Let me lift your nose and mouth
above the waters edge
where you wash away grime,
the way we wash away words
flung at each other.
And under the covers
where we collide –
ultrasonic waves of sound
in liquid silence
touch with angelic softness,
setting aside the edge
of Gabriel’s sword.
And I find you,
no tears, no cries,
no angel’s wings,
and I lift you out of the water
praying that it is not too late –
gulping in those sharp gusts of wind
that blow between us.
You are an appendage that has to be amputated,
An infection, a sickness, a Vascular disease.
With no purpose real but to eat and eat and eat.
My freewill, my mobility,
you take an arm and a leg
At the cost of me becoming
Healthy again.
A decaying envelope
I want it.
I must have it.
I must have what she has.
Envy,
invasive as kudzu
blankets my brain
obscures all light
casts a putrid pea-green haze
on everything in sight.
I want it.
I must have it.
I must have what she has.
Just as kudzu
smothers the tree,
this constant coveting
chokes all reason from me.
I want it.
I must have it.
I must have what she has.
Kudzu
must be cut down,
at the crown.
Roots
must be scorched clean
with kerosine.
If not completely eradicated
the host cannot thrive;
this envy must be excised
so that I may survive.
The ugly black and white billboard
on the interstate
says
“I’m a child, not a choice.”
Wasting money on a political billboard
instead of using it to help the needy
is a choice,
an unChrist-like choice.
Being hateful
and judgmental
to the LGBTQ+ community
instead of ministering to their needs
is a choice.
Prioritizing the well being of the unborn
over that of the
born and suffering
is a choice.
Being a voice of judgment
instead of a
voice of love
is a choice.
(The people with the “not perfect, just forgiven” bumper stickers
secretly think they actually are perfect.)
Ignoring the needs
and the humanity
of the mother
is a choice.
Enjoying the free will
God gave you
but denying it to others
is a choice.
Having no compassion
for victims of
rape and incest
is a choice.
Handing down
a life sentence
for both mother
and unwanted child
is a choice.
(Who wants to be born
to a mother
who doesn’t want them?)
Choosing not to support
mother or child is a choice.
Cutting maternity leave is a choice.
Getting rid of free lunches for children
is a choice.
Abolishing programs
that benefit children
(including the arts)
is a choice.
“pro lifers”
stop caring about the baby
the moment after delivery.
Apathy begins at birth.
They would stop being
“pro life”
if they could determine
the child’s
gender,
sexual orientation,
etc
while still in the womb.
Then abortion would be fine
if the fetus
might be
gay or trans or bi.
Trying to legislate morality like the Pharisees
is a choice.
Hatred is a choice.
And so many so called christians
choose it every single day.
reminder to be gentle
towards myself
today of all days, when I weigh my errors and find them heavy
the past, meaning the way-way back
speaks a little louder the second week of June
I’ve managed it, well, thanks
old enough to measure life in decades
there are one hundred random conclusions
yet it boils down to, probably two which are solid
so I count my lessons learned
realize self grace does not come easy or without a few laughs
and march on, because I can
also, what else would I do?
Derby
Horses race
Wide brimmed hats
Mint juleps, bourbon, burgoo
Kentucky national spotlight
Two minutes
Flashed.
She wishes she never kissed him when the sun was
setting and the river was flowing in the distance. She
wishes she never kissed him back two more times
when he asked again. What was the point of the first
kiss when it turned into the second and third? She
wishes the moment could have stayed magical. It was,
until it wasn’t. It was a fairytale. It was the perfect
chronicle of undying love, until it wasn’t. Until the kisses
warped into constant arguments againist her dreams.
She wishes she never kissed him. She wishes she
never decided to hear him out when the equation
of their love became his money minus her future
multiplied by outside expectations. What was the
point of loving him if it meant losing her ambitions?
Dog was a good dog.
Short-haired, brown, big, he romped
with me down dirt roads crossing open fields
but things changed when Dog learned
how to solve quadratic equations.
Scientists coveted Dog, wanted
to learn how he did it, develop his skills.
Perhaps there were things
they could learn from him.
So, Dog went.
Dog remains a good dog.
Sometimes he returns to play with me.
His brown eyes know I’m lonely.
But when time comes for him to go back
I don’t fuss.
Sometimes I visit Dog.
He’s learned to sit in a chair and wear
a white lab coat at the conference table.
Scientists slap their foreheads, amazed,
as Dog solves every equation they can imagine.
Ultimately, I turn away.
It’s time for me to go home.
Still, I’m proud.
Dog is my dog
even though he isn’t anymore.
It’s cliche to say, hey,
