The Wind

I cannot control the wind
or it’s constant metamorphose,
I listen to the rustling of the leaves,
and watch the tree tops sway,
I feel it’s force against my cheeks
as my heels dig into the ground

I fight achingly against each sudden surge,
and lean in with all my might,
while it gainfully gusts,
and steadily swirls,
any way it chooses,
with no conscience, no regret

until I’m left squarely standing,
slightly swaying like the tops of trees,
I close my eyes, feet firmly planted,
listening to more than the leaves

I hear my inner voice, shouting,
‘I have not acquiesced’

for, I know,
I cannot control the wind,
nor can it control me

-Image credit rhads.deviantart.com, a beautiful piece of art!; reworking of an older poem, one of my favorites

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All I Need

I don’t need whispers
on angels wings,
diamonds and pearls,
or expensive things

I don’t need poems
expertly composed,
or wishes on stars
and intricate prose

I don’t need gestures
fancy and grand –
all I need is
to hold your hand

-image via Tumblr, original source unknown; reworking of an older poem

Save It

save it,
I’ve heard it all before

no need to back pedal,
or think so quickly on your toes,
trying to explainit all away with excuses
and beefy rationalizations

don’t you dare twist and pull
and try to point that poison
back at me

it’s not me,
it’s you

own it,
or walk away

because if you don’t,
I will

~image credit Pinterest, source unknown

Dust

That’s all our history is to you,
isn’t it?
Or, rather, that’s all you hope it is for me.

Scar tissue.

Itchy,
too tight for proper range of motion,
tender,
limiting.

Lasting.

Your mouth says you never meant to hurt me;
I hear your words.
But your actions say something entirely different,
every time.

Because there’s always another time.

You think you’re a knife;
you aim to slice,
deeper, and deeper, still.

But you’re not;
you’re a blunt object.
You hover, in wait,
bludgeoning hard(est) at those who open themselves to you.

You try to take advantage,
to gain trust,
and then trap,
confuse,
mame.

But you’re blunt, after all;
so let’s not mistake you as sharp or keen –
you’re perceptionless,
brusque,
dull.

You’re a one-trick pony.

You’re a bulldozer when a trowel will do,
a hammer when there are no nails.

And there are those of us who are sharper,
keener,
complex,
quicker.

Able.

Sure, you hurt –
but you don’t last.

We are able to leave you in our dust.

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

Rising

all I hear is the beating of wings,
the murder’s grand explosion into the sky,
divine intuition raining from the shadowed tips of inky feathers into the pink-red glow of daybreak,
illuminated phosphorous, igniting some kind of restlessness within me that’s been stirring,
a healing itch that’s nagging to be heard,
its melody begging to be sung at the top of my acquiescent lungs –
an ode to the outstretched, carefree soaring above,
to the whispering tops of the tallest of trees,
to the hope-filled breaking of every dawn,
to my voice,
to all that persistently rises

sing with me to the free-beating of wings,
let’s welcome the rising and all that it brings

-image via Pixabay

Were Not Some Part of Her

there was once a hole in her heart
where no love would grow,
a void not desolate, no,
it was an urban uproar,
expectations as tall and as
sharp as city skyscrapers,
all angles and edges,
streets littered with elbows
and crowded corners,
she a pedestrian on an
endless, one-way route
of regret,
her yearning a suffocating
smog, a desperate redness
swelling in her tired chest,
droplets of shameful acid rain
eroding roads,
rationalizations the pits and falls
on the map to nowhere

were not some part of her
made of steel and concrete,
her soul would have suffocated,
her lungs would have exploded
against the weight

were not some part of her
a cartographer,
bravely charting the void,
the child inside would never have
ventured forth to find nourishment

were not some part of her
a gardner,
feeding the green amongst
the steel and concrete,
her heart would not now
know such sustenance

were not some part of her
an architect,
unafraid to draft and erase,
hope would have died long, long ago,
and her heart would not now be whole

-image via Pixabay

Surprised

I didn’t think I could be surprised any longer,
I thought I’d seen it all,
forty-six years of it, anyway,
but hope is a powerful thing,
an entity of itself –
I can’t stop it,
no matter how much my rational brain tells me that history makes certain things unlikely –
still, I hope

I always hope,
and because of that undying piece of my heart,
I’m often surprised

I’m surprised when things don’t change,
surprised when there’s not even any effort to facilitate change,
despite the apparent unhappiness,
surprised at the lack of ownership,
surprised at the burying of truth,
surprised at the willingness to stay in the same place for so very long

I’m surprised by the elephant in the room,
surprised by how much it weighs in my chest,
surprised by how saying nothing in a very loud way is so deafening

I’m surprised by the deepness of eyes,
surprised by frequencies that quicken my pulse or make my belly hurt,
surprised when I’m knocked off-center by an expression I’ve only seen in paintings in museums,
like the one of love and grief so fierce that they forge together,
creating some new, raw emotion,
the one that lives so loudly in the silence

I’m surprised, I’m surprised –
and still, I hope

-image via Pinterest, by Jimmy Law

Fight

the walls are closing in,
they’re closing in,
and my elbows are buckling
against their weight,
the balls of my feet are raw
from the force of pushing back
against them,
my head is one thumping pulse
of pain after another,
a constant, unwelcome rhythm,
a reminder that I’m still rigid in the
fight against it

but, I’m tired,
I’m tired of the fighting,
and lately I’ve been catching
glimpses of the truth
in random, slicing throbs
behind my eyes

I see myself,
somehow on both sides
of the walls,
simultaneously helping in the closing in,
and desperately fighting against it

after all this time,
after all this fighting,
the knowing and the unknowing,
the accepting and the cracking open
of my core –
what if I’m still the wall itself?

oh, God – what if I am the fight?

-image via Pixabay