The arc of violence–
sulphur and microbes spew dance
the river’s fire lasts
gathering burgundy mist
searching an indigo kiss
(c) Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone
from when I was tiny
and the world was
new and big
clicking from frame to frame
a 70’s viewfinder
my favorite toys
the dancing apple
wind chime melodies
the wooden rattle
that clacked and clacked
the smell of wet wood
when I tried to taste
the beads made
It’s a delicate issue,
Republican Congressmen playing baseball
suddenly faced with
a Real World situation
when violence shattered early morning field rotation:
ting, ting, ting, ting,
Digging deep into foxhole dugout,
Ducking and dragging injured bodies
‘cross home plate
but who’s counting?
a hip is shot, crumbling bone.
but mum is the “terrorism” word.
No serious injuries.
violence is not the answer.
He was a trusted male with “dark hair”
who easily passed the guards with
his white skin, emptying a shot gun
from 3rd base.
Can’t put a wall around That.
But why, people want to know.
Did he break? Did he lose a job?
Did he lose health insurance?
Is he worried about Global Warming?
Was he forced out of a restroom?
Did he “live in a van down by the river?”
Surely, after all,
it must be mental illness.
And maybe, the NRA thinks
it was an unfortunate slip of the finger.
What was his name again?
Oh right, we already forgot.
no matter how far away
or how much i older i get
in her arms i’m a little girl again
and even tho for so many years
i’ve made my own choices
cooked my own meals
raised my own child
in her arms i know nothing
and she knows everything
and i may be somewhere over 50
but she would still hang my pictures
on the fridge door (if i colored any)
and when i’m sick i call her and pretend
that she’s right here tucking me in
and when i’m excited i call her
and tell her everything
and sometimes i call her
just to make sure she’s still there
because i still feel like i’m pretending
at being the grown up
and i need her to remind me
i’m still her best girl
We stand over the stove.
We pick through remains
of a chicken carcass,
recently roasted. We fill
with handfuls of meat.
The light above
casts a yellow blanket
over the remains.
Lemon juice and roasted
garlic cloves swim and swirl
in the black pan.
You hook your finger
around the wishbone.
When the breast and rib
meat has gone, the legs
safe in separate containers,
the bird flipped for oysters,
and wings inspected,
eaten in the haste of clean-up,
then you find the prize.
We place our greasy thumbs
on either side and a wish
escapes the cracking bone.
Your side, not mine, is larger.
Come with me, the tormentor told him.
Experience life in a multitude of facets.
Take my hand, and forget your problems.
In time, the sinister fiend’s grip became
unbearably tight. He begged his nemesis
to release him, but got laughter in his face.
Being dragged down into the bowels
of the earth, this was far from his expectations
of life. He reached his lowest extremity.
He searched for another hand to clasp,
one that offered hope, not judgment.
His only place to look was up.
I’m closing in on what love should be.
Honey rotten teeth
and velvet tongues
spitting out words that fill my lungs
Crafting worlds that make me want to exist
yet tearing it away for a moment of bliss
You gave me a fresh start
a forbidden promise of something new
an opportunity to forget
make myself have a different view
so I am willing to forget
words that bite at my skin
if I can live another life
have a different home
be a different wife.
I’ll let myself be blind
if I can just survive
I can pretend it’s love
the more time that passes by.