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Only She Knows

The laundry needs a whirl, The epidermis some exfoliating; That nest of greasy hair…. Could use a tousle with a brush. The whole of her calls desperately For an abundant frolic with some soap, ……or an improvisational meditation, A kneel down; a shout out for hope. No one else can see her illness, No one […]

True

As a child my hobby-

Rock collecting, and poetry writing.

Hours were spent,

my pointy nose inches from soil,

daylight, my shadow and me

digging,

Digging with whatever sharp tools

were found in the garage;

in my own back yard,

…..Fools gold, mini garnets,

rounded globed octagon treasures,

my rock book was miffed,

me smiling,  entranced,

By middle age I question,

When did the grape become my hobby?

It wasn’t even my favorite fruit.

If only I’d stuck to rock collecting

And poetry writing,  and stayed true

To myself.

Full Circle

Dear Life:

Am feeling a bit overcome by how uncannily life’s lessons come so blatantly at you, as if served by a butler on a silver tray. The past indeed comes back at you. The other night I realized, at the neighborhood night out against crime, DUDE-I dated that guy!….I have a pretty protective trap door response in my brain; I easily forget the things I am not proud. This was my late twenties when my drinking really took off, shall we say…. I had a vague recollection of the story he told…..alcohol damage probably? He said “suit” and I could picture pinstripes, I do love men in suits. Shit that stuff IS more dangerous than pot, pot was never dangerous because it was called a drug so I avoided it. Alcohol IS truly a drug. Distilled, from the earth organic, that lock and key response that sends me gang busters out the door of mayhem, taint no sipping beverage on a patio. It’s dangerous enough to make you want to come face to face with an old acquaintance and simply say I am sorry. He told ne of the story of how we went swing dancing and he still has the suit, I know it has to be pinstriped….I know this happens to you too. Life has a way of coming ’round to us to let us finish the unfinished. Together you and life can team up, but it takes courage and full-on honesty. Nothing feels more invigorating than the chance to cross the T in the word respect; or dot the I’s in the word, inconsiderate.
SO, if there is no God or higher power, how is it- that this all went down on the same street, at the same hour as the episode where the cops took me away after an icky domestic display on the very night the beginning of the end, the abysmal, gut-wrenchingly, awful night I got sober?

So with a lovely gathering of neighbors on the street, purple coleslaws, more coleslaws, fruit salads, a laborious presentation of cheesy goodness, Lasagna in the heat of summer, mmmmm. We came out to take back the neighborhood, stand in our communal streets as a message about banning together against crimes, and here is the last guy I used to date before my descent into drinking? Indeed I said, I remember you, do you remember me?…..Lisa, I said, followed by a stoic “I don’t drink anymore.” I hugged him, and nervously pointed in the direction of my house perhaps to prove to him I had one? I told him I was a bit of wrecking ball back then and that I was truly sorry. He half smiled as if to say good to complete that question of the past. It really is funny how life brings me the opportunity to make amends on my block, on the very night where we take back the night to crime. Who said the crimes against ourselves didn’t count?

3 years, Posion Free

The green shards scattered like ants;
as angrily as they were frantic
catching the sun like emerald gems stones
smashed in the driveway,
along with broken hearts
cuffed, fighting, wriggling,
as if en-route to slaughter
freedoms dashed, anger glowing like a red sun,
privacy obliterated, on display like a hooker’s pride
catching the sparkle in the devil’s eye.
I didn’t like Chardonnay
Would I have thrown Pinot Noir…..
perhaps?
Some lesson’s come hard
when the oath you take
is the promise,
to find the real you?

The Fallacy of the Artist

             The Fallacy of the Artist

I used to drink like….

Bukowski and Thomas;

Scribbling heartfelt prose

with a borrowed pen

 on a bar napkin.

The tears were there

But infused with the contents

Of my glass,

I swallowed them back

Like a true artist does

Dedicated to no one

but the fallacy of my art

masked as my true craft, pain

 

Coping Skills

For some they shop,
For others they mop,
For some they swill
For others tears spill
For the uphill climb of modern life
Prepare young souls,
for goodness AND strife
Feelings gulped down like the salty sea
Aren’t guided by the moon
If not set free
Don’t choke them down
like nasty gristle
Call them out
Like a captain with a whistle
listen like a friend to your questions
to your fear
Like the lion and the mouse
wriggle free
from prejudices torturous spear

Just Listen

Just Listen

It is the space that’s there but not quite seen

For some, the statue amidst the travertine

It’s a queasy pang from doing wrong

But alerts you to the importance of the Wood Thrush’s song

It may be the way the sun burns through

A rain filled sky, like someone knew

Each time I sat quiet to meditate

Even the homeless woman

delivered a message of beauty

free of hate.

 

Forced

             Forced

At 14 he told the same joke

Again, and again needing you

To laugh,

At sixteen she pleaded for you to love her

The way they love in books

Dedicated, like a Norwegian’s

Love for his lutefisk,

I wish I had learned to savor the goodness

To look the recurring nightmare in the eye

The good the wine has taught me Wins;

Lips visibly stained like a prostitute

The fourth glass was never the same as the first

Like a joke told one too many times