New Beginnings

First mowed grass of summer with a brand new mower
First drive in a brand new car
Unwrapping a brand new cakepan
Uncapping a new tube of red paint
The first sip of a freshly opened beer
The first day of a new job
Taking the tags off of a brand new outfit
Cracking open a new book
Sleeping in freshly washed sheets
New beginnings
2011
Happy New Year!

New Year's Eve Plan

Beer
Bath
Book

Bed

My omen for the new year:

I will enjoy comforts of life
I will care for myself, heal, and relax
I will learn new things and enjoy them

I will have exciting, happy, and restful dreams

Happy New Year's All!! :)

Life is good.

Glow

The skin was pale and pasty.
Gaunt and green with pain.
The truth shown through
And the ugliness was honest to her.

She had seen a change
Happier days with health and life
But the poison of desire
Of lies and denial cast of shadow of clammy grease.

She longed to see the health and pink
That accompanied his genuine smile.

But facing her is false and fear
and so she grieves.

Until the moment when life flickered in.
Eyes sparkled with realization.
To be true and nobel though scary and cruel
Saves his soul.
And suddenly,
glows.

His cheeks fill in. Color pink and warm.
The truth shines through his once hollowed eyes
And she feels as though he finally sees her.

His words, through every drop, are honest, brave, and sacrificial.

His love for her is foremost.
No longer will his denials, fears and disguising weigh him down, and make him sick.

This is a new life. A rebirth. And if a new sickness takes him in this new life, then happy he will let it take him.

For the glow of life lived true is proof of a life not wasted.

And to her, on his new path, he is beautiful.

Breath

I know life and I've seen death.
I feel both when I've held my breath.

The Ghost Flower

A withering crushed delicate flower needs the perfect amount of water. Too much, easily damaged, too little, her frailty cannot withstand. She becomes too soon a ghostly shadow of the flower she was meant to be. For a flower cannot ask. She is at the mercy of the watering can. Only the brightness of her beauty can draw the can to her, and save her. And as her beauty fades, she knows. The ghost is coming.

To Love a Blog

Thank you, thank you my dear friend,

For I needed you and you're here again.

Your gift is bold and font is hot.

You give me speech when mouth cannot.

I see spinning thoughts in black and white

Pause, smile and sigh...,

For I now know that I can sleep tonight.

I Will Not

Tonight I will not paint.

I will not smile nor write.

I will not giggle

I will not wiggle

I will not laugh nor cry.

Instead I'll bathe in water hot

And dream of life so new.

And tomorrow will be a new day

With many things I will not do.

I'll Sing

It's not true. No way.

Tis a dream.

I'll awake and it will return.

Normal. Happy. Warm.

I pretend to be brave. Hide the dark circles, the redness.

It's not true. It can't be.

But that life was dying and so we did. It happened.

Tis true and I'm very much awake.

An inner growl grows. No. No! Not fair! Why? Why? Why?!

I need something. I'm desperate. Desperate to deal with the pain. But I feel it, and become enraged. A fire. Shaking, fists, more dark circles and redness.

I'll prove this wrong. I'll lash out. See me? Cower from my mighty ROAR!

But wait, just wait! If I just hold my breath, can it be fixed? If I just do...something. Then all will be good. Warm. Deal? Come on! Please!? I'll be better. And we can pretend...Can't we?

And soon I know the truth. My inner truth. My inner knowing. We can't. And my heart breaks all over again. For now it hits me. I'm so alone. So empty.

And in the days and weeks of the melting snow and thawing ice, the emptiness starts to fill with the song of my inner truth. It fills me from within. A warmth. And the emptiness slowly becomes no more. And soon, I am awake, stronger.

And perhaps, I'll sing.

Crushed

I did it. Pushed him. Pushed him under.

My mind, so beautiful. So constant.
Constantly spinning.
The earth spins. My world. A blur.

Inside me the thoughts rattle and whirl.
Berries in the blender. Plain yogurt. Faster and faster, crushing, bleeding, smoothing.

My thoughts crushed me. Faster and faster. Bled.
Until smooth.

And in the spinning wave he was crushed, drowned. Pushed under.

Constant waves of ideas.
Thoughts. Colors. Feelings.

Answer me. Answer. Talk to me. Talk.
Silence is only in sound for my brain always screamed.

Inside.

And to him I ran, cried, wept, hid.
But the screams were too loud, too constant, too crushing for him to bear.

And he jumped, over the edge, under the water of blended berries, where it was silent.

The Void

A blankness spills off the edge of the paper.

The void overruns.

My world is changing from color

to Black and White

to the nothingness of a black hole.

A wintry field

Blanketed. No distinctions.

Barren and lifeless.

And yet as the expanding border of the nothingness consumes what's left for the eye to ponder,

just as quickly,

Color.

Pale at first.

Growing more vivid.

Deep colors of course.

Reserved. Cautious.

Bright is too deadly for those of us who are accustomed to the black and whited land.

But here. Color.

Purple.

Midnight.

Burgundy.

Oxygen rich blood, coursing.

It creeps and consumes, melts the nothingness with a hungry reddened singe.

Fire to a paper.

An orange.

A yellow, green!

Could it be true?

Life is returning to the world of grays and blank void.

And I feel pain. New. Tiny at first. Then so strong.

Like the thawing of frozen toes.

It burns and I hop, adjusting to the sensation.

Thankful to feel, to hop.

The colors they warm me, thaw, even with only their waves.

No heat, no touch.

Just a burning in my brain

and the trigger of a memory.

The old me.

I'm coming home.

Action Figure

Shiny, new and boxed.

Aisles and aisles

They stand tall.

The Action Figure.

Not known for their words.

Not known for their papers

Nor promises

Nor intentions.

Action Figure

Strong, tall, destined to move. To act.

Fly

Save

Leap

Climb

Fight

Punch

Pow!

Kaboom!

I want my Action Figure.

Word Figures are far too painful.

I Will

I promise

I'm sorry

I'll do better

I'll try

Word Figures. So strong in their pen. So easy to believe. I followed, trusted.

Pained.

Though these shiny Action Heroes appear so plentiful

So few they are.

And so high in demand.

Where is my Action Figure?

Hug

Kiss

Hold

Carry

Fix

Drive

Pay

Protect

Strong Shiny Action.

Writing a Poem...For Dummies....

I am a mouse in a laboratory maze
Bumping into walls
Searching for freedom of known safety and security.

In my past I've been a statue
Nobel and strong
Through rain and darkness
Showing others the way
Hiding my own needs behind my stone shell

In my future I want to be a young green leaf
On a tree on the edge of a breathtaking valley
Growing and flowing in the sunshine and gentle wind
Free to be beautiful, to turn colors, and fall to where ever I choose.

My life is a maze of paths
All interwoven
At different times and places.
The statue standing tall, leading the way and the leaves changing the scenery.
I want to walk them all and wander.

Sugar Coated

To sweeten the news
And soften the bite

A sugar coated weakness
A shield from guilt

A message is softer,
Attempts to be kind

But sugar causes cavities
Which undermine
The strength.

I prefer my news bitter
Hardened and sour

The lingering taste on my lips
Honest, vivid, and pure.

A bitter pill to swallow
Coated in sugar
Gets stuck in the throat
And I choke
And cry.

So, unsweetened
Unsugared
Painful and bold

That is the truth
Be brave
Trust me to taste it
And I'll swallow it whole.

Dream People

Silent Partner

Power of a silent partner.

To utter a word is to surrender.

A game, turns taken. Power played.

Yours, mine.

Silence is more mighty than sound.

So quiet I will remain.

In The Happy Land of Swaledale.

'Twas the morning of work and I at my desk,

Was all settled in to work at my best.

I greeted and chatted and acted polite,

All the day long and into the night.

When what to my tiring eyes should appear,

But a dark handsome man with absolutely no fear.

He smiled and teased and called me by name,

"Hello gorgeous, tell me how you are today."

I blushed and I smirked to hide feelings true.

But to the man secretly inside he knew,

That this woman was smitten by his eyes green and blue.

His ease, peace, and charm grabbed her heart from within,

That from then on all she wanted was him.

So he asked her as he touched her and held her small hand,

To go for a ride, on his bike, across land.

So the two fell in love, hand in hand, side by side.

"Happy Swaledale to all and to all a good ride!"

Wrists, bound, warm against cool tile.

Knowing someone is behind but unable to see.

Falling with nothing to grab onto.

Bound.

No chance.

No choice.

His choice.

An apple red and ripe on a dusty heated fall afternoon.

The juice is tempting.

The red.

Powers. Poetic power.

He reaches, pulls, plucks.

The bound red wrist holds the bitten fruit.

Poet. Power.

He devours.

Mine

She's not mine

I have one and she's good.

There, standing tall. Strong.

I have her and she has me.

He doesn't have mine anymore.

He has her. He wants her to be mine.

But she takes him from me. And I hate her.

Mine tells me to hate her.

Yesterday she was his and he was still mine.

Yesterday she was there. And she was kind.

But mine says no. Not kind. Bad.

I trust mine. Both of mine I trust. But they say different things.

Mine is strong. But mine is cruel.

She is kind. But she is bad?

She is his and he is still mine.

Mine is lying?

Could I have three?

She's not mine. Someday could she be?

White.

Grained.

Granules. Ice, salt, diamond.

Skin conforms to the corse.

Takes the breath away.

Vast whiteness

Pristine pearls

Dampers of the sound of time.

One step. Another. Heel toe.

Lonely footprints warn the spirits of resilience

Or of solitude.

One dreams of footprints.

Footprints in pairs. And the white beckons.

To be solo in the white is daunting.

Taunting.

A backwards glance reveals this ancient knowledge.

Solitude brings thought and tough times.

Walking to another, to join in the white, do these imprints know?

The next backward glance brings a smile.

I could but won't.

I can but don't.

The brown and white swirls and the smell of the ground beans.

Together we watch them all outside in the cold. They're in the cold in the dark in the bright sun.

Haughtiness.

I could do it.

Pained.

I could be that.

Would I be better? Would I be good then?

Me and my swirls. I want to be great. Maybe the ground beans and I are great.

Good enough.

We see the light.

And feel the dark.

I could. But with a clenched and weary fist, I won't.

His cursed gifts. They make me ache.

He is the hunger. And he doesn't even know it.

All the elements are his. Push. Spin. Click. Brush. Just one touch and its gold. Well, pewter to him.

To those eyes, a different world. His skin, a different air.

Moments. Just one. I'd die for one. To strum. Stroke. The gift of life. Yet still so sad.

To have a gift and to let it go.

He has it. Time is his. Elements.

I hunger.

I see their eyes. Their disapproving eyes.

I tell them but they've heard it before. They know.

We try. We all try. Fail.

Just one. Please God just one.

Where are they?

Approving eyes? Dark windows to a relieved soul. Maybe on one sigh of relief.

My relief.

I'll forever seek those eyes.

A tortured mind her most vulnerable state.

A restless sleep burned by the sick of love and unfaithfulness.

Twisted soul.

My soul.

I saw him. Them.

Twisted soul convinces me that it's ok.

My soul.

Tonight, another torture.

I am cruel.

Curious is the pitch

And the melodic tune.

Hum on their lips and minds.

The warrior is weak and the muse is mighty.

Might. I seek you out.

I seek the power to control and yet I yield control to empower.

Perhaps I am not a muse.

Perhaps I am a warrior. I yield. I surrender.

Yet my surrender is mighty.

I give you my power. I give my power to the muse.

The mighty muse, empowered by the weak warrior.

And I hum his tune.

Dead man walking

last meal, eating, talking.

I laugh as we talk, and yet time keeps going. One bite. Two bites. Moments closer to the end are so much more sacred.

And time is up.

He stands. I clean.

He finds a shoe. His keys.

Drive safe and slow. He is a time traveler. One dimension into another.

Two worlds. Two bites away from two worlds.

He drives now and my belly is full. Empty belly, full belly. The emptiness takes over.

Now my world is just mine with traces of a shared spirit. A plate, ground coffee, sugar, a wooden spoon.

A shirt. His shirt, my reservation and ticket. My assurance that this was real. And soon he'll return.

My final meal. Our final kiss.

And now that shared spirit is gone.

Dead woman walking. Until then.

Give it to me.

I deserve, so much more than them.

I would do good. So good.

Who better? Haven't I proved it? Haven't I suffered and weathered and won?

And yet their voices come through.

Damn idealism. It backfires once again.

Trapped. Why did you make me this way?

Here is the pole and there are the thousands of fish. But the ocean is on the other side of the desert.

And you gave no water.

Just give it to me. Give me what I need to survive the desert journey.

I'm wasting. I'm submitting to the desert people while the fish are waiting!

I deserve it. I admit it. Ego. Fame. Power, I can use for so many.

I am tired of this desert. Give it to me.

There are the voices again. Damn idealism.

Honestly I know what it is.

I know what you are.

Acceptance. Unconditional...something.

Basic instincts are to survive, one way or another.

God made you this way. He accepts. Unconditional.

One big instinct.

But what if? I wonder.

If in our raw form? If in simplicity. Would acceptance be easier?

No pressure to conform. Nor to break conformity.

In a raw world, just being. That would be enough.

A Healer.

A Composer.

Raw.

Pictures In The Window

Pictures in the window

Stillness of the night

A breath, a tap

Awoken by a dimly shining light

The pictures show a scene

of happy days ago

A man,

His Love

To prove to her

She should not let him go.

He waits outside

In wind and rain

for her to wake and rise.

And through the window

His eyes they shine

Now he has has prize.

Adam

In sudden agony and deep fear

Mixed with love and hope

She feels the stirring inside.

Her world is opening. Dark no more.

Flesh is transformed.

Exotic as a new land.

Yet common as a puppy.

Her future rides on this pain,

Tearing, pushing.

She crawls into loving hands.

What's to come?

Its a pain tangled with a fear of death.

Yet she knows all will be well.

One hour. Two.

Minutes tick with the drop of the liquid.

Deeper, tighter.

The future. Her future. Their future is now.

And with a blast from within,

Power of ten screaming men,

She expels and creates at the same time.

Covered in the red of a heart,

Wet of a thousand tears,

The cries of a woman reaching her salvation.

And the heavenly angelic thirsty coo.

All else is forgotten.

Peaceful home

Peace is such in a quiet home When he has left and I'm alone. A silent home so clean and cool No longer shared by such a fool. I rest my back, my spine, my soul Memories waft back of time ago. Of passionate days of love and life But today he caters to the ex wife. And the peace I wished for OUR life and home, Is today, not quite the peace I've found alone.

Ode to the Swanson Christmas

The door swings open,

Smiles they greet.

The warmth, the love, the food, the heat.

It hits us each as we all walk in.

Its Christmas Eve in Swanson-land. Let the fun begin!

We line around the buffet counter.

The sight, smells, flavors. We ready to devour!

Cookies, sausage, krumkake too.

Herring, ostakake, deviled eggs, Oooh!

Hugs and kisses, forks and dishes.

Eat and talk, while Aaron wishes

For the time to come, to sort and hand out

The presents. "Sit each and all!" He will shout.

And as we gather with bellies so tight,

We feel love and peace on such a fun night.

But the eve is not over, no there's more to be done.

For the presents are handed out to everyone.

The first one to pick, oh what shall Darlene take?

The big one? The red one? The decisions to make!

She picks the bag with presents galore. A cup, a bowl, ice cream toppings and more! With oohs and aahs, people consider and drool.

Who's next? Aaron asks. What will they do?

Kalli picked Catchphrase. The best game! How entertaining!

Then Marty, a photo album and gift card. He's not complaining!

He tucks it in his pocket safe and sound,
for he knows others are waiting for their turn to come around

To steal it and use it and the photo album too. So many memories to fill it with. What will the next person do?

Jerry was a good husband and took his wife's place.

For he picked her a robe and a pillow in a case.

And next was Larry, the joker galore.
He picked a big gift with puppets and more! A birdie christmas towel and many giggles too. His pot holders said "Howdy! How do you do?"

With smiles and talk of bananas and 29 cents, the laughter goes round and loud.

Next its Erica's turn and she drools and delights. The ice cream bowl she steals and is proud.

Carter is next and he picks a nice gift of soup and chili and towels. His parents say "Yay! You'll be able to cook for your party! Tee hee, don't let it get too wild!"

Next the quiet Lyla sneakily steals Carter's towels and food.

And now Carter picks the next gift he eyes,again for cooking, Jim Beam cutting and grilling tools!

Next it is Lois the artist so kind. She request from Aaron the big gift behind.

She opens and pulls out goodies so tasty. Breads and cookies and candy. Great pastries!

Kaleb the college jumper now so better than Wisconsin, picks the gift card for food he'll soon be munchin'

In his new apartment in good ol' U of M.

We're happy he's back along with his sister and kin.

And now its for Jerry, his turn to pick. What will he pick from his Swanson St Nick?

Jerry is too nice and just won't steal. A Target gift card and picture frame. Such a great deal!

And the patiently waiting Janice is next. She knows Aaron has a wonderful gift he protects.

She eyes it and takes it with a knowing wink. That if John really wants it, into it his fingers he'll sink.

She opens the box and pulls out a warm seat. A massager for the back and the butt. How neat!

And of course we all know how the last gift will run. John smiles and steals it for him and his grandson.

And Jan has take two. Now what will she do? Yay! The last gift card and frame are now done!

So we all look around, and Thank-You's abound. With I love you's and hugs and kisses.

And soon they are off packed up warm in coats so soft and send out Merry Christmas wishes!

So in true Swanson style a few take a while to pack up the extra yummy food.

And everyone heads home feeling never alone. For the love of a Swanson gathering is so good.

---

Gray today. I've learned that I can write because I too have what it takes.

When the dark is there, we write.

Darker yet we cry.

When tears make better prose than joy it is a sad place. Gray. Blue.

When purple skin is preferred over the green or the gray it is a sad place.

I wish for purple. Purple heals. Green turns to black. Blackness of a soul.

Tears of black are like ink. They cover all the white. Drowned. Death.

When oranges and reds of warm living fire get pushed away and melted, gray remains.

I prefer purple. It heals. It too melts, into a strong and glorious mix of pink and yellow.

The sun, growing the flower. Strong, beautiful, not showing its purple gray roots. Yet we know.

Such a pink is strong.

I am pink.

I am one.

I feel compassion and so I say this.

To see through their eyes, their world, then I too say, I am one.

I need it. I am weak. I fear being free from its heavy chains.

Freedom means choice. And this is a path I have avoided.

My chain hurts, but I am numb to it. My skin blackened by it but I forget.

Who feels the pain? They do.

Those who feel the agony of my chains. They didn't ask for this burden yet I have placed it upon them.

My chain is not my own. It is connected, binding, blackening all who touch me.

They cry for it hurts. I am numb and pretend not to hear.

It is my chain and I have the key. But the key is in the mirror and I'm too scared to look.

So I lock us all. And I ignore the crying.
And I say, this is my chain, not yours.

Until a day comes when those in the chains die from the pain. I've killed them.

My mirror looks at me now. Its so small and dirty. It laughs at me through its tears.

I open the mirror and it screeches so loudly that the whole world hears. And I cannot hide.

My blackened skin, their cries, the deaths and loss, the hiss of the creak. I am on stage. It is my cue.

Help me.

Poisoned Circle

You are sick and twisted.

I am becoming so sick and twisted.

I am dying.

I am dying alone even though you are right here, killing me.

I hate your circle. Its bent, broken, ugly, twisted.

Your kids and ex are living in it with you.

I'm outside your circle.

I'm sick because I want to be in it.

I should run from you.

I should run far and fast. Away from the poisoned circle.

But as I run away I turn and look. I see you reaching over the circle. You reach for me.

You're eyes are crying and your feet are burning.

I can't free you from the circle. You are firmly planted inside. Your kids are sitting inside the circle, playing. They are sad, but they don't even realize that a happy life outside the circle exists.

She has blinded them. And they are stuck. They see no problem with the dark bent and ugly circle. And they beg Daddy to sit down and play with them.

And I have to decide.

Living a life forever outside of that ugly circle to being close to you. All the while being burned when I reach to hold you.

Or, running so far and so fast that when I look behind me, I no longer see the circle, or your agony. And no longer feel the sting of its poison.

Just give me a reason. Hurt me. Push me. Make me bleed.

And then I might run fast and hard. I might stop dying. And be free.

Starfish

A starfish loves to strongly cling with all five fingers.

I am not this strong starfish, for I have released four of my five fingers.

One remains.

When I met you I held you with three. Enough to know you and show you myself. You had most of me.

Soon you had four. We loved.

Then you pulled me closer and I had five on you. I was completely attached.

And you were scared.

And you hurt me. And I released and went down to four. And then three. And then you once again pulled me and I attached all five.

And then your divorce happened. I was pushed away.

I held on with two.

When you are alone with me, you pull me close. I give you four. But never again five.

And when you leave, back to three.

And then I detach and go to two, while I work.

And now I go to one because I'm hurt.

One is not strong.

A weak current or a passing boat could knock me off.

With one I am still connected, barely. Too much for your kids though, but enough for you.

Not enough for me.

What if I let go?

Shhh

Shhh

I cannot tell. Can you keep a secret?

I am leaving. I am going away. A ticket, a bag, a cross.

My journey is now and yesterday is over.

Don't tell. Don't let him know.

I leave because I can. I know he will cry and that makes me laugh.

I've lent him my tears. So many. He has his turn now to give them back.

I'll be on a plane, over a vast body of hope and future.

I escape from torture to bring freedom and pain.

His pain, our freedom.

I'm soon leaving. Don't tell him till I've gone.

I'll hear the crack of his heart in my new world, and I'll smile.

Ode to the world

To the judge I say friend don't judge.

I say Read me and love me.

I am the world. I am you. I read you.

When writing is more fearful than crying then I say Be brave.

When reading and loving is more fearful than judging I say Read and love.

For I am the world. I am you.

Drum

Steady pounding.

A torturer in beige linen.

When rest becomes the enemy and thinking is a luxury, a lifeline is words. Words too loud to bear.

A tissue, a steaming mug, that steady beating drum. My view through the vast window is of shivering and isolation.

Or a vast mirror.

Winter brings child-like joy. Born of sacrifice and sorrow.
Hot showers are pleasure and pain.

With a weary step I go forth to take on the world.

And put on my robe.

So many messes that I could fix if I took the time. Injustice. Poverty. Ignorance.

A pile of dirty soup bowls.

A bottle of pills is the disease and the cure.

So I take two for the team.

Cursed drum.

May you forever keep pounding.

You Were With Me

You were with me this morning as I walked into work.

It was raining, and you were my little gray umbrella with the bent
handle and the frayed edges. You are always there, ready to keep me dry
from the rain.

You were the warmth that entered my hand and warmed my blood as I held
my cup of hot tea with my other hand.

You were the pleasant smell of the crushed grass clippings soaking in
the puddled sidewalks, that sends me back in time to relive every summer
I've ever enjoyed.

And you were my favorite color combination that always makes me feel one
with nature...the pink of the peony flower as she drops her petals on
the wet deep green grass below. Pink and green...

It was a quiet walk into work on this gray rainy morning, but with you,
it was absolutely beautiful.

Game is starting.

The rules are understood.

Its a game of dreaming.

Explore. Push and go over.

Game hurts because I couldn't play.

I wouldn't.

Now I play. Expert.

Now we play the game.

Two experts. One game. Two worlds.

Will we come together? Perhaps.

That's not how it is won.

Its not a team game.

Its a game of luck. Lucky lover.

Will you stay? Will my game scare you?

No. Not anymore. I am not scared. I have my weapons and you have felt my blade.

Lucky lover.

My game is won by reaching the end. The fog that has no end.

Too bad for me. We won.

Lucky lover has a new voice.
Lucky lover has a new friend.

I lost when I played the game.

Hero worship.

Faith above my own.

Pray, give, tithe.

Commit to the hero.

Hero will commit to me.

Tall, strong, brave. Hero slays

the worshipper.

"Freedom at last,"

the hero cries.

To Forgive

Such a poem as forgiveness

Braver souls than I have not.

The loss of self. Persistence of humility.

To grant such a vow is to grant a life, and to take one to the shadows.

For forgiveness is not the sunshine of youthly lessons.

It is the hardness of cracked knuckles on an old withered woman as she rolls her final fold of floured dough.

Forgiveness sentences a shadow that is not seen in the happy rays of day.

The gray is heavy. Invisible.

To give the fore depletes, sucks the strength from the bones, and bends.

A strong soul of the giving type is inside, a gray short bent woman.

Withered.

Feed a hunter

When he brings food.

Bathe a hunter

When he breaks wood.

Love a hunter

When he protects

Kill the hunter

When he forgets.

I Know Family

In the cave they gather,

young and old,

Around the fire, in the warmth.

Each one connected to the other,

A memory, a promise, a relation.

The binds that tie them.

When someone from the cold enters slowly,

They turn to see, and open their huddled mass,

To embrace and warm him.

This is family.

Quiet for the masses. Be so quiet. Your words aren't needed. Not mighty like a champion. Not mighty like a poor man. Familiarity is shunned. Love floats on mine. The Rule of Gold. Do unto others. These words aren't welcome. Needs of the masses. They want real. I am real. I'm not the right kind of real. He wants my pain. He wants my fire. Fire is hard to pen. It burns the paper. Sadness bleeds the ink. A smile. Too painful for too many. If pain is what the masses yearn for then take my smile and let it burn into your foreheads. I send it out. If pain is what you want, the cry for my lack of it. Cry for my joy. Burn your papers and bleed.

My other world

My dark world, full of security, of past mistakes. What's been done is known to me.

Mine pulls me in when this one burns too brightly.

I swim in dark cool waters of familiar faces.

Hurt, pain, past transgressions are wiped away.

I call out to someone, anyone as I jump. Who will catch me? Which one?

Today I fall into the arms of a past love. Strong, caring, devoted. His faults are none, for the moment.

And for the moment we are one.

For the moment I get breathed into. I revive. I stand tall and fall no further.

And when memories start to flood, I turn and say, I can't. We had our time and we're not right.

I fly away with clean and refreshed wings. And I tell the brightly burning world that I am strong now.

Until it burns me again.

You.

You are my enemy.

Known to you is my underbelly

Known to you is my shame.

You,

a savior.

The outreached hand in the last breath of my struggle.

You.

You see my eyes. I dare to share my tears.

Your hand so dirty with my shame yet so clean from my cries.

I give you my hand. I give you my breath of agony. I hand them over and you wash them and heal and forgive.

And I know that my secret is safe,

Now open.

I have relief.

You.

You will make it better. And though I hate you, I love you.

That of a plastic leaf. A plant straining to be. A home with rooms too empty. That is despair. Or hope. For the dusty plastic plant brings color like the red on a coffin. No life, but color just the same. And though the emptiness is cruel, a room too empty might bring the possibilities of warmth. Of love. Touch. Echoes of life upon its naked walls. A woman with a plastic plant and rooms too empty is too, full of despair. And hope. She loves the one who presses and pushes. Who lashes and burns. But there is hope. "Grow old. Grow weary. The best is yet." She knows this to be true. The plastic plant shines its strained green. The room is used for touch And echoes. Laughter covers the naked walls. The lashes and burns now weary. Evolved. Grown. Transformed. Not replaced. For replacement is an escape. A childish ploy. To transform is from despair to hope. And so she travels in one spot. Now by his side, laughter at the red on the coffin. For they brought color. And life. She holds his weary hand. And the naked wall echoes, "The best is yet."

No more no more no more Endless buttons words faces When the receiver no longer cares When the sender no longer considers In this I give my breath. In touch no more. In sound no more. Then we will be merry once more. Merry in the silence of this.

God Whispers

I dread this world. There's so much pain
And as its hero I feel to blame

I wake each night at the witching hour
I hope and pray and search for power

To overcome the panic and fear
The dread that says my pain is near

My heart so pounds, my body sweats
All is wrong, I'm so depressed

I need a guide, I pray for light
A hopeful path, the end of night

And then my God he comforts me
He whispers out so quietly:

"My hero, my servant, my chosen such
It is through you that I heal and touch

You must have faith in my big plan
Do not get sidetracked by demands

Balance your life, heal your heart
Know I'm watching over every part

I see you battle day and night
But all is well and all is right

Clear your mind, clear your fear.
Quiet, listen, I am here."

Mighty Gray Beast

Mighty gray beast

Meets his match today.

The black knight emerges from the dark valley.

Gray beast has taunted. Mislead. Torments.

The black knight bold with exhaustion fears no death.

Strike one with his mighty shard.
"For the lies, deceit, and trickery I take my revenge!"

Back lashes the gray beast,
"You were too weak to find the truth! I fed your hunger!"

Strike two,the black knight jabs cutting deep to the inner soft,
"And for the desire to have it all, to be greedy, and thirsty for a dream, I now cause your pain!"

Mighty the fearsome roar in return,
"Your knees were soft! I gave you fire and passion to rise! You took the path to darkness, not I!"

With a cry of rage and desperation,
"To you, mighty gray beast I say SILENCE! T'was YOU who sent me to the land so low, so black and evil. I returned, dark, twisted. They didn't know me. Mirrors deceived."

The gray beast sighed a weakening sigh, as the life was draining from his wounds.
"I was cruel. And you are strong. Now you are welcome."

And with a sadness and an air of knowing, the gray beast let down his guard.

The black knight poised his sword, high to strike. With the years of vengeance as his fuse he lunged one final blow.

"Never will you torment me again beast!"

And with the blast of desperate breaths,

Together, fell.

She Hums

Proud and free

She strolls barefoot

Hair askew

And the tea cold.

Her pursuits are rich

Such life giving forces

Canvas

Paper

Woolen threads

Piles of terracotta, and ink stained floorboards

She hums as she sways room to room

In her harem of one

A paradise to the heart, and poet.

Decorated by the jewels of her trade, clanging and chiming to the tiniest of dings,

Wildly she laughs and spins, and mixes

the colors, blur with the sun

and in moments of doubt and self persecution

She touches gently the proofs of her.

Frames of wetted paste, from her art-eye she cast them.

Garments, each stitch from each breath.

Statues and sculptures, lives borne of her hand, the womb she shapes intimately and tight. Orphan children granted a strange and new reincarnation.

Intertwining herself in the green of the leaves upon leaves upon petals upon pots, for this great poet knows the many secrets.

Water. The ingredient so vivid and pale in its bowls, plates, and pitchers. She drinks, and bathes, and washes, rinses, erases, and brightens.

She courageously cooks and presents to Life the spices.

Wandering knowingly, barefoot, to the music of her moment. Pained by loss, and loved by many,

She hums and spins her songs.

The ivory keys now out of tune

The acoustic a broken strum

Noted pages, now browned by dulled stain, still they give proof to her authenticated talents.

Her spin slows and her feet bleed

And her rhythm submits to a blued waltz.

As she sways and she flows, and hums her sweet tune

Her life-stained arms and breasts outreach,

And ache.

Miles and miles. Step after step.

The clear blue watering hole

One more hill.

Just one.

The healing salve of the wet coolness as it soaks into the parched and pained skin of his mouth.

A dream that keeps him moving.

Stepping, climbing.

As the moment is closer, his dreams expand.

Life is no longer one hour long.

Life is life again.

Water is life and it is soon.

A wife. A child. He remembers.

Cracked lips form a smile,

Steps are lighter, faster.

All is well now, all is better.

Life is life again.

Salvation in liquid form, and the footprints tell the desert creatures he has been reborn.

Near.

A darkness in sight. A leap in the heart.
Nearer.

The sweetness of his thickened blood of cracked lips reminds him he is alive.

Soon washed down by the clear potion

Ailments to be healed, body and mind.

He dares to give permission. Thoughts tempting fate.

Like a child pushing his bare toe over the condemned line.

He dares. Takes the bait.

Life is alive. Wife, child. Now a thirsty tear , one, two, three, four.

They fall down, no longer bound by the fear of dry death.

Water, so very soon.

Steps, heat. The damp soon here.

Eyes have fixed!

Life is truly alive!

Wife, Child!

Dirty, brown, blue, clean.

All is acceptable when near death.

The dark damp pulls him.

Tears slide in surrender.

Reaching, dropping, falling into salvation

Lips reach for it, strain, afraid, yet brave.

And in the dark he finds it.

Dry.

Nothing more.

The Rose and the Fly

"I love you not." says the rose to the fly.

"You are dirty and ugly and I wish you to die.

For you blacken my petals and tear my green leaves

Why don't you step on my thorn
And cut deep and bleed.

Or better yet, change to a bee
So majestic and strong.

The bee knows my worth
He prunes me all the day long.

The bee sees my gold,
Tastes my honey so true.

Dear fly you see nothing
Only dirt just like you.

I want my dirt hidden,
Out of plain sight

And when you come so near
My dirt becomes bright.

I want to be clean, so pure, so red.

So go fly, shoo now.
You're better off dead."

The fly heard these words
Saw her scorn and her fire

He loved her now more
As he felt her desire

So long she had stood
So tall and up-kept

But the fly knew there was more
She's been holding her breath.

"The bee does not love you."
Says the fly to the rose,

"Bee only loves beauty
Red polish and pose.

Yes I see your dirt
And I love you deep still

When your fire wilts your petals
Stay the bee? Never will.

Just a fly dark and dirty
Not gleaming nor strong

But I'll love you and stay with you
All my life long.

My friends they leave me
My family scorns

But you, I love you
Even with your great thorns.

Your dirt is so clean
Yes its scary for you

But with my love and devotion
You'll find yourself new."

And the rose pondered this
Thought of her dirt and her bee.

Could this fly be so true?
Will he always love me?

The bee is so strong
But his expectations are cruel

And to live a life of a queen rose
Is the role of a fool.

"I'm sorry dear fly
My words so filled with hurt.

Forgive me my words
and I'll forgive you your dirt.

Be with me when I can no longer stand tall,
When my petals get limp and down they all fall.

When my fiery words bring out lashes galore
Stay with me dear fly
For with you I feel more.

You let me feel anger, desire, and pain.
Freed from the prison of plain beauty I'm no longer restrained."

So the fly and the rose sat together
side by side

Through the sun and the rain
They laughed and they cried.

The strong lonely bee came by every once in a while,
But the rose and the fly just knowingly smiled.

For the fires within, the gold and the dirt
Are no match for love when we forgive others our hurt.

Release the Poet

To release the poet

And open the door

Is to be awake in a dream, in the light

For the poet within

Sees the truth hidden inside

And pulls it out with all his poetic might.

The poet inside gives proof to the pain

To the joy

To the wishes so strong.

So be strong in yourself

Release and soon know

The poet within all along.

And he wishes to reveal to you

What you dream in the dark

The things scary you try to keep brief.

The poet gives permission for you to discover

Your darker layers deep underneath.