On the Subject of GrievingI touch the hand,Brittle,Breaking,Raw edges off my memory,Emotion,Bare,Honest in my voice,Open chasm,Broken,Bleeding, bandaging the loss.
OffFlutteringCold, dark, pale,I see the ages pass by,Time unannounced,And I wonder,When they will turn me off
MarkedThis room feels like a prison nowOpen and bareLeft to its own devicesIt would devour me wholeTearing flesh and bone and ligamentShredding my consciousRipping my soulYou're goneWithout any real sense of closureNo welcome sign on the doorNow just a warning:"This room is marked"
MindreaderI don't understandWhat caused the eruptionI can't read your mind.I don't understandWhy you were silentI can't read your mind.I don't understandThe "other things" you eluded toI can't read your mind.Why did you choose to remain silentSo long?Waiting until your breaking pointThen exploding?Causing a rift that echoesIn my mindThrough the roomBetween our friends.Now the room is half emptyAnd I'm still confused.Sore,Afraid,Uncertain of your plan,Worried for my mate.I couldn't have knownWhat you thought was obvious.I'm sorry,I'm not a mindreader.
FireIt belongs to everything bold, passionate, fierce, and strong. It's the feeling of falling in love and of your heart being broken. It's the feeling of power, raw and barely controlled, and the burn of being thrown from power. It's a dance, fluid and graceful, filling my mind with poetry and visions of red, yellow, blue, and pure white. It's a basic element, basic for survival. It's delicate, fragile and can be extinguished with air, water, or earth. It is part of balance, part of life and part of death.
I am...I am
A swirl of rainbow, ever changing like an oil spill,but solid and consistent in form,A wave in the ocean, a sound wave,carrying a gentle yet unforgettable message,A dance, a tango, foreign, fast, and fun,The sound of waves crashing on the beach, on rocks,A disjointed melody with irregular breaks,8, eternity on its side,A black Harley Davidson, leather accents, bold and earthy,A big, comfy blanket with stars,Manicotti, tangy and red with a solid outer shell, soft inside and stunning covering,A harp, each string a different note,Separate yet harmonious,
HuntressBow strung,Taut,Against her fingers,Ground cradling her foot,Drawing her in,Shades of greens,Browns,Huntress in motion,Prey in sight,The forest is her camouflage,She is the tree,The grass,The long, winding path.
HelicopterA pair of bright green eyes look up to me,Tiny hands outstretched to mine,"Me next! Me next!"A little lisp accompanies each word,Gripping, giggling, our world spins,I see,Tv, desk, couch, wall, doorway,Over and over again,And a smiling little girl,Dizzying, confusing, too fast to focus,Spinning down,Setting on the ground,I twirl to the floor,"Again, again!" I hear as stars dance in my eyes,I try to stand but my world spins, balance eludes me,Still I laugh,"Not just yet, Sweetie, Nea still can't see straight."
Grass GraveStanding still outside,Long stretch of watery grave,Will Spring arrive soon?