All of these old mishaps,
unlocked doors with a chain of keys.
Rotted out to retire,
made to forget.
Shame’s trusted companion
will always be regret.
Tag: Loss
3 Crows in a row – Oh for Hell’s sake
Count the crows and watch your souls!
We are walking in dark times.
Keep a window open, lock down your doors.
What goes out can’t come in.
Nothing can be the same again.
All of the pain inherited.
It has been genetically foretold.
The end of man will come at his own hand,
ravaged by his soul.
The Trinity complete,
the birds are watching now.
Three Crows in a row,
will see it all play out.
tbc
Dickinson
Oh Emily,
You with your sweet demise.
Line by line,
you split yourself in two.
Foolishly forsaking
that one in life
and one in death
would keep you from
your final rest.
Or perhaps,
you always knew.
snip
It’s like that crack of blue
in the naked wood.
When all the trees are falling.
You can almost hear the past
in the waters running.
Stepping down
into the sinking ground,
and watching for the sky;
if you stay there long enough
you can hear time die.
A’Chailleach
She existed from the start of it,
molding stones and making mountains in her wake.
Watching over the wild of the world as the seasons changed.
She was the last of the forgotten left to make battle with the Sun.
Eternity kept her there.
She was the only one.
In the frail dips of ages,
her power began to grow.
The land was getting hotter now,
and her memory was old.
The Winter was within her.
It kept her young heart warm.
She roamed the land to collect its bits,
preparing for her storm.
Her hammer, once so mighty, could only
grant the cold of ice.
Her blue eyes, once young and shining, were now
the black of night.
With pale veins of blue and the sharpest sight,
this forgotten Goddess was ready for her fight.
to be continued…
holy ideas
My pink nun,
a Sister without a Mister stuck in time.
Stitched into canvas.
Forgotten and remembered at the same time.
She was a possibility once,
a desire to become.
I made her into art.
What’s done is done.
like a rock
For a time her dreams were solid like granite.
Polished and determined.
She could map out here choices, one by one.
Her mason jars of hope secured.
At the end of the day, her words could take solace.
They had a place to stay.
My Grandpa Jack
My Grandpa Jack installed my moral compass. He taught me how to shuffle cards, play Rummy, and swing a bat. He taught me that cherry cough drops and Tums can be interchangeable with candy and that when a bear approaches you, don’t panic, just tell it to leave. You can’t ask it, you have to tell it. He introduced me to the heart stuff, baseball, old country, how to find the dippers and get back home. He gave me advice like “Never assume nothin about no one. You never know who you’re talking to”, and “Luck isn’t real but your choices are.” These things shaped me and I wrote them all down. I’ve made decisions based on these things. My car has been hit, one of the doors doesn’t open, and the windows rarely come back up once rolled down. It’s a magnificent mess. It’s not because I have bad luck, it’s because I parked it on a corner on a street with rip roaring traffic and I spent all my money on a bad mechanic and horrible insurance. I make my choices. All that said, my shitty car doesn’t bother me too much. Like my Grandpa always pointed out, own a piece- of- shit- car and no one will want what’s inside of it (He kept his golf clubs in a dirty old Nova). And while that’s all well and good, my car, my shitty car has been broken into over and over again in various locations. All this is to say, I forgot to take my beloved plaid coats and nicknacks out of the back seat last night, and now they’re all gone. I make my choices and on days like today I really miss my Grandpa.
The Gentrified Breed
I sit down to spool thread and watch the squirrels make lunch. The crows are here too, they always are. Together, the neighbors collect their spoils and keep watch. This is their living ground. They have been pushed to the rims of the park and they are almost outside of it entirely by now. They have been pushed out by dogs with coats. Dogs with owners in fine fleece coats and puffy jackets. Dogs who arrive to the park in new Subarus and Mini Coops. Adorable, well dressed Dogs with complete freedom to chase them out. They feed on the fringes now. They have nowhere else to go.
Beach House
This place, this handmade escape
is memories made to be suppressed.
Cherry flavored regrets.
Shingle by shingle it was crafted
to keep the voices at bay.
With the firm understanding
that it will all wash away.
Some secrets they thought, are best kept nailed down.
Kept in the wood made to erode.
In time, they thought,
none will be revealed.
The ocean will take them.
My lips are sealed.
