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.

Here, Now

The world didn’t end yesterday
I guess that’s good news
Nostradamus where are you?
we wait for the next prediction of doom
the rapture perhaps, good for some
but for the rest of us … not so much

“When will we ever learn” somebody asked.
never is my bet
we go on missing the obvious.
Life, it’s here, it’s now
But some day, some day
T he sky will indeed fall upon us all.

Again, forgiveness

 “Forgiveness means it finally becomes unimportant that you hit back.”
― Anne Lamott


How to forgive a Mother for dying too soon
How to forgive a Father for living too long
a brother for betrayal
a sister for neglect
The noisy neighbor who causes you to loose sleep

How to forgive your body for enveloping you in pain
How to forgive a friend who thinks you dont need one
the lover who leaves
the lover who never was
The child who quietly screams, they hate you

How to forgive yourself for believing it was true
How to forgive yourself for thinking it was all about you
No betrayal or neglect
No noise or pain

forgiveness   forgiveness   foregiveness

It is a daily ritual
done without ease
forgiveness 
again and again and again

The Gate

First there is a gate
then there is no gate
then there is.
Everything  a gate, a mountain, a doorway
it’s all the same
every person we meet
every task in front of us
every fear we create
a doorway, a mountain, a gate
step through and it disappears
only to form again

Alacrity

I have none.

Line

“Line … line” came the actor’s plaintive cry,
the rehearsal had been dragging on,
it was late, the lighting crew were arguing
as dark shadows crossed the actor’s face,
everyone’s muscles ached
“ly’n” came the script supervisor’s response
“what?” the actor looked up, face askew
“ly’n, as in, he’s LY’N, he’s always ly’n”
the actor went back to combing the actress’s hair
her head jerked when he hit a snag
she woke with a start.
she had been dozing, had been dreaming of long silky hair,
she always dreamed that she had hair like that
in stead her head jerked again, another snag
“line” she asked
the script supervisor just sighed

Diabolical

This plan was simple and to the point
let it in and then let it out
failure was a possibility but not a deterrent
flow in
stop at the gate and flow out
seismographic records and current periodic elements aside
this attempt meant business
line
line
Who will hold the line?
Diabolical
Kiss me: and hold my broken spine together with your sly Baleen smile

Pequod Redux

The fog covers it all.
slow ocean swells,
on this glassy sea, a boat
filled with worshipers of
the behemoth of the deep
the barnacled brow
breaches the surface

“Oh” the collective gasp and
they move as one
as if beckoned
and the ocean rises to meet them
enters the boat
their last screams muffled
as the fog covers it all.

Sweet Whip Cream

The Marine Layer is sitting
On the coast of The Monterey Bay
Thick condensed moisture
Sweet whip cream for the soul

My soul
Your Soul
The world needs some sweetness
Right about now

By the time I put down my pen
And recline into my chaise lounge
It will be dark and the coast
Will have disappeared from my view

An Alternative Ending

The film sound stage quieted. The director squirms in his seat, as he whispers “action.” Lit on the dark stage, a figure sits in a soft winged chair contemplating a large cigar. His beard is neatly trimmed. His fin de siècle horn-rimmed glasses sets his face off from his comfortable gray flannel suit. Blowing a neat ring of smoke towards a figure reclining on an ornate chaise longue, he clears his throat trying to awaken the snoring actor. He finally casts his imploring gaze towards the director. It has been the thirty-seventh take and it is three thirty in the morning and everyone was very weary. The sleeping actor could not be roused. He was exhausted. Everyone was exhausted. They could go no further. The director gave in. “Cut, It’s a wrap.”

Freud my Archeologist

 


My Archeologist told me I am too deep
too compressed and too complicated

I flex my brain and attempt an expelling
of said deep, compressed complication

My Archeologist tells me next: fear not power
your own or others as well as might is right
power is but an illusion as well as dust

With precise optical brushes and miniscule velvet pickaxe
the dig has begun without my consent or desire

My Archelologist reaches out to me with gloved hand
confidently turns my wrist over to expose my veins
and touches each visible blue ghost with tenderness

Ach du lieber gott......
I have no fear
Just a thought
Will there be tea and toast afterwards?

After the Storm

a low grumble following a flash of light

the storm moves further down the valley

electric air stirred by a gentle green breeze

branches bend low discarding

            the last drops of the past hour

small soft animals peek out

expectation in their eyes

the archeologist of our mind

            slowly reassembles

the shards of this battered world

it is the second dawn of this day