Sidewalk Shrine

Someone has set up a sidewalk shrine
next to the pharmacy on Agua Fria Street

An Orphic Abuelita sleeps there every night
beneath crocheted blankets and handmade quilts
Teddy Bears and metallic balloons
sympathy cards, birthday cards
plastic flowers and real flowers
faded photographs
frozen tears
magical wishes
alleged confessions
false sympathy and
enough regret to keep her warm until morning

All this piled on top of one frail aged woman

                                          who dreams of flesh and blood

                                                          while lightly touching an empty yellowed cradle

Touch It II

Draped around a metal pole,

Tied like a scarf,
To ward off the morning fog,

A blazing yellow banner,

Signaling that yet again
Someone has gone too far.

A night of excess,

Mixed with a good dose 
Of insecurity and something to prove.

The shots were surprisingly quiet,

Easily mistaken for forbidden fireworks
Squirreled away for a special occasion.

But the dead young man

knew the difference,
Though it doesn’t matter much to him now.

It was weeks ago,

Yet the crime scene tape remains,
And my neighborhood will never be the same.

Touch It

Who will touch her scar and tell her 

it is pretty and "adds character" ?

Who will know how it got there

and what to do when it never heals?

These are soul scars

deep and depth charged

unfathomable to the naked eye.

Touched only by love

Pain lessened by empathy 

Touch it

Touch it

Touch it

what doesn't kill us will surely make us go mad

Scars

He picked at the scab.
Flakes, black and crusted
Fall away.
 
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
My stomach churns.
I don’t know why.
I know there are far worse things.
 
My mother always said
That picking scabs leaves scars.
This is a line in the sand.
It separates those who pick
From those who don’t.
 
I baby my scabs,
Cover and shelter them until
They are strong enough
To protect me, shelter me,
From the outside,
Until I heal,
Emerging from my cocoon,
Baby soft and new.
 
But there are those, you,
Who pick,
Who cannot wait
For healing.
 
You want it on your time
And you chisel away
At any reminder of past injuries,
Moving on
With only pale hollows
To remind you of where you have been.

Sucker Punch

April opened up like a punch in the gut

April is here old man,
April is here

Everything is changing and

the wind has blown your umbrella

inside out

Airborne particles will lull you with

Cherry Blossoms nearly crimson

and purplish Dutch Crocus

that keel and explode with color

Small tufts of sweet baby Chickweed

poke about between cracks 

in the glittered pavement

All signs of new life

All vie for attention 

All we need do is look

April is here old man,

April is here

Damn the torpedo's and full steam ahead

April

April is here
A third of the year has passed,
And I can’t tell you where it’s gone.
 
Each day breaks,
Crashing over me,
And I tumble endlessly.
 
Be here, now.
Be here, with the swell
Riding the crest, floating.
 
Oh, those days are as rare as the perfect wave.

Introduction: new blog contributor

I would like to introduce a new contributor to this blog. Her name is Toni Gibbs. She will be contributing along with me, Tru Dillon to this blog. As this blog has sat quiet for a few months (with many changes going on in life), we are eager to start writing.

Thanks for stopping by and reading our poetry.