Posts for June 8, 2017 (page 2)

Elephant sitting upon the chest
Is an accurate exaggeration
Hell was incarcerated inside me
My rib cage a home to a rhino 
That had enough

I flatten my hand along the lower curves of my ribs
hoping, hoping,
for a rhythm. 

Do I want one?

I let my hand stay,
anyway,
fingers trembling. 

oh, she’s beautiful
she’ll be fine

as if beauty defines
my life

as if beauty defines
how long i’ll be heartbroken
feel pain

as if beauty defines
my worth to others
my worth to myself

as if beauty defines
what i will or won’t be

as if beauty defines 
all any man has ever
seen in me
or will see

stop letting beauty define
what there is no definition for

A poem I write today and post
Is juicy
Like this spring’s two tart-sweet
Home-grown, homemade cherry pies.

Never allowed to cool,
To set up
Because who can wait three hours
To eat homemade cherry pie?

Some elegance of form
is lost.
Piles of fruit and tender crust and juice
Instead of definite slices.

The tink of fork on china,
The beat of meter and verse
Not precise, not set.
Still delicious.

She stands 

Noodle-y extremities falter
behind a heavy, obtrusive lump in her throat
Defeat free-falls
crashes onto her marrow  

Screw you and the pain you rode in on  

pain driven by a whip of fear
clinched by ruthless fingers of the Unknown  

Endurance soars on eagle’s wings
from the heavens and suggests
she let go  

Rest and wait  

Fear and Unknown hide
in shadows
but the thick lump dissolves
into vapor with each dogged breath
Her heart pumps iron
into those fragile noodles  

The fight, after all, calls not
for hard fists of brawn but
a patient soul
a soft heart full of
Brave  

You whispered to me to
follow
you into the kitchen
finger on your lips
smile on your face
as you reached into the
back of the cabinet
and with my hand outstretched I
took the pinch of brown sugar you
offered each time I came
to visit because I
would follow you anywhere

you,
with the brushed up, curled up, chopped up, styled up, dyed up hair
you with the piercings in many places
you with the tattoos and torn up clothes
you who hide your true face with makeup out of habit
you who strain your body for six pack abs
you and all have to admit
we’re all more than naked
behind our costumes
because you’re our future past and present
let’s hope you know what you’re doing

real love is not light.
it is cinder blocks 
upon your shoulders. 

What sort of problem 
are we each a half of?

This drought
is slowly 
drowning us
in dust.

We only need
a little rain—
I’m tempted
to ask
everyday

but I learned
once before
the asking
itself keeps
the clouds
away 

An awesome blossoming flower
Didn’t bloom til its final hour
Curious if the time would come
Before the setting sun
But once it bloomed
The buzzards gloomed
As they’ve never seen something so lively
And you too soon will bloom
You just can’t predict the timing