Can almost forget      that we were tragedy

if I stop         reviewing it          long enough.

Almost      don’t even feel you       anymore.

Can almost go about        living      my life 

as if nothing           even               happened.

But of course, it did.            A lot happened.

Two people with specific traumas collided

with maybe            God            at the center-

symbiotic      or                            internecine

both doomed           if just one       faltered.

After so much time     I still don’t      know

if I did my part right,  if I was even   close

at all.                All I think about       is how

when the next storm blows in             how

safe       complete    I could feel   with you.

How I feel       so much of me        was lost

when you left.           How easy it’s become

not to try at all.   Turn it all off; be without

desire.           How when someone, anyone

gets me wanting,    all I really want   is you.

I dream to write,
like the other poets do.

Where I paint beautiful landscapes,
and colorful sceneries,
of someone else’s stories.

I wish I could create,
fictional characters,
and magic wonders.

Far away from reality.

I keep leaving pieces of my heart,
in every word I wrote.
Hoping people will understand.

I made it all up.

A child sits astride a white horse
happily holding a red banner
under a bright yellow sun
with straight and undulating rays of light
emanating from its face while
sunflower blooms peek over the garden wall.  

The sun is both earthly and Divine
its light bringing
clarity and truth
the enlightenment
of feeling and understanding.  

At this point on his journey
the Fool has returned
to the openheartedness
he had as a child
in the safety of the garden
under the eternal light
of the sun.  

We are here
to bring our light
to the world.  

Awakening to that realization
we become like the child—
filled with energy and optimism
glowing with contentment and joy 
as we allow our true radiance to shine forth.

The meadow of Creative Justice

I think of a young Ernest Hemingway
radiant in his hospital bed
the lionhearted warrior
flirting with the nurses
there for the adventure–
more material for his writing life.
Nothing old and defeated in this picture
the eagle temporarily grounded
with merely an injured wing.
Greeted everywhere with warm eyes
and smiles, he’ll come back
stronger than ever and the cane
just makes him look more heroic.

My nails turned blue, an omen.
I have said it all. Black-holed my mouth.
Blacked-out. Erased you for a moment,
stunned dead. I killed many men this way.
Sunk my teeth, you know the rest of the story.
My hands are white. They are red. They are
my vice. I am bone cold, riddled with ice.
I am not nice. You should put me down finally.
I get myself alone. Wait for it to happen,
some man with a gun and vengeance to come
shoot me dead. I show everyone my cards
and wait for a threat. You are far too kind
to be my kind. My heart was always on my sleeve
but no one cared for better or worse about that.
Regardless you’ll reach for me any way you can, 
but I won’t let you touch me for a long time. 
I’m so cold I’d suck the air from you.
When I say what I mean it gets me in trouble,
so now I speak only in metaphor, in poems.
I’m done with living any other way. Give myself
up. I crave. There is no cure. This is terminal.
The images of a different life snow me in,
I can nearly make my own winter out of them.
I sit by a fire and do not throw myself into it.
It must be a blessing to never want to.
It must be a blessing to be so warm. 

I leap off my perch
Which houses me most of the day,
A flash of brown catching my eye,
It dances along the perimeter
And flees away from my grasp,
And as I sprint, I’m on its haunches,
And the creature looks at me,
In his eyes I see my own, but twisted,
Red, mean, small,
In his eyes I see fear,
And I see me,
Fear,
Me,
I try to halt, but my limbs won’t listen,
My legs run, my arm swats,

The last thing I saw in those eyes were my claws,
Talons piercing his heart,
And I stalk away in a mask,
My grief overshadowed by a triumphant face,
His limp, lifeless, little body dangling from my lips,
Rivulets of blood running down my chin,
And as I throw him in the air, trying to set his soul free,
I realize I am the predator,
And that’s why they love me.

Ebony eyes stare
Does he delve for meaning in
Mine as I do his?

a little ladybug on the windowsill in my room
a step outside to get a glimpse if the moon

a text or phone call from a sweet friend
a kiss from my sweetheart at the days end

a favorite dessert for absolutely no reason
the first ripe strawberry of the season

just a few little things that make life worthwhile
and thinking about them make me smile

trace the ridges in your pocket
worry stone long held  runs a mirror at life
like the rub of cold cream across the desert of your painted features
the skin  a geography of stories like so many others  yet alone  just yours
life puts you under pressure  tears plink rhythmically  boring bowls into the surface of your days
not without regret  you can still look forward
this now  this vantage point  this precious piece of earth  this stone held dearly between thumb and four fingers
life dormant  deep under the surface