I am a paler blue than you are used to

I am a paler blue than you are used to
I am milk from the breast
The blind man’s eye
The morning sky
 
 
I am a paler pink and it’s not like you think
I am the dead man’s skin
The winter cheek
Wheezing life, oblique
 
 
I am twisted spine wrapped in barbed wire and twine
The clink on dinner glass
The old barn in the wind
Weakened, thin
 
I’m a softer gray than I was yesterday
I am the abandoned school’s window
The late autumn fog
The belly-up pollywog
 
 
Trapped beneath ice
I am a horrid last gasp
The precipice teetering boulder
The secret the dying man told her
 
 
I am all that fizzles
The last millimeter of wick
I am the faint sound of haunting
That is actually nothing blowing in the wind
 
 
I am the last straw the cow devours
In a land of famine
Digested four times before
The final feast is never more
 
 
I am the fraying shroud
on the cold slab
the scratching dry quill
the unfinished words of the will
 
 
I am the ruins
behind the undergrowth
I am the ship on the ocean floor
a splinter on death’s door
 
 
I am a palor of green
A mold on the cheese
I am the child that floats
the hanged man’s throat
 
 
I am a gutter of leaves
after four months of rain
I am slime
I block the drain
 
 
I am ash on a bonnet
the clay on work boots
I am the broken ax
the recipient of forty whacks
 
 
I am all that decays
I am all that stops shining
I am all of the hues
of adieu
Published in: on October 9, 2013 at 2:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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Fair-weather Friend

My joy is gone
with the sun
but was that me at all?
My woeful winter
could be my center
My fair-weather friend,
leads me on.
  
All the fancies and the foils
those sweltering nights encourage
leave me when frost bites hard.
The lump that’s left
is the real me, I guess
That boisterous party girl
is a facade 
built by summer’s
glimmer-prismic holographs.
  
She cares not 
about the worries
in my frigid core,
that fair-weather friend,
damned doppelganger.
Reports say she’s South,
basking in radiance
while I am here 
crawling through fog 
and puddles
of quiet sorrow.
 
I know she returns
because I give her substance,
soul;
and I tolerate her
so I can be included
in the follies of
unfledged communes.
 
 So pathetic and dismal am I
that half of me leaves
for half of the year.
Published in: on November 24, 2011 at 11:12 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Happy Birthday

Everything’s on cue

you wouldn’t know what to

if I told you

The annual let down,

the frown

is coming around

I’m all anointed

in the disappointed

I’m appointed

to be alone

in a clattered home

and write these poems

to get relief

from unchecked grief

and ignored beefs

It’s another year

and I’m still here

on the same tier

assumed to have provisions

but the incisions

show derision

I will display

and communicate

a need for an embrace

Alas, I am nobody’s princess and

just tissue wrapped crimson

my birthdays are just lonesome

I am a reflection

of decades of disconnection

and rejection

I can’t help but to think it’s my own fault.

Published in: on November 15, 2010 at 12:10 am  Comments (1)  
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Mellowfluous

On days like these

ink creeps down the confessing page

rain slides down the windows

and blood weeps slow through my polar veins

the coffee perks and drips in sync

and someday soon

all these liquids will efface

amalgamize in a swirl in the palm of my hand

and I will smear them down my sullen face

ink rain and blood

Published in: on November 12, 2009 at 11:05 pm  Comments (1)  
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Harbor

No words can touch the tender love
of mother holding babe in arms
nursing, whispering, dreaming, singing
it is the harbor away from harm
.
The child’s heart, a seed
from the mother’s fruited tree
grows before her very eyes
into ripe maturity
.
With guarded heart, she tends his scrapes
wipes his nose and meets his teachers
watches him shave for the first time
and roots for him from the high school bleachers
.
The letting go comes very slow
if ever it should occur at all
she sees the man before her
yet to her, he’s still so very small
.
No words can touch the unspeakable grief
of mother holding babe in arms
an urn of ash from a horrid crash
her harbor utterly disarmed
Published in: on November 7, 2009 at 1:15 am  Leave a Comment  
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