Growing older (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoDylan McLeod

It’s 12:20 in the morning
I trace my tongue over a broken tooth
my back hurts from too much work
and my eyes are grainy and tired
I’ve turned another year older
a few more laugh lines around my eyes
a few more frown lines upon my brow

and yet, I am not the only one
I can see the age in my husband’s face
the sharper look of a man in his thirties
the youthful fat now melted away
leaving a refined brow
and sharper eyes

New questions parade in my mind
things I used to never think of
am I aging gracefully?
What does that mean?
Am I living a good life?
What does THAT mean?

I shall close my eyes soon
and sleep the rest of the night away
and know that in younger days I could stay up til dawn
caffeine and nicotine and a pretty face

Yet, I think those days are gone
and my beauty, and my mind, and my body
need their rest
for I am one year older than last year
but I really feel this year
deep in my bones

 

I Don’t Wish to be Friends with the Past (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoJonathan Bowers

I don’t wish to be friends with the past
Tis like tiptoeing through a graveyard of broken headstones
crumbling
Where sculpted angels with folded wings weep
And forgotten crypts lay dark

I’ve grown, and changed, and got older
While yet the lay still where I left them
In the same spot, the same plots and stories to tell

I visit from time to time, in my thoughts and in my mind
But I try not to linger, though fondness begs me to stay
To touch the faces of my beloveds like I used to
In the past where they lay

But all my fingers do as I brush their hair back
Is pass through without moving a single strand
For one cannot touch what used to be
The way it used to be
And here, I am the ghost wandering

I’ve known lovers, and I can still in mind trace the peculiarity of their bodies with my lips
But there is no memory in the way they feel any more
Not their hands
Not their hips

No, I don’t wish to be friends with the past
Though occasionally I return
To walk amongst what might have beens
Before my soul remembers what is touchable here and now

 

Healing Childhood Hurt (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoKat J

Childhood hurts

How does one get over a childhood hurt
that is the poem that you gave to me
and I would love to tell you it’s in prayers, in psalms
in the melody of your favorite song,

I would like to say it’s in the whisper of your lover
in the softness of his touch,
in the morning walks with your thoughts
or on your ride to work

I would like to say you can find it in creativeness
wrap it up in art and sell it to the highest bidder
or write it down in words to be sold
on Amazon- well, before it’s pirated, anyway

I would like to say it’s in therapy
‘over it’ comes in a drug called Fukitol
take two (with food)
and call me in the morning

Yet here’s the thing
I’ve learned in 37 years
of asking myself the same thing
that you asked me

How do you get over a childhood hurt?
The answer is simple
You don’t.
That hurt you will take to your grave

Now, before we get despondent
before we throw in the towel
and cry ourselves to sleep
let me offer you some solace

I’ve traced my pen
across my scars and bled out on the page
I’ve wept, and winced
and cried and lamented over how bad it still hurt

I’ve purged the infection, over and over in my art
and while the scar remains
I lift it up for the world to see
and find that others have wounds like mine

We connect.

And it’s there in that moment
this bizarre realization
that the thing I once despised
I am grateful for

You never get over it, no
but you can get through it
and you can use it
instead of letting it use you

 

Sounds of Spring (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoStudio Dekorasyon

 

I wake up in the morning
drifting sunlight through my window
grackles chatting up the neighbors
somewhere on another lawn

Fan above me whirling
nestled deep in cover warmly
lawnmowers buzzing pleasantly,
underneath the morning sun

I sit up, bones a’crackin’
reach for the ceiling I feel my back poppin’
I toss the covers aside and stand
and slip on the clothes from the night before

Dog leash in one hand,
sneaker-clad feet slap the pavement
puppy dog rushes to do his business
pulling his sleep addled master along

Noseeums float lazy
in the shadows where sunlight isn’t reaching
neighbors walk to their cars quickly
coffee cups and car keys clenched in their hands

The smells of the dewdrops rise
along with Star of Jasmine on the air
I put earbuds in my ears
and stretch my legs for a good long walk

Journey in my ears blaring
Steve Perry singing clearly
about the wheel in the sky always turning
that’s the sound of my springtime morning

 

 

When she broke free from the clouds (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoA. L.

 

I can see it so clearly, now
in the silver current of the river
I remember a woman so vibrant
a living prism
that shattered light into a multitude of colors
when the sun broke free of the clouds

She was an artist, you see
her world was of red, and blue, and sea foam green
and bring them together in harmony
like Monet, Michelangelo, Divinci
when she could break free of the clouds

She understood the collective unconscious
it spoke to her, as it speaks to all
who sing the words, write the script, dance the dance
with the flick of her wrist should conjure images
when her mind was free of the clouds

Yet, the sky was often overcast
a mesocyclone dulled her afternoon
and faded the pallet so richly hers
and brought storms with wind, and rain, and hail
the clouds cast shadows she could not break away from

There is a certain weakness artists share
a flaw of sorts in our matrix
an unquenchable desire to connect
and the ability to hear all of humanity
so when a strong guiding light shines it can distract us
but all that glitters is not gold
and though the clouds may gather, it does not mean rain

We are artists because God is an artist
no longer do you fragment the light
that comes from the firmament
and though your brushes may lay still
you are the light that burns forever
they day you broke free of the clouds

Silence and the rest of you life (Poem)

I took yesterday (4/4) off from National Poetry month to observe the anniversary of the passing of Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. as well as the birthday of the late, great, Doctor Maya Angelou who would have been 90 years old.

So, I would like to continue today with a poem request from a friend of mine about the end of a relationship. I hope you like it. And if there has been anyone out there who’s been a fool for love, trust me, I feel your pain.

 

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unsplash-logoKinga Cichewicz

I have scraped myself off the floor
of reality so brutally honest
I have doused myself with holy water
to wash away the tears I’ve shed
I’ve born the weight of this family
the results are a little bottle of pills
I take daily
I’ve changed my name
my jeans size
my hair color
I’ve changed my habits
and my country
I’ve held your fevered head in my lap
I’ve held your sex
your tear stained cheeks
I’ve rocked and cradled and cooed and died

But out of all of this passion
I have born one single truth
I did these things
yes
I did these things
for you
with you
to you
and I can undo them just the same

My name is Gloriana
I am a queen in my own right
I am tempest waters raging
I am daytime and I am the night
so if this love is over
let it be over and let it be done
let me return to my country of origin
of my native people
my native tongue

For I am the ground you tread upon
I am the rocking chair where you sit
I am the memories you’ll carry with you
I am the rock, the awning, your bed

So when I go, I go swiftly
soft as the sighing of the trees
and all the pleasures I have given you
I will pack up and take with me
there will be no more tumble
no more fire in your hearth
All that will remain will be silence
and the rest of your life to live

 

I dare you…(poem)

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unsplash-logophoto-nic.co.uk nic

Dare to be different.
Dare to speak your truth.
Dare to stand in it.
Dare to be a guide on.
Dare to raise the banner.
Dare to raise your voices.
Dare to resist the night.
Dare to be yourself.
Dare to do the right thing.
Dare to speak truth to stupid.
Dare to set an example.
Dare to be safe in your skin, safe in yourself, safe in your world.
Dare to stare down a bully.
Dare to correct a wrong.
Dare to shout down lies.
Dare to sing the truth.
Dare to be observant.
Dare to be aware.
Dare to be righteous.
Dare to be loved.
Dare to be free.
Dare to be a dreamer.
Dare to be a lover.
Dare to be a friend.
Dare to be a sister.
Dare to be a brother.
Dare to be a mentor.
Dare to be a light.
Dare to be a phone call.
Dare to be a voter.
Dare to march in protest.
Dare to kneel and pray.
Dare to stand against tyranny.
Dare to make a mark.
Dare to live.
Dare so that others may live.
Dare to be counted.
Dare to be a leader.
Dare to be hope.
Dare to be a teacher.
Dare to be a preacher.
Dare to do all you can.

The Collective Unconcious (Poem)

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unsplash-logoRedd Angelo

The wind is howling
at seven thirty in the morning
a bitter wind
shoves it’s way down from the north
I’ve walked the dog, 
dressed in Corpus Christi Coture
which consisted of work out shorts
a hoodie, and a robe
before dashing back inside
and now with a cup of Earl Grey
my dog asleep in the corner
the cat asleep on a chair
I come to the altar of humanity once more
to bear my soul
and write my song
as if I didn’t know the dangers
of being naked
to the bitter winds of the world

Lately, my mind
has not been my own
my body
has been in pain
and I’ve spent countless hours
my arms splayed out at my sides
grasping realities
trying desperately to hold myself together
but the reality of my situation is
that I am in the most danger
when I cannot give myself away
when I cannot imbue a part of my soul
in a book, in a story, in a poem
and set it to sail among the many souls
adrift in the collective unconscious

No children, have I, at my age
that fate wasn’t written on my heart
due in part to a hijacked mind
but I do have family among those
who kneel at the water’s edge with me
and murmur their truth to the stars above
that family, no one could take away
not even death
their truth lives on in stories they told
when they in a living way
took time to kneel beside the ever-flowing river
speaking their truth to the firmament
when they bowed their heads to pray.

 

My first Poetry Collection

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I am proud to present to you a collection of poetry I put together over the past 2 years. My poetry, like my other writing, is informed by life experiences, memories, seasons, or by things I’ve observed about the intrinsic beauty and complicated nature of humanity.
For a very long time – having been raised in fundamentalism – I believed there wasn’t much about humanity that gave it worth. However, through the act of creating art, I have discovered that simply isn’t the case.
In a few short years, I have discovered love, regained my faith in God, and most importantly, regained my faith in my fellow human beings.
I also discovered that the things that attract us to a person aren’t the same things that make us stay. Often times it’s our imperfections that are the most endearing qualities that we possess. I believe God regards us the same way.
I hope you enjoy this collection

 

Buy Link for Amazon here

Smashwords links will soon follow

 

Elton John (Poem)

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unsplash-logoAustin Neill

Is this all there is?
Elton John at quarter til midnight?
A black cat next to me
with the ceiling fan up high?
Silent Karaoke 
About a song about the blues
I am driving down the freeway
of my mind

It’s not the holidays
those are done
It’s not homesickness
my family home is gone
why do I feel so tired
and emptied out?

Chicken soup for the soul
Ice cream for hurt feelings
I feel like I’m starving to death
thirsty and lonely and bored

My husband cried tonight
and asked me not to leave him
but would it be him I am leaving
Won’t I be leaving myself?
Cyclical Dysthymia circle around again
pick me up and throw me in the trunk
I don’t know what to feel anymore

I just know I have concrete shoes
a sore body, and a numb mind
I am sad but have no reason to cry
Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolfe?
Rocks in my pocket
there’s a river somewhere close by
I can smell it on the air
the last vestiges of the mind altering chemicals
from a month prior still have their white bony fingers
around my brain

I’ll bounce back
one day I’ll sing aloud again
I’ll dance on the driveway as I pick up the mail
but for tonight, swing low sweet chariot
pick up this letter from me to God
It’s lyrics from an Elton John song
and sad songs say so much