The people down below
Have been doused for days;
a proper washing…
Where’s the scrub brush?
A little misting wouldn’t do.
The sunshine, a large kindly dose,
Was sent to warm them fully,
To rebirth their kindness,
To widen their eyes….
To the needs of those hurting,
To remind them,
even beauty can be harsh;
Even Blinding at times,
Why did they not slow….to smile at one another?
Why didn’t they stop to splash about?
I didn’t want to pummel them with non-stop rain,
But they needed to be soaked,
Plastered, sopping, cold to the bone
Look up, take note
You are not so alone
Wide full curvaceous,
Lips readied for lipstick, smiling, kissing,
Or a Marilyn style pucker at the cameras’ urging,
Her smile glints light so infectious;
Like Orion against the night sky.
If a man were to accompany her,
He’d need be her exact equal,
Or lure attention elsewhere,
She’s unaccustomed to sharing the limelight.
How can one walk the Earth
With perfection outwardly
And not be weary that one day
It will be stolen from her?
Withered by time, sunken,
An Italian, creamy, white leather couch
Once soft, milky, pristine, regal
Now yellowed like butter?
Shiny waves of caramel, silk hair
Rippling with goddess like force,
Like wave-lapped grains of sand,
Now eroding before us;
The shore ever further from her touch,
Cool and tranquil, the awareness
Of all that’s lost, clouds the eyes worse than age
Once a cats’ eye marble,
Her radiance clear, playful and pure,
now a solid pool of murky blue, blue with regret,
Her name was Lucienne, and her beauty
Hindered her from seeing the world’s beauty
As anything more than competition
Who is this writer,
what makes her tick?
What heats her blood;
makes it run carmine, thick?
What causes stir deeply,
where emotions run wild
what sickens her
to the core,
of her inner child?
What fills her, what warms her…
when ugly prevails?
What is the scent
that can fill
the most stagnant,
Why must she write?
What does she have to say,
that she must free from fingertips
pressing, potent words
unto your day?
I exude comfort and happiness now, after nearly 44 years. I have been disemboweled, dismembered, disheartened and deflowered enough in this life to know I have been ring side with the count shouted at my head, swollen, used up, blood and drool puffing out from under me. Somehow I got to my feet before the bell? My life has meaning, but what that meaning is, is still unclear. I was crushed from the moment I was born. Not literally, it seems plenty of us where the second child that was supposed to save the marriage, the ones that were supposed to be a boy. Many of us were greeted as disappointments, burdened souls, our arrival was announced and our fathers never showed up. I knew even though I was barely two, the moment he left…the moment I didn’t have a daddy anymore. It wriggled in deep underneath my blue satin trimmed blankie, cause of course I was supposed to be a boy. Pain doesn’t discriminate by age either. It hurt like my heart was dislocated and popped back into place. My sister fared worse. She had been old enough to love him, to call him Daddy and wait for him to come home at night; drunk or not, she knew his smell and his touch. She was also old enough to have a babysitter break her leg in the same place twice. Turns out I was the lucky one.
To be continued……..
For Robin Williams, Amy Whinehouse, Phillip Seymour Hoffman….if you knew this would you have?
To say that you were
my top three
where inspiration peaks,
you had me for tea;
You indulged on the level
of a velvetty, chocolate torte,
you laughed and winked
at my every retort,
you indulged my every synapse
You understood the dangerous way
the endorphins leak free,
like my worst hours
of a drinking spree,
you left me weary and abandoned
like a lover’s last fling,
you filled me with abatement
wanting of a ring,
If I’d dropped your publicist a letter
fruited with my favorite scent
would you have realized then
all that’d you’d meant?
We were cut erratically,
sewn, perhaps of the same wildly patterned cloth
Same, coarsely hemmed seams
part brilliant, part behemoth?