Little Birds

Little birds

tattooed on her skin,

seem to reach the sky

caressing the clouds beneath her breast.

And I failed to notice them

in the black of the night,

accidentally brushing them aside

as if to smother them beneath a blanket of selfishness.

But as the daybreaks

they again show their need to be set free.

Just as you did. Little birds.

Stereotype

Shoved into their stereotype
to do the right thing
nothing dangerous, nor unpredictable
just follow father’s path,
listen to mother’s words
hearing what’s good for me—
to be the same, molded
to be good, to be better than you
to be right, and you wrong
in their eyes, not mine.

Black and White

Image by Doris Rudd

Black and White

When the wind whistles through

the limbs of the old maple tree,

and the December rain turns to snow

the world seems colder

And as the sky turns gray

the clouds pass over thick,

covering our home with its shadow

the world feels lonelier

a photograph,

without color,

feels the same

since you’ve been gone.

Voice

Go ahead and say it

speak what’s on your mind -

but get to the point, because

so many times you talk out your face

Lying with your crossed cigarette stained fingers

in a thousand dollar suit bought with pennies from the wishing well.

Yes, you get the exposure

at the expense of an old woman's treasure,

feeding the mannequin letters of praise for your complete deception.

We too have a voice

getting louder and louder, can you hear it?

in the streets, we teach about change

a change not to swallow the whole of your phallus

Imitating not those who follow blindly

deaf of the hidden meanings of the promises that vomits forth.

Now there comes a time to unite

burning those bridges we once thought safe,

and come together, like some bizarre experiment -

dreamt by “a child of love and light”

The voice becomes one -

of change, of a purpose to sustain ourselves through fire and ice.

Our voice resonates in the hearts of poets,

scarred from dull knives, your constant incisions

attempting to cut it out, piece by piece until no motivation exists.

We, the people, gather into a mass of hysteria

running through the night, demanding to change this revolving world, again.

Collected

A harsh moon washes over this tiny room

illuminating the worn floor boards, accenting every ridge

holding a lifetime of worn shoes and thinning socks.

The cool night air flows through the rust stained screen, a thief

rustling past the sheer wall of curtain, dancing as clouds would

in hopes of hiding in the darkest corner.

In that corner, a chair; brittle as bones beneath January’s sky

displays the loneliness of our apartment above the vacant book shop.

And it took all the courage I had, conquering each creaking step

one by one, to this place where I once called home

which now feels empty, void of all the things we shared.

A collection of poems litter the floor, as leaves of a dying tree

her branches unable to hold her words,

begin to dry, the ink fading into a coma of dreams.

So I gather the remnants of a lifetime, one page at a time

keeping them safely hidden, guarding all my memories of you

and binding them in an album, labeled Collected.

Morning

The light peeks between the slats of the blind

creating today’s first shadow upon our sleepless bed.

It’s early, my mind already ahead of the clock

poising to scream us awake at any minute.

And the room is filled with the aroma of fresh coffee,

brewing in our small but cozy kitchen.

It stirs me to walk across the floor, cold with January’s breath

to drink its vitality I so need.

And it’s just then, when I am ready to slip out of bed

I realize that it’s you darling, laying next to me - I crave more.

Shadow Box

 

The scene abstract
a sort of cage, fractured pieces
held in by thinning glass
which creates this distorted view -
a package of secrets,
inside this old shadow box.

Its purpose is mysterious
keeping you from harms way,
while a March wind blows
cold and wet,
a reminder of her hold on
this world. A small glint of light
and I'm exposed I guess -
a little afraid, reluctant to abandon my armor
and show the mortal man I truly am.

But all the pieces fit inside,
this shadow box, dark and distant
which hangs by the bed we no longer share,
trapping what good there was -
until the fire of hate
consumed it again.