Indie Author

Finding & Creating Beauty in Unlikely Places

Month: April 2016

Poem of the Week: Blood Brother

Objects in the path
of the sun
seem to radiate
from within
same as the glowing
pierce of your smile
I soak in
like those early spring
daffodil rays
when the wind turns warm
and green as your
young years
You’ve reminded me
what it’s like to
have your heart break
in someone else’s tears
I understand now those
flutters of the will
my virgin heart
once scoffed at
wanting to call bullshit
on the notion that pain
makes us real
when it comes to you
like an over-protective mother
I want to cotton-wrap
your skin
give you everlasting sunny days
clean sheets
a home devoid of broken people
and all their self-made messes
some sure thing
a fixed place to call safe
necessities as real as
the air we breathe
I took for granted
before I knew you
a gentler soul than mine
I imagine you
bending towards the light
like a blade of grass
scrapes through the sidewalk
bloodied but not beaten
those insults you bore
the ghost echoes that
keep you awake at night
fists that never stop swinging
your scar tissue soft
as the words you speak
I adore you
there’s more man in your
silence than
little boys in armor bodies
who wear out their hard times
with violence
I’ve watched you force
your head up
when gravity was the least
of your worries
when loss that breaks
the oldest of souls
wore you down
Your spirit
is the sound of the morning
after a holocaust
the pastel sky
after a flood
I look at you
and think
God, how could you
make someone so beautiful
and let life try so hard
to break him?
For what is within
my constrained grasp
to give
I ask Him
to cut you a break
I pray
that your talents go viral
that your someone
will find you and
spoil you with so much love
it’ll feel like every day
is Christmas morning
that peace will stop
alluding you
that your heart-wounds
will heal
that you’ll always remember
I love you
in the truest, purest way I can
Blood Brother
you’re in my veins
you are with me
always.

Poem of the Week: Bad Joke

We joke about how often
your husband calls his mother
as if that umbilical cord stretched
along the sound waves
unrolled like a ring worm
it reaches into the western horizon
a summer sun that refuses to set
We wonder how no amount
of intrinsic force will snap it
the threats of abandonment
the emasculation that
pickles his balls in a jar
Stockholm hugs tell him
that he’s the only she’ll turn to
Her mantras rooted
so deep under his tender skin
he’s forgotten the taste of compassion
can’t differentiate
love from her artful abuse
he is the starved dog who
distrusts the heaping bowl
a thirst victim
eyeing water for poison
he’ll accuse you of
tarnishing her illusion
because truth is
if he’s forced to admit it
that a lifetime of playing puppet to her
shit
couldn’t earn him
a mother’s love
he may very well break
to the point beyond healing
on the death march
only those with imagination
survived
like he does
tethered to her
heart-shaped bayonet
and still sometimes
we wonder why no amount
of extrinsic force
can break
what the spirit’s
too weak to mend.

Poem of the Week: Moment

I want to capture that moment
standing outside the bar at 6am
neon sign glow on my shoulders
the sky a peri-haze
just before the sunrise
the rain-stick sheen of tires
on the street and me
nowhere to go.

I’ll save it for those mornings
I wanna skip my exit and keep
on driving
see where the wind takes me
I’ll use it when your ears close
when my heart won’t listen
when your absence drags my body
back to your bedside
when the cadence of your spirit
won’t reach me
I’ll summon it from beneath
what’s too painful to remember
like the smell of your cigarette skin

When living day to day becomes
too much to ask
and I need that
lilac-kissed freedom that
snow-topped open space
I’ll uncap that moment
the flicker
when everything is just
alright
I’ll wear it out as joyously and as recklessly
as the moments with you
that keep me searching
writing, loving, breathing,
missing you
through another day.

Poem of the Week: She Waits

She waits in a cocoon
of her own making.
lets the cobwebs grow
She says forgetting is easier
than living
with what you’ve lost
or having to admit your
part in the plot
So she shrouds herself
in the aroma of cat-piss
ammonia
unwashed hair and
disinterested repellent
the inconvenience of the answering
the door
left to others–
those content
to clean up her messes.
It was always easier for her
to go to
extremes
either an exhibit or
a demolition
as frenzied as her
highs and lows
she learned to control your
yes’s and no’s
with a
“You’ll be sorry once I’m gone”
or
“I don’t ask much of you but
I give you everything”
or
“Now I know you don’t love me.”
Love so contingent
on the moment
Love with
selective memory
like the ones she wraps herself in
like when she clutched your strings with
stone fingers
so proud
that this
was the someone
she could create in her
own image
the All She Never Was
the She she wants to re-live
buried deep on the
visceral level
she knows
that when they looked at you
they knew
those tear-stains were
her brushstrokes
on your
blank canvas
the colors
she couldn’t claim she
whitewashed
Now
she’ll content herself in
those cobwebs
the “what was”
unanswered phone calls
the empty chair at the wedding
the conversations restricted
to health
and pets
and
how the world has wronged her
She misses when
the illusion
still dazzled you
For her
it still does.

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