The Emotional Tilt

 The gut wrenching hope

of moving on.

Saying so long,

finding peace

among chaos.

The Emotional Tilt

toward acceptance

gives grief

the opportunity

to be set free.

We Are Two

 The cairns of stacked conditions

can take the weather of storms, lightning,

 wind and rainy waters.

It’s humanity that fumbles in without

a care and dares

to topple its own creation.

But we, We Are Two,

the wee and the few

who edify what we embody

with the willingness

to wreck anything in our way.

Add one to the stack,

I’m behind you, I’ve got your back

as I hand you another

piece of stony enlightenment.

The earth gave us all we needed

to tower up and be receded.

The Chameleon Cue

 I want to be amazed.

I want my thoughts provoked.

To relate

to state the truth of matters.

Whether brutally honest

or boldly kind. . .

I want to stand out again,

I want to change.

The Chameleon Cue

of kaleidoscope consideration,

but my soul, it has no self-control.

Oh ye of little faith;

you know I can calm the sea,

clear your lungs from drowning waters,

and make a bit of bread feed the multitudes.

But God they said to me,

my faith, it wasn’t free.

I’m asking you, what’s the cost?

Because there’s nothing I have lost.

What is it but a bit of jealousy?

The envious green hue

of the sick, sad and blue?

And I could say I loved

you any way, any day.

Wouldn’t change you,

wouldn’t save you.

Just hoping for your happiness,

peace, tranquility, stability.

Did you hear me?

I said I wouldn’t change you!

But me,

that’s a different story.

I’m Simply Too Old

 Oh how I wish I could be

somebody else,

in someone else’s shoes.

With a better voice,
a better view. . .

More compassion,

wish I’d been through

what you’d been through.

Oh how I wish I could see

all the things you’d seen.

Wish I could relate, but I’ve been told

I’m Simply Too Old

to understand the sad demand

to be understood.

Oh the irony,

my whole life

has been the strife

of a disabled housewife.

Are you sure I’m the one

who doesn’t understand?

Honestly, it’s tough to tell.

But I can feel our disconnect

in the loudest silence I’ve ever heard.

It’s interesting how the years

show age discrimination.

One day they say you’re too young,

the next you’re too old.

It’s so funny how I’ve never told myself

“I can’t”

in the face of complication.

Untold Exhaustion

 A little underestimated,

fated

to be dependent.

Could you care less?

Be careless?

Blank and free

from life’s brutality.

Shaded under the umbrella

of rubbish-

the tricks they sell

to have you buy

their unfortunate lie.

Good enough,

what is good enough?

When will you be?

Will you see

your habits are killing you?

Out of the blue,

I see the wee and the few

suffering under Aurora’s hue.

A memory- out of sight.

Realizing your addiction won the fight.

Couldn’t change your plight

or your endless energy

turned to Untold Exhaustion.

I am not tired.

I will go on.

I cannot sleep.

There’s untold abundance

under every man’s skin.

The thought of what

he could’ve been.

Cyanide Dreams

 The cherry pit, gave the cherry

its inevitable ending

after being chewed violently

by the kid on Grandma’s front porch.

But, the pit, it only knows

being nibbled by ants in a forest of grass.

Somewhere in between its Cyanide Dreams,

it could’ve been a tree,

it could’ve been so free

from the teeth, the jaw

of a destructive kid

who likes to magnify ants

into spontaneous combustion.

But it’s not really spontaneous is it?

The pits, they say, only last for a day

in the grand scheme.

But a worm on a leaf

gave one man so much grief.

The cyanide,

they say is a silly sort of poison-

and the ants are immune with instinct of choice.

Should they choose to amuse the eager thought

of what’s inside that meager cherry pit,

lest they ignore the fruit one could kill an entire hill.

But on that hill, I saw,

so clear, it wasn’t mine

to feast and dine on fruit

frivolously spat out on the greenest ground.

They say the grass is greener,

but Jonah could’ve had a cleaner point of view,

but you see God built him askew

so we could understand and be renewed.

I am not a pit, I am a seed,

cared for and given need.

I produce what I produce,

planted deep within the dirt.

Given pride and sunshine.

Maybe that disgusting kid was onto something.

The thought, the flow. . .

He is all that matters to himself,

 yet I’m stuck like an unread book on the shelf.

So what you may not know,

I have the uncanny ability to grow.

I Have Regrets

 You were the best friendship

Elm Street had to offer.

A brick patio to escape the smoke,

cigarette yellow stained walls.

Brown sticky drips of accumulated

cigar tar catch the dust of Dot.

Who is too old to clean, too old to care

that her grandson is corrupt,

dealing, a deviant and disturbed

enough to sexually abuse.

You know I was used

for the amusement of young boys, right D?

You’re the one

I don’t want to remember, remember?

Well, I’ve painted destruction

and I’ve dealt in denial.

You’ve painted me the villain

in my past of mistakes aimed right at you.

But you. . . Oh, you took my peace,

for years you stole my words,

my grace, my God’s sake,

and someone said to me recently. . . 

In an unspoken sort of way. . .

That’s not okay,

not that I stop wishing the best for you,

but that you don’t deserve the best.

You don’t deserve the best!

D, I don’t know if you can recall,

but while you were busy

making me the butt of your sick joke,

I was dying,

trying to cope with a sad sense of self

and the overbearing psychosis

imposed upon me by my family tree.

And I’ll never forget the empty nutshell

you introduced me to.

Yes, he was a joy

and while I was lucky enough

to survive that situation:

You never once questioned our companionship,

or if what we were doing was wrong.

Oh, I don’t know,

maybe you should tell someone

your supposed best friend

was the victim of teenage erotica at the hands

of an empty nutshell who was twice her age.

Then you had the nerve to make me feel

guilt and shame, called me a whore.

My God D,

you are such a bore! 

You accused me of theft,

yet you stole so much more!

I do not identify as the victim, 

and I’ll admit I had to be a villain

to overcome vulnerability.

Don’t mess with me,

I Have Regrets,

my share in wrongdoing.

But I’ve never stolen someone’s integrity

or their ability to feel humanity.

Those are things you stole from me!

So how could you expect a child to be

anything other than a mess of mistakes

in a miserable world

of sad circumstances?

I don’t know,

I do not know the answer to that question. 

I’m simply summarizing the past

so it doesn’t catch up with me.