Take the Love that is there.

It is not simply more love, less hate;

It is “let’s talk about it,”

Let sit through it….the ugliness,

perhaps not holding hands…but meeting eyes,

a scouring pad couldn’t  clean it,

the layer of burnt on hurt…

But I will sit with it, cross legged-like a yogi

I will inhale it’s truth-

as I inhale smog filled air.

I will wear it, even if it bunches at the knees,

And pools at the ankles,

as ill-fitting as a cheap suit with a chincy hand; navy blue,

Sure you can drive people away, flatten them,

Like a race car driver named Pity,

leaving black rubber at every turn.

But like me you’ll awake another day;

Breathe in through your nose,

 

smell all that is fetid and rank,

Surely you’ll wince and turn away,

but it smells of truth- the kind you avoid

the kind with answers;

and when the air is cleared it smells clean like the sea.

Even Raw chicken,

must be seasoned and roasted,

to bring about flavor.

Sit with all that is real, raw, even the unthinkable

A murderer in a grey walled cell,

Surrounded by each moment of what he has done,

with no where to look but inward.

Go back to the beginning of you,

did it start at your mother’s breast

or did it start on the couch with the canary yellow floral print

and the rust colored piping that trimmed the arms that hugged you in-

that jungle of upholstery telling a story through faint smells

of gingerbread and cigarettes

And drug store perfume that should be called Eau de’mothballs,

take the love that is there and forgive.

If only we had some Wings……

I hear Band on the Run,
And see the carpeted brown stage,
I picture years of me bouncing about;
in the ugly golden yellow split level
We called home.
We had so many years there
I am realizing now
staring, looking for more,
meeting your blank eyes for answers,
Is this tease of death enough to wake you?
At least laughter still peeps up
in the clouds of blue
Purposefully and silly, you widen them
your eyes… at me,
you were always funny, always.
You see a whole life of me,
cause we celebrate the same day of our birth
cause we’re January 12ths
Your eyes dip and lull, vacant, then gone
Please smile inside for me, we’re here.
Oh Daddy, if only we had some
Wings…….

True Art

When a writer is true to the artist’s form

It’s not rare to illicit critique and scorn

When a writer divulges unedited prose,

It often lacks beauty like an unscented rose

When a writer holds back words underlying the dream

What is finally unleashed is an inaudible scream

If she edits her piece like her dress before church

it may haunt uninvited, like a predators’ lurch