At Last

But we were waiting for these
sleepless dreams,
where our eyes were open
and there were no more
ghosts or apparitions
with their haunting faceless
faces, but were known,
once and for all,
flesh and bone
and finally arriving,
and they took us from these
wakeless dreams, to that place
where we would always be;
awake at last, together.

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Give In

It will only take a moment,
“of your time, right?”
Age; is only a number.
Gain; simply, Time advancing.
Intrinsic, you; a dream.
Let me say it: salt, tequila,
lime! Lips pucker, on the
sour of life. You: a hiccup, a mimic!
A Love, I love to look at, Lover.
You; the wild card I drew and
would draw again.
Ace of spades, duece!
And I’m playin’ to win!!
Feelin’ it! All the time, in your
presence. Feelin’ it, and this
is why we live, isn’t it?!? Full,
of receptors, and pickin’ up on
what I want more of; this.
Good energy, it lives!
And so don’t, “why knock it?”
Baby… give in.

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The Bending Reed

Some days I am as though
the bending reed,
who carries the weight
that the songbird sings,
who rests his wings
in the afternoon heat,
and how it is,
I have yet to break.

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Once Spoken

He is the thought,
I dwell on often,
and how I have
every line.
Every turn, and
every angle,
that make up
the shape
and movement
of his eyes,
and how they
speak to me
as though words
once spoken,
words once formed
by a voice
I once before
have loved.
He is the sound, to me,
like music,
he is the song
I have never forgot.

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You picked an ax of a state,
did you not?
Stuck on the brain now,
like a word you’d been chewing on,
like the gum my fingers braised
beneath the table, and stuck!
Stuck, stuck, in the intestines,
like a gum one should never swallow,
but a necessary must, as the gun
sounds, the horses bolt, a race!
I never knew, I was in the running.
But look now, what with this one word
in me you started – a book.

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Sometimes I’m so strong,
and sometimes, I’m so amiss,
but let me talk about
the weakness, let me talk
about how every scar
we carry from another
makes us stronger, doesn’t it?
Every injury to insult,
every failure, every fault,
wears like a badge earned,
and how never did we
ever say, that any of us
were perfect, in this skin
we call humanity we all must wear ,
in this temporary moment.
For are we not?
found lovely in our own way,
lovely in all of this;
our own imperfect glory – but true.

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A Porch Chair

If there was an underlying current,
a mix of emotions, of torn thought
wrought by recent daily events,
it feels as though my spirit rings its
hands, as though I were that child
once again who watched the worry
of a grandmother rocked in a porch
chair, till rubbed her hands so thin
with, what was it in that vacant stare?
That she churned in hands so soft
they felt like velvet, like butter skin,
that never have I since felt anything
quite like it. But how could I ever
forget, those steel blue eyes, though
I could not know the thought that
caused the boards to creak beneath
the constant rock of that rocking chair,
while between her fingers
the twirling tissue was so twirled
it nearly disintegrated. If there was.
And of course there was, as there
always is, that underlying current,
that some may, or may not pick up on.
Good days, or as of late, more bad days,
I’m sad to say, of inner turmoil,
or of unsettling feelings of not being
where I should be, that how could I say?
What, this? When more often than not,
we are all so good at putting on faces,
at lying with that cordial “everything’s fine,” quip
that after awhile, it makes for almost too much
tough swallowing, don’t you think?
That now I wish I hadn’t, and had
instead said what I had really wanted
to say, and gone and painted my nails red,
for that fleeting thought as you shook
my hand, felt so very much like disappointment,
when you saw that I hadn’t.

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Woman Enough

We don’t want you to tell us,
how to dress ourselves or,
wear our hair or,
if we should wear or not wear
make – up.

Because isn’t she already?
Long legged enough,
with or without the stilettos,
or with or without
the short, short skirts that
accentuate, “to flatter who, you?”

We’re not walking around to be
some brazened ad that says
this is who you should be, woman,
it you want to be noticed, by a man,
if you want to be somebody.

Isn’t her bust to waist to hip ratio
already hourglass enough?
With or without needing to wear
low cut (unless she wants to,)
or tight fitting (unless she want to),
or more feminine, you say.

As though you were the expert
on women’s fashion, though
never dawned yourself such attire
that you might become,
instead of a person, to you,
an object, and an object of desire
that exists only to fill your eyes with lust.

No, to this, you can’t relate.

So don’t tell us,
how to dress ourselves,
or wear our hair or,
if we should wear or not wear

Because isn’t she already?
Woman enough.

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When words spill out sideways,
in sort of a nervous spattering
of tumbling one over the other,
days of nonsense, where the tongue
ties itself in a hangman’s noose
to strangle, whatever it is, the heart
it wants to say, when the mind takes
over and the two compete and
leave me lost, somewhere in the
middle, as words, that have too
little substance, too little meaning
pour out of me in puddles.

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Between Dawn and Night

I never thought much about
the color of the robin.
That burnt orange abreast
speaks of morning dawn
and how many sunsets
as they fade away
into end of days twilight,
where the worm hides itself
at night till grasped by beak
and break of light
is pulled from the earth, soiled,
and in one gulp swallowed whole,
down into that great and
bulging orange abreast abysmal,
that the robin might sing
triumphant, to lay its eggs to bear
the color of the sky, has it not stolen?
This blue, between dawn and night.

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