Feeling It All

in the darkness, spirals called
winding wells and staircases tall
regret and worry, fashioned lenses
costumes and masks, ill-fitting pretenses

naked and bare, exposed to the core
questions unanswered, left wanting more
measures and comparisons, not quite enough
sometimes the darkness has been pretty tough

but the light is brighter than ever before
no fear of darkness, not any more
embracing it all, the darkness and light
the in-between, the fights and flights

I feel it all like never before
this me I was meant to be, open and whole

-image is mine



beneath the fabric of a single human heart
resides an elaborate orchestra,
a seemingly imbalanced sequence of forces,
intervals of time and measures of amplitude,
not at all working against one another,
but synchronizing themselves so intimately,
they are nearly indistinguishable as separate –
just like you and me,
pulsing to one beat

-image via Pixabay


My mother. 
These choices, this behavior. 
Why?, I ask myself.

But, it’s been there all along 
in some form or another, 
I just didn’t want to see.

She doesn’t see, or chooses not to;
maybe she never will.

There’ll be no comforting –
it is what it is.

Now, again, 
the child becomes the parent. 

I am breaking the cycle, I say.
I promise myself. 

Mother may I?
Yes, I answer. 

Mother I am,
mother I will remain. 

-image via Pixabay


I don’t visit often enough.
I tell myself it’s the distance,
work, time’s pull, insistent;
my schedule is rough.

But there’s unrest in my heart
that tells me that’s not true.
Instead of feeling closer to you,
seeing you only rips me apart.

Every time I see your face,
a little piece of me dies;
I feel the sadness you try to disguise,
the years of running a losing race.

I see too much
I see how you might look on my face.

-image via Pixabay

Loose Ends

I can’t seem to keep the dog from stealing my seat,
the screen door from flying open in the wind,
the breeze from sneaking in through the crack in the window seal,
or stop the overpriced tv from shutting off in the middle of my program

I can’t seem to stop the kitchen faucet’s brain-numbing dripping,
the buffering, buffering of my too-slow connections,
the fucking updates from making everything slower,
or stop the dishwashing detergent from making everything taste like soap

I can’t seem to wash away the smell of woods and pine hanging on my every thread,
the linger of bourbon-soaked conversations between sweat-soaked sheets,
the feeling of your fingertips gliding across my skin,
or stop the electricity from crackling between us in trails of gooseflesh

I have so many loose ends, it seems,
too many to list

but, Baby, you aren’t one of them

-image via Pixabay

On This Bed

on this bed,
nights last forever;
they begin before a suitcase is unpacked,
before dinner is served,
before the moon bids its farewell,
before noon

on this bed,
I dream things,
I dream sideways-looking things I can’t discuss with anyone but him

on this bed,
dream-like love making happens,
the kind that overtakes us so that we don’t bother to lock the door or make certain the window shades are pulled,
the kind of love making that makes me cry out loud,
makes me beg, then dissolve into him,
that urges me to do things I’ve never done before

on this bed,
I know it’s always been me;
that’s what he tells me,
and that’s what I believe;
it’s the way it has always been,
from the day we met, young and limitless,
to this day, nearly 24 years later,
when life tethers us to the ground

on this bed,
we don’t listen to the birds calling out from the treetops;
we let the hours pass by –
it’s all a dream, and it’s all ours;
it always will be

give in to it,
that’s what he whispers into the crook of my neck,
and I do what he tells me,
I do it all night long

for, on this bed,
night lasts forever

-image via Tumblr

Weapon of Choice

I am alive,
so awakened by the magic in my life I chose to create,
I’m bursting at my seams to explore,
but this life’s constraints allow only so much exploration

I’m afraid if I don’t explore these parts of me,
I’ll explode

and if I do get the opportunity to explore them,
I may also explode

so, here I am,
a caged bird,
pulling out my own feathers to keep my mind occupied

ravenous for something food can’t satisfy,
though I sometimes try

this extra weight my battle scar,
the tangible evidence of my fight against myself,
and not taking care of myself my weapon of choice

-image via Tumblr