Honest as the night is long
eyes that have no holes and teeth that never show.
Sinews Strewn in Straw-like manner making Shadow Men
whose bellies all lie lit with ash of Golden Yearnings.
Crawling on this dangerous beach searching for strings
and springs of learning; bubbles and froth, to tend their unmet reach.
Distant distilled feelings gathering Storms of Skin,
erupt into lives’ another’s known. Passion woven
to the rug another trods; lives devoted to another’s Gods,
whose swiveled mind collects all tired worded insects.
Where the Middle of Divine leaves no footstep unworn
And we might well ask, “When is the middle of what we might have become”?
Did we alight, Create this Life, Whose Memory then, Our Living Proof.
Black Smile manufacturing unknown Holy Grief wearing shroud of Laughter to Ignite
following empty eyes that hunger deep within the Audience of All.
We Pride Ourselves to Give the Gift of Life
accept with indignation lingering; rosaries in prayer fingering
waiting for ourselves to slow awaken
No Thought at all to Gifts that lie Untaken.
If I could develop the images and pictures in my mind,
if I could turn back the hands of time, oh what a story they would tell.
Only if I knew than, what I do know.
How could I have known, that you would
be a memory in my mind, how was I to know
what would become of me without you.
Just like looking through an old photo album,
I can clearly see the missing pictures of you and me.
The pictures were never there, and the pictures were never taken. But they remain in the back of my mind, the pictures that I can’t find in my photo album.
In the back of my mind the pictures are so clear, but as I flip through the pages of my photo album they are not in here.
All the picture of my past, so neatly arranged on the pages, but there are so many that are not there,
Maybe they were meant to be left out, of the photo albums of my life. Just as I look though old photographs, a tear runs down my face, so many pictures are missing or misplaced.
If only I could develop the images and pictures in my mind, what a story it would be.
.
Shrugging it off,
believing she eventually
would,
he passed up on
a chance to be truly
understood.
Meantime, fond
feelings wither away,
grow stale and old
like unfinished dish,
abandoned, still out there,
now cold.
Twin half-empty wine
glasses stand sad
on the table;
and in due time,
neither he nor she
would be able
to recall what saw them
through the storm and
through the frost,
the love they both
let loose, let go,
and forever lost !
.
May the narrative of your life
be one likened to the torrents
of a creek surging eagerly
against the rocks and boulders,
bubbling, gurgling, splashing
down the slopes - -
so gleefully!
May it not be a woeful account
of many what-might-have-beens
shrouded in sorry, sordid tales
of last-minute, scared hesitations,
of wasted, untaken opportunities
now remembered - -
so ruefully.
She can't remember a woman who gave her ever so great advice
Instead of taking it, she risked her life on a dice
She told her how to respect and love herself in her youth
She didn't tell her what to do; it was her decision to choose
She warned her of dangers of the streets and drugs
She warned her not to go past kisses and hugs
She didn't listen; she hit the road and tried some smack
And on and on it went, and there was no coming back
She then got sick from an angry man who raped it her
She lost her mind, she was crashing, but too late to get clean.
And the young woman died from the sickness at only nineteen
The woman heard about the her death and thought it was a dream
If only she had taken a thought to the wise woman's words
She could have been saved if she had listened to what she heard
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