I want to say it first

Go if you have to, but don’t say the word
oh, don’t make me hear it from you–
one more time might do me in–
don’t you know what it does to me?

Bring me flowers
yet, if it makes you feel better
even though I know
getting anything now does not mean we are

Okay, if you must, bring chocolate
offer it and see if I bite, but
don’t let me know what it means–

bury me in latent regrets–

Yes, I am remaining in denial–
ever I must, never I can’t, handle hearing

Goodbye

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trash the tags
night likes
the feel of flowers
my book is done
read on, read on
annihilate my cave
like any woman can
everything open
knees. eyes, lips.
my bones vanish
a dying art

Rain dance

Can you hear me?
My voice is quieter
after the storm
the windows shut tight
to keep the rain out

When the blue gets in
in spite of my weather-proof house
I pull up the memory, of
a day when the rain felt good

We splashed and danced
and thumbed our noses
at the soaking wet
knowing we could take the rain

wearing our
falling-in-love-again macs

Monday

I stare into my coffee as if it will give me answers, a swirl of black coffee foaming from the press. It isn’t talking. Maybe some tea.

I’ve been here before–a cold, hard rock and a lost place. I am not a child. I sit paralyzed. The door annoys and the phone is an intrusion.

There is one thing that is tolerable. And as a child, music could soothe me. But which? Blues is too sad. Would jazz make me bitch-slap someone?

Ah, Brahms,my old friend.I smile and squeeze his hand. No,It must be Ludwig. Do understand. It is not you, it’s me. There is so much at stake.

Continue reading “Monday”

Does it bother you

 

pink boa

I don’t believe in eternal soulmates
I was
too old to be naïve, and
too young
to put all my money on you

you have your preferences
like anyone
tea over coffee
scone over a muffin
a girl over a woman

it is no wonder
I stopped fighting you
so why do I sit here
in your pocket
where you put me

listening to you choose her
my pink boa–slipping
while you are looking at her
(did you know)

she is not looking at you
while you speak–

Their seasons

Her damp brow, from
hard work and well-
earned rest
a starling sings, and
she lifts her hands
in prayer-full stance–
the wind is shifting
and she remembers

In pre-twilight
early summer blues
a man-boy’s voice, inviting
her
don’t forget about the love
don’t leave it behind
don’t leave summer behind

She smelled evergreen
through July’s singe of grass
the first raspberries tart
and sweet
red lips musing
a wipe on the back of her arm
and in the leaves–
traces of longing

What do you suppose
the clouds talk about–
congregating in cirrocumulus bevy
when they see all of it–
the neck bite.
the slammed door.
one red apple.

By August’s fireflies
he–on the road
she–writing sonnets
on social media–
bursts from her pen
epics he will not read
reams, of
her late night daydreams

Just in time
for September,she
will answer the phone
breathless
wondering why he waited
until he finished the bottle
to call–
each word counted
and kept

Starting his wander back
through snowy by-ways
he searches for their key
in a pocket with a hole in it
knowing
it will take nearly ’til May
to speak of her again. Until

the breeze catches her scent
and he returns, to
find her once more–
his brown-haired fay
he swore was made of vapour
from the clouds
of early June