2 days, no sleep

pile_of_pillows

I tore up my fingers on that ring
grasping at what was not mine–
but I stole it–because it was his
and I wanted her not to have it

The late night snacking takes a toll
a lack of sleep notwithstanding
the gremlins that come out only at night
have found a niche under my skin
painful and soothing all at once

Over-thinking also has its price
this bat and ball are nothing to me now
I never did take to diamonds that well
but one time, there was an emerald
that caught my eye

I would have sold all I had for it
until I owned only that and none else
but that won’t feed anyone
and it won’t transport, or shower;
what once were needs are now desires

The tree top seemed out of reach
until waking up to fog I remembered
we must bend and stretch, and
no one gets a free ride
of government cheese for always

but with a little perseverance
I could have every dream fulfilled
if I only dream of mediocrity
and if I am not that hungry

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When I was queen

 

snow tree under light

 

 

in and out of the car
snow in my hair
icy wind
biting my skin

 

 

these are the days
that wake me up
and remind me that
I am alive

 

 

skin tingling
an old voice in my head
above me the street lamps pop on
the snow turning to sleet
and I turn on the windshield wipers

 

-I felt like a Queen then-

 

but I turn off the voice
listening to the wipers
instead
and the snow hitting the car

 

 

Vinegar waltz

We are kept
contained in all our tsunami’s
we rise, still in a pickle
treading, if not swimming
despite the blessings
bestowed day upon day
dreams may sour
the lip of the jar, closer
but still up above, beyond
while we wait for the next
twirling, whirling pool
sometimes leaving us
dizzy and sick
and other days
we assume the position
and dance

*

Florence

Remember when no one could touch us?
You were Superman
I was Wonder Woman
and cape, candles, and
a length of rope
were all we needed

Love at first sight?
I grabbed at you
like in a haunted house
frantic and wasteful
horrific in its lies
but she will not have you
my right to be here
is grandfather’d in

I remember when we arrived here
such hopes consumed me–
I tried to love you, my idea of you
my vision of us, your selfish words, and
my selfish plans coated with expectation
left us in the dust

And now I think I will die here
and never see Paris
or the Thames
never throw my wishes into the fountain
I will die here
and never see Rome
or eat figs from a tree in Sicily
and Florence is just a lady on t.v.

The shortest day of the year

I sit in the dark–eyeing the window
the sky still stark, the dozen odd
apples clinging to the tree out back
slow about preparing my coffee I.V.
that life-blood we cling to
as the sun presents itself

It is slow coming, like me
the scent of coffee out of place in this darkness
the pillow calling back to me–‘linger a while’
my fingers on the keys tapping along
while my family slumbers
and day takes its sweet time to show

A glint of light says it is time, the
finger of God across the sky speaking ‘patience’
for in time all will be revealed
the plodding boots of winter, and the sun
that same star that brightens summer
will get in your eyes like every other day

quick, be in it
before it slips back behind the clouds
to hide with the gold
like leprechauns

self-seeking

I unloaded the burden
I told all of it to strangers
and old friends who thought better of me

because it was true
I told all of it
but I knew it was self-serving

an urgency to write myself
taking years to see
that I was the only one I was writing

all their heroes are thirty
just children when we were storming and raging
all my heroes are eighty now

and I see it all so clearly
like through rain as through a glass
as though we all sit together and no one

stays behind

together, maybe

my son laughed
at how many bookmarks I have
on the browser
afraid of losing something

I said
look at my book
see my Bible
all the little scraps
marking words and phrases
keeping track of the days
lost now

knowing my mending is stacking
too high to ever catch up
maybe
but start with page 23 and read to me
while I thread the needle

she doesn’t know who she is
all the clouds look like rain
every man walks by
in a white t-shirt and faded jeans

no one asks her
who she is
no one wants to know
where she came from

all her weather she brings with her
all the storms she leaves behind