Freeze from sapphire heavens creates white earth,
melting to steady rain, sparking rebirth.
Soon, sun burns a fierce smolder,
long days turn to nights colder,
as colors fall, fading, crackling last mirth.
*An older limerick resurrected in celebration of the start of my summer!
she framed in a charcoal outline
the smoke and mirror eyes
that either drew people in
or shuttered them out
everything is so definite
she imagines herself as a bird,
perched and spinning,
observing,
perhaps something soulful like Keat’s nightingale,
or maybe something darker,
less likely to fade into the background,
like a scribbled crow from Van Gogh’s wheat field
everything is so definite
how much time had passed
standing in one place,
she wondered
I wish the wheel could spin backward –
I wish I deserved his forgiveness
I wish he could love me again
it became obvious –
the ones who were drawn in
were like moth to flame
and always perished in her fire
everything is so fragile
my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
your fake Rolex has some tarnish
it’s charred hands no longer move
my lungs are full of tar
and white smoke fills the room
my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
your silver zippo lost its polish
as your fingers searched for truth
the photos all wear fake smiles
and the eyes are empty rooms
my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
my letter sits in folds
words unspoken split in two
my lungs are full of tar
and white smoke fills the room
you slipped through my fingers
like the smoke that filled the room
my hands smell like cigars
and the cigar box smells like you
these memories are ashes
and this cigar box is a tomb
-image via Pinterest
there’d been happy times,
even blissful moments in her life,
but when she held her baby in her arms that first time,
she felt color blossom and rise through her,
up from somewhere inside she hadn’t known existed
she felt the soft heat of true joy
*Happy belated Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there!
the chronic crackling catches
on the lumps in my throat
with each inhale
every forced expiration
is a labored, hollow whistling
keeping me awake
tiny punctures in the fragile lining
widen with every blink,
becoming jagged fissures
until I gasp and grasp
and try desperately to grab onto anything
that will help me patch the holes
so I close my eyes
and line these bankrupt lungs
with your whispered I love you’s
in the dark
-image via Pinterest, art by Codex Anotomicus
Heart Breathings 