - bright boundless blend

this is a man in love with a woman-
     a woman in love with a man
this is their second go round
this is optimism   this is a beginning-
again

this is family – this alloy,
crystallized into solidity

this is life – these days 

this is an awful
lot of children  a lot of mouths to feed

this is a man trying – heroically 
respectably, day after day
to bring home the proverbial bacon 
a man who found some of what he wanted
and knows there is always more to want

this is a man
more castellan than king

this is a woman trying  this is a woman
this is a writer this is a mother  this is a stepmother 
scratch  mother  this is a wife  a bride  a teacher 
this is a woman trying   trying to be an optimist

this is their house 
a house with six children inside
almost always
almost always
there  almost always moving  talking 
eating  playing  learning 

in all directions      nonstop 
out of house and home  loudly
at the table
on the floor  gathered round

this woman sometimes
feels like the old woman
who lived in a shoe

this is the man and woman’s life joined
until they die  they pray  united 

this is their dandelion house – full
and fat with promise  this is their house
held up carefully  gingerly  with the understanding
that when grown  children swirl away pulled
by their own winds

but this house for now is full and clothed
in children  bedecked in toys  this noise
is its constant din:  the cries; the laughter;
the pleas and bedtime prayers, the stories; songs;
the lessons; the feet running across the tile;
the dirty hands smacking prints across the walls

these children are still forming

this man has been made steel
                                   day after day
heroically, trying

this is a woman trying
hard to stay soft

This is a life
This is their life
This is the life

This is their story, unfolding

This is a woman unfolding stories
in a house full of children-
three boys, three girls,
their individual stories

This is the swinging pendulum of time
and this is now

Friday

In this one-eyed, starless night,
     the moon glows lonely,
casting shadow
on the skeleton trees,
their limbs outstretched.
The night birds
gather
and with crooning
song, profess
that this dark is new.
Whatever
soft, white light
of orb exists
creates
an eerie mood.
He cannot sleep. 
The gloating crow replays
inside his
mind to remind
of his betrayal
and too, his
own words-
the declaration,
“I will not
deny you.” 
He weeps. 
He cannot sleep-
the night before
he could not
stay awake.
He replays words: 
the blessing over
broken bread,
the wine they drank,
and the blood
shed. 
Then the scenes
replay: the soldiers
coming, the kiss,
the scandal,
the swords raised,
Jesus seized.

Will the sun rise at all tomorrow?  She cannot tell.  She has not slept. 
        The light of her entire world is gone. Stolen. 
        Her strength is gone.
Her tears dried. 
Her body numb. 
Ringing in her ears, the mocking. The cries of the vicious crowd – “King of Jews.” 
His cries.  She shudders,
tries to block the sight
of his flesh, lashed, the nails in
his hands and feet,
the spear that pierced his side. 
Her head
aches
where they placed the crown of thorns upon her son.
These visions, etched like every word he spoke, these visions.
She recalls his birth, the indignant voices of those who cursed
her choice but rocks now the memory of her infant son,
hope mirrored in innocence’s eyes.

It is Friday. 
We are millennia
away. 
The sun knows not to shine,
though any other day,
 I’d think it just forgot.

This Friday, the sun remembers,
hides and her concealment
hurts our eyes. 
The clouds
keep her secret, patch the sky. 

I read the words of Matthew
to the children, the story of the lamb,
slain; I tell them that this day
is christened good.  I begin

with The Last Supper
and begin to weep when
the crowd chooses Jesus. 
I hear the scoffing jeers. 
I see him carrying the cross

and I cry because I know him
as a friend and because he is a friend
I’ve never known.   Because as a child
I dreamed of him and so they crucify a man
I’ve seen- a man I love.

My body tingles and I’m reminded of my betrayal. 
I know the son will rise- that Sunday’s coming but today I cry.

The Blue

The night sky is different tonight- the blue more royal,
so the clouds more white,
so low and so full
that only space
of blue is showing
and looking up,
               it’s like looking down,
like the swollen clouds
are land
and the sapphire sky is sea
and the sea is breaking- the space widens
and I, grounded, am privileged
with an upside down somehow,
birdlike view of the show.
My face is lifted. 
I can’t help but watch, to try
and memorize
the heavens. 
It is on these rare nights
that I can most envision
The Second Coming.
The moon is full and brilliant,
but the clouds
tonight are uninhibited
and operating under
full spectrum command,
stealing glory.
The moon’s role, it seems, to showcase
the slow-fast movement
of those low snow-light clouds.
The sky is layered. 
Beyond
and more and more
beyond. 
Clouds at base,
moon and heat
of stars at height
of vault above.
The moon at first, imbound ,
glows brightly even through
and the clouds pass over, cover, pass
over, cover, hiding,
whispering, washing, shining
until at last the moon
released, seems to fall down the sky
      as the clouds rise,
stretch out wispy,
wistful fingers as if still trying
       to grasp the beauty
of the orb.
I marvel at the feat
and later try
to name that blue: Azure,
Indigo.  More specifically: 
Berlin, Midnight, Navy, Prussian
or Parisian.
Some poet could, I think,
should name that blue
and write
a poem about the blue, its shade,
                      the clouds, the moon,
and how it fell.

Arid

cacti
clothe this arid terrain,
       this sapless, sepia soil.
night comforts,
relieves, then rested sun rises
again to torment.
the air smells
sharply
of carnage and ruin.
tongues of insects
are calling out in need
of rain.
tiny reptile
toes
scurry across sand, searching
shade.
overheard, in sky,
overhead,
in adagio chirping, creatures
                         singing
a torrent tango.

Disjointed

Disjointed but
    Still
    somewhat content

Yet, there will exist in transit
A preferred belief, as seen
    In combat

                     Together, added,
Wed, stayed, confined
In telling circle-prayer

Then out of confessing mouths
Of babes- a disconnection
Vocalized in whatever feeble attempt

To connect
These critical dots-
How it is now with

How it was then and no prefigurement
Can belie inside a forming mind
                     Still clasped tight

In fervency this held,
Preferred belief. 
The smallness

Of the exclamation
And expression
                 still
                 sharp and wounding.
They could be mine,

For, already, elements
Show forth, in digging,

Of a familiar type
Of thaumaturgic thinking.

Already perfume
Of a false relief wafts
To tease
the air

With an invisible,
Presiding fragrance
And even

Unexpected
                    Delight
Cannot

Prove true outside
Of what any heart

Would naturally
Want. 
Cannot presume

To mend the unrent determination
  Of how it ought to be;
  What was meant

To be. Later,
Even doubt found in chilling
Waves of truth,

Expositions
Of transgressions

Will be secondary to
                                 The firm dependence

On the poet-like impression
That to relive or re-survive

One’s childhood would or could
Be worthwhile- this, they
Will rock themselves

To sleep with.  Now,
The whole is still
Hidden

By an, as of yet,
Unrealized

Reality
and though
the storm
Is behind the bend it seems

The answer
To the thirst

Of soul-drought.  Daring, this desire
                                In fruitless romance-trifle,
dancing
Ever dangerously

With denial
But  forspoken bone-bonds
Are never broken.

Yes, every boy
Is born with savior-complex

Builds a fort of this, presuming
Every girl in wait, singing

Calls from some faraway window
So transferring the need

The mother is transfigured
And this woman resumes
Her place on knees,

Releases, dies to self, 
And thus receives.

So Grateful

SO GRATEFUL

I pretty much have to fake it,
                            act like
                                   I’m not
                                          new-
because I’m not.
Remind myself that far fewer
people are looking at me
than I think.  Like take the total amount
and then minus all.
And then uncross my arms.
                                          Relax.
And there’s this girl sitting next to me
with her arms crossed, looking
straight ahead, awkward, in a loose-fitting,
pink and black, pin-striped business suit 
and I feel like I should introduce myself,
but instead, I,
too, stare straight ahead while
trying
simultaneously to fake ease
and then, I’m so grateful
that the meeting’s starting
because that means no one else will come up
and hug me.
And now I’m listening and nodding.  Uncover,
                                    discover,
                                    discard,
the speaker says.
I need to remember that.  I also need to know
what to uncover.
After the meeting, I forget
how to act confident,
and leave right away.
I’m tired but I have to think.  Uncover
             discover,
             discard.
So, I drive to Karen’s house and then I’m sitting
cross-legged on her couch eating
eggplant parmesan, disclosing
so uncovering
             all the bullshit.
                                    I find out I’ve been blind
                                    to my own dishonesty-
as usual.  And she suggests
prayer cards
and even writes them up for me
while I eat.
She reminds me to bring God
into every aspect. 
Before I leave, she asks me if I’ve read The Artist’s Way
and also says she’ll text me the name
of the Carl Jung book
she told me about and I say thank you
and ask
if there’s any
writing assignment
I can maybe do to figure this all out
and she says no – I do enough of that
and she doesn’t mean writing, like this-
but enough thinking – analyzing.
She says, go like this, and she holds both arms
out wide, and pause.  And, she adds,
if you’re going to write, write with your left hand-
about anything.
I pre-pray
all the way home
without the cards
and stuff just starts
                     falling off
and I am lightening
but
     then I tighten again
     and repeat everything
over and over
so I can remember
what I’m figuring out
and then
I remember to put my arms out
                                           and just let go
                                           and take in
and so because I’m driving
I just put one arm out but it works and I hear
my own trio-phrase- an original
or probably God made it up:
                               See. Accept.  Do.  See.  Accept.  Do.
And I think I can remember that.

Slippery

I can barely name it.
It's hard to own.
Peculiar. Slippery.
So...she?
Me?  I don't know.

I am where I want
to be
but I don't know
how I got here.  Or
how I'm standing.
You are just
    outside the door,
almost perfect as far
as I can see but I
don't know why
you're there-
or here.
Because in another
life, I didn't know
you, could not have
made you up.
And I woke up from
a dream I thought
was life and there or
here you were.  Real.
Tangible.  Soft
weighted as snow
and warm
but when I touch you,
               I'm not sure
               I exist.
Because my existence
depended, always, on
            someone
                        else.
Someone I made up.
Someone I couldn't
touch. So, I've lost
time somehow, though
the facts are in.
Point A to Point B
    is written plain.
My fingers follow,
trace the
lines or path and
  I understand
  some girl
I suppose is me
must have traveled
logically from a to
b
but
the numbers mix with
letters and years with
days and time with
lapse and though
it doesn't rhyme I
still can't read it
easily.

So, I have to pinch
myself to see if I
am real but my
skin is numb in
certain places in
certain moments.

It's like, what if God
              was dead,
which is a shit
                analogy
but as close as I
can come to naming
what I can not name.

It's like any belief
disproved.  Like a
whole body transplant.
Like a story
within a story within
           a story,
           a twist-ending
so seemingly
out of nowhere,
you're just pissed off,
shaking your head,
                   rewinding.

But
     the rewind button
     is broken.
Or he was broken.
I was broken.
And I think I might
               now be
               whole
if I
knew for sure that I
       was real.

Your love seems to
touch my velveteen
and your belief is
strong- maybe,
          magic.

So, just stay
until my sense of
feel
comes back.
Wait till
I can grasp it, hold
it, skin it.
Till it dies and I
come back to life.


                         
                     
                           

Lectulus

In creating, the only hard thing's to begin...
                                                         -James Russell Lowell


You are Adam
        and
I am Eve,
pre-fall
         and so
vigil held in
pre-nostalgia
waned with wick of wariness,
lessening into daybreak's risk,
and light rising, I signed
             the words, I love you,
then spoke them plain
        saying all I never thought
              I would.
Because lathered in your
before and after
kisses,
        somehow
                        what once gushed
syrupy
seems now likely.

So, here I am, in the wiggle room
  of luck,
believing in the blessing,
            given
           not
by choice or virtue,
but won
by fight,
and the danger of practicality,
looming just above-
        ever easing.

I offer to wisdom all previous
grieving,
repossess
    the wonder.
There is suffering
            still to steer,
              I'm sure,
but together
we
row rapids
  of redemption,
        each wave of what
once was
            and
reaching
            graveyard of the end
                             of what
                                  was once
before,
we'll dig up vision's
bones,
breathe bloom
into the stilted mouths of
                         mocking cynics.
We will
           laugh at sighs and stretching
                         silence,
because now,
voice,
legitimized,
and artificial phrases,
yes, sublimest art.
More is more, and I will serve you
happily
       in return for heart,
because you never gave up
                    chase,
                        and catching me,
you held me long in hidden gap,
wove, like craft, a frame of healing,
waited out derangement
            of my feverish cries
                                              and I
survived.

So, now I give my life to you,
                        my love,
undo
softly, gently,
    false covering of figs,
      abandon fear.
I spill more sumptuous
                           than the fruit
                                              I
tempted with, and ask forgiveness.

Press hard your hips to mine,
                  your lips to mine,
and know the way
by memorizing feel of features.
Know me in the dark and light,
                in the cycles
of our hours,
our habits of formation.
Hear me
in our modern.
In
my notes
            slipped into sack lunch
vows I've never uttered.
Keep them close
as you do my body
in between the sheets
         in early morning
segue.
Taste like lasting taffy,
the sweetness of my thoughts,
        watch my fingers spell
                         in lieu of
                             lines
the pretty gathering of sonnets
                  and regard attempts,
however lowly, to call you home.
Eat with me newly granted
knowledge,
and when spent from toil,
return
   to Eden's bed.

The Sunday Whirl

                                         
           

Punctuates

The rain first falls wishful,
                       wanting more.
More than the sidewalk,
more than the gutter, more than the elementary
school blacktop
empty now of lanky players.

It falls wistful
        like
      a grandmother breathing,
                       yearning
    for marshes; dry, praying
                               prairies;
forgotten ghost town
forests.

Lacking these,
              the rain jockeys
for attention, pounds
              the storm
              takes the city siege,
                     sends drops down
in droves,
     driving citizens toward safety.
     
People rush awkwardly for cover;
            hurrying
though careful of the slippery pavement,
and the brimming puddles.

The murky morning,
warning enough for fools,
clouds
constructing mood,
          though most paid no mind, ignored
the smattering, rolling roars,
distant but close enough to hear.

Now the rain grows into rhythm,
                                               heckling
with her timing and her beat
                       all
unlucky souls huddled under quagmire
and awnings.
A few brave pedestrians
with their umbrellas and their purpose
march on through the magic
         happening
between the cracks
      where the soil silkens.

The people
befuddled by the weather
though it has run for eons on such
cyclical
                   systems.
The people with their gear, lamenting
frizzing hair
like moisture is akin to electric shock.
The writers
            isolating in their safe house
coffee shops, penning sulky
           stories,
adding for affect a necessary storm,
like their minds
are individual nations unsurpassed
and can only thrive at selective span
and far away from others.
The people feigning casualty
walking slow like they don't care.
The stuffy, puffy business folk
                  peeking out
                            bespattered
windowpanes,
huffing, checking watches,
                                  wondering
if they can still make lunches.
And just across the downtown street
                    of the high rise buildings
                                          sit the sleazy bars
where patrons come rain or shine.
Some weathering the deluge
just to get their whisky, rum, their gin.
The rain
       respects this - at least they thirst.
Their counterparts across the way only know
                                    of hunger
and not a thing of pain.

The rain ceases razor pelt, falls short
        and punctuates.

The Sunday Whirl

Tenuto

Hold this note long.  Play it loud
to sound out
reverberation of the past.
Win me over.
I have
                tripped over my own heart and now the knees of my desire, skinned and bleeding.
Your balm
just
                                     might do the trick.
                                         I have been a slave
to the faulty
           fatuous
mirror of love; returned vacant stare with vacant stare,
                     emptied of all I thought I knew,
fawned foolishly
                                    over a man that was not real.
Cheated myself out
                          of every hope.
                                                    Now,
like a
baby mouthing everything,
                    I want
                             to taste -
                             to
feel,
again.
You've proved persistent,
                 unremitting, held out, priming,
                                                    prodding, kept calm in the fever pitch peak of all my fear.
Still,
I want to
  test
your durability-
your lung capacity.
                 Can you survive the swell of my uncertainty; decode my
                 cryptic messages, balance the act between
                             my cleanest meanings and
                                      all attempts at
sabotage?
Will you break if I drop you?
Can you keep me coming back for more?  
Will you lunge
through my limits, veer past my inhibitions,
                                               plunge into waters
deep to save me from
grip of misandry's tentacles?
How long will your promises last?
                        Your garden grow?
                                   Are your vows perennial?

I am sectioned off.
Head,
                                                                                                               heart
and soul.
Can you piece my roving instincts back together?
Create
collage from the amalgam of my inclinations?
                                                     I want a
lot and I need still more.  I have
                                             hues you've never seen
but they
are fading
      fast, trapped
between the black and white drone of dying words.
                                                 Revive me.  Change my thinking.
Show me the strength of your hands.
                                                   Are they tender
                                                   and able?
Can they cradle my undertones, read me like braille?
I have mimed what I should have spoken,
                                   signed consent for you to see
but perhaps the least I could have done was whisper.
                  See, my veneer of
                                    nonchalance is chipping and
                                                         I have nothing
up my sleeve.  I've learned that I'm a novice
                                  and you, an avant garde paramour.
                                         You are ravishing in your
lavishing and I am empty handed, fad worn
  and tattered,
         trying not to
balk at new attire.
Be patient
  as I hone my skills
    so I can play along.  My tongue is dry from thrush
                             of falsehood
 but my fingers work just fine
and I think
                                  I'll find I'm capable of ceding.  I ache like any
                                                 mother and can listen
                                                                           like a friend, so creep like ivy up these bricks I've
                                                                                                                                          built to keep you out.
  Outsmart
           me, baby.  I am close to yielding but
                                                                need you to be nimble,
prompt,
because I am running out
   of time.  I am aging
                    and
so
somewhat haughty; huffy,
                 high and mighty but softening with each kindness shown.  Travail through
                                my raving, flailing protests and I'll
                                                           lay them down.
I want you
but I'm scared I'm broken.
I maintain
  my lack of need but maybe, I'm only talking
                                                trash.
I've fenced off sentiment but there are slots in every story told,
                        so spot
these inconsistencies and if you could, forgive.
         I'll confess to culpability but never grovel.
                 Notice my vices but praise my virtues
and if your
           light is bright enough,
I'll hover moth
           like in the night so you can catch
me.
I'm split right through
            the middle now,
                  move in.
Tread careful.  Kick up gravel
so I can hear you come.


The Sunday Whirl
                   
                                           

Binding

She is
(somewhat) sober now, but sleepy, and so everything is funny. She laughs without control,
                                                                          abandoning herself to
                                                                                                       the leisure of not caring.
                                                                                                               She belches loudly, and this erupts
a new peal, waves of chortling
                                 carrying across the small, dank bar,
                                                                        disgusting some, infecting others,
who giggle along.
                                                                                   The man she is with belongs to this first group.
                                                                                     He is not amused,
                                                                                                 and his stern
gaze
catches hers and she
                 quickly
                 quiets.
His eyes growl
                       the way her father's used to when
                                                   she'd come home
late,
words not necessary to convey the message:  deep, deep disappointment.
She shifts
         on the stool, attempts to make light, a slight joke but
falls
flat
and he responds with a terse command that it is
   Time
   To
   Go.
She shrugs,
as though she gives no credence to his threat to leave without her,
and though past evidence suggests he
                 won't,
she wonders,
                 worries,
just enough.
               He
is worn out,
the
dark circles beneath his eyes, telling.
          Is this love or some strange duty he feels obliged to?  She's not quite sure;
            fears, almost,
                              to know,
though the
lurking uncertainty a consumption almost
                     as complete as drink.  She misses his
                                                       smile, withers inside a little each time she reaches for him and he stiffens, returns her touch with tepid put-on affection.
   Their old way of
playful banter
                   replaced with either
laconism or lectures.  She
     no longer bothers to counter
                          his well made points, slants secretly,
                                 even,
toward his side.
                                                      He treats her
like a child
because she acts like a child.
They
      agree on this.
                       She hands him the keys, chastened and contrite.
Fellow drunkards flash
                                                    looks of pity as
                                                                          she stumbles
                                                                                        behind him on the way out. Still a
gentleman,
he opens the passenger side door and helps her in, his eyes though, cast down, as if
                                        the very sight of her is painful.  She
                                           expects this and accordingly,
                                                                 demurely turns away herself, drops her
                                                                                                   hands into her lap.   Now baneful tears burn,
and she
                          squeezes them back
before he climbs into his side of the car.  She can't stand the way,
                                                                                           when she cries,
his resolve slips into helplessness, fueling her own.  She will not
                      use these tears
                             to trump.
                             The car seems to crawl up the long road home and
                                          she stares
out
    the window at the woods she knows well.
Even in the dark, the leaves on each tree seem to individualize,
wave,
as they creep on and on.
              Born in tree country, in all this green, she tries to think back, to when it all turned grey.
She curates memories
                             in the museum of her mind,
categorizes chronologically events that may have led to current state;
  any proof that she is justified in her slow demise.
                          She finds nothing.
                          He has
refused to speak,
but she curves toward him now, watches
            the methodical rise of his chest as he breathes.
             He pretends not to feel her eyes, fixates instead on the road that's winding.
The entire
world rests heavy on his back.  He is exhausted.
In an unexpected move, he
                 extends his
                             hand.
Stifling a gasp at this
prodigious marvel,
              she gently centers her own
      in his.
Her
          heart thunders
and against her will, she begins to sob,
               so gratefully relieved by this rescue from the hell of her mind.
               She is too immersed in this emotion to notice his reaction,
though
               he is strangely
calm,
less mortified by her feminine bent eruption than he might normally be, despite even,
the continuation of the cantering tears; the effect made of streaks of inky, wavy, stripes
down her cheeks.
By the time
      they are home,
she looks worse than usual.  He carries her, though she is still entirely conscious,
places her tenderly on their double bed.  He
  edges in next
                    to
her slender, frail frame.
They are both still fully dressed.
                      She is both his illness and his cure, and
likewise,
as she
relaxes in his arms,
        she recognizes and gives into
the soothing, medicating effect, of his closeness.
They know this is
               wrong.
This need, this cycle, this
     self-defeating dance they do.
                             Neither is
                                          strong enough to stop.
Maybe if they could, they would,
but they are dependent as though for air,
and
jailed by their
                  respective roles,
duet of denial, a relationship
                         reminicscent of lyrics by an 80s hair band.
She is distressingly
still beautiful to him, beguiling.
He is gracious host to
                  her parasitic nature,
                                  capsized in
                  her raging sea of insanity, soaked thoroughly through in her sorrow.
                                                    They lie here, just on the brink of dawn with these
                                                                            separate realizations.
Morning
will soon arrive with invitation.
The sun will pine across
beryl sky
for their acceptance of her light.
     Their breathing slows in unison and they shut their eyes against prophesying
                                                                 moon glow.
This is
just
    their way.
       Early, before they know they've
       even slept, a goose signals to her flock that
                                                 it is
                                                  time for flight.
                                                                     He rises first, of course, brings her
                                                                                                coffee.
She tells him
she is sorry,
sips the hot forgiveness,
savoring these
symbolic beginning mendings they continually repeat.
                                                 He meant today to
be the day of endings
but rays flicker in, cast shadows on her sadness
and he sits beside her,
                  biding,
                  binding.

The Sunday Whirl
Three Word Wednesday



               

                             

Surrender

I sense the need for strategy, a battle plan, or at very least,
                                    a change.
The inner man is
centering
while appetite of
                                         flesh, unsated
                                                               draws lines.
                       So, I study plot and step,
                                                   a map of curious sorts.
Heat creeps in, elated, breaking
                                    breach of peace
                                         and pursuant, she circles round my frail human variance,
                                                                               exposing weakened will.

To keep within,
                                                  hold fast
to
letting go.
War is a theme, but there are many ways to fight, and
               the true hero, though he
                 evades not danger,
waits for call.
    I crouch and listen.
and when signal sounds,
               shift course,
weave through enemy land.
    Armed at last with quietude, I am unafraid.
                                                  I find victory
                                     
                                       in surrender.

The Mag
Poetry Jam
 

Winnowing

Born son 
         seul, breathing vision,
                      as we all do,
blind to death's hovering certainty,
      deaf to the
whisper hiss of loss, until in time,
                    our gaze beholds
the
   evidence.
Unable to deny
        decay
or
hush
the rattle warning,
               we
touch each other in hopes that
       human flesh will remind us
                          why
                           we came at
                                   all.  We
share virus of despair, leave incriminating marks as we search solace in arms weak
    as our own,
               wresting from passion, worth, while
                        writhing in tempo is the
 knowledge of futility.
Blazing
beauty in such heap
of humanity.  
We can't help but love,
dealt
such a bleak hand
      and
the sadness
     surrounds,
taming our desires for more.
What
crushing blow to soul to learn at last our fate.
What quandary when we
           understand the battle.
We
waver
under weight,
disheartened by the jump.  So close
                                to safety,
we choose instead to suffer.


The Sunday Whirl

Downfall

Yeah, it's like that, Baby

Our initials carved inside a heart.

For a good time call-

me

Scrawl my name in colors and in loops - big and curved,
                                                                                  declaring.

You heard I was the one.

I'm a train, whizzing past, fast
      and bright
 with wrecked
        notions.

Song lyrics, catchy -
validating

Put
profundity where it doesn't belong -
                  where I can see it -
 say it short and sweet.

....
has a small...

soul.

I'm a building, tall and old and you're
              defacing value.
You're a break I shouldn't take
           and what's that in my pocket?  I'll
                                                             lock it up
                                                                     in lace,
send with love.

It's late - I shouldn't be here.

You've got my number.

dverse

Parting

I'm not giving you
                          up;
 I'm  letting you go.
 And I'm trying to
explain the difference,
 and once again,
 I'm getting nothing
                   done.

  I'm trying not
                                   to leave you with claw marks,
 but you're mauled, and
                  my hair is messed like I've been in a bar brawl,
                                                                                      so, I guess the secret's out,
I'm
no good at
               this.  The

sun is
shining an alarm in all its yellow.  The sound of bells surrounds, goad that it's time,
 and I'm stuck inside.

Flexing beneath
                     that first kiss,
 I gave you my fear, abandoned
               apprehension.
 Did you hear me sigh that night,
                               in that place, where all was sacred?  We
                                    hiked on into evening, leaving heat of day, gleaning as we
                                                                                                                         went,
momentum
 from the darker, browner
 prints
 in the
            trail
where the
              recent rain
had marked out simple notions.  The willow
                                                      weeds mourned our descent, and so
                                                                                    did I,
still sated
by the memory and the potion of that earliest taste.  I would not
     trade that
     trace of pearl-
                         like found promise on your tongue.
                                                                    Take away the
                                                                     thrill, the favor and the savor but not
                                                                     the choice, and
                                                                                 I'm sorry now, wading
                                                                                 in the wide wait well of
sacrifice.  Penetrated by the prize, full
        from wine
         ripened in pursuit, so
                                   this pull away like the forced crawl of the
                                                                                 cherished thing now clipped of wings and wasting.
     Scared, I bring an offering - an
        account of all
I'm not.  Hold it tight,
          the

racing.  Have me when I'm grown.

Poetry Jam
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