When my ashes are brought home
don’t place them on a mantel
between the tacky Hummel figurines.
Tip them out onto the backyard
to nourish the cabbages.
I am not coming back,
but check the wind once more,
I might blow into the house again
and the dust-buster will clog up.
Do not look for me in the sky,
I am not there,
nor on or under the earth -
please really?
I may appear to you at night
if you lay with another man,
haunt you
if you marry again,
but that’s just me
and my little insecurities.
Also dear, be warned
I still retain the power
to trigger the cat to pee on your bed
if you neglect
to dust my photograph.
Love yer.
Where are your arms hidden in disguise,
you are our path to freedom and pride.
The spaces are taken by the celebrated and hated,
where is the love which given is for unborn,
take us with free love,
and deadly flight of widowed dove.
Stay within my spaces,
open your native places.
Understand with an open heart,
war is just an ugly form of art,
like a poison dart will eat your freedom,
burn down your home,
devastate everything we grow,
and everyone you ever knew or know,
will turn to dust under rusted nails,
and busted cemetery gates.
Never underestimate the power of one another,
with each other and the games we play,
because some day will dig our own grave.
Some would say, it's just another day,
another foul play, just go ahead and pray.
Said the old widow cook
to the drag queen son
feeding his/her dying abusive dad,
while offering her nurturing donation:
"I don't want your money.
We're not savages, yet."
Other words
that might have come to
desecrating mind:
not for sale, yet
not that victimized
not that wounded
not that uncivilized
not that poor
not that disenfranchised
not that disempowered
not that unenlightened
not that devastated
not that resourceless
not that dispassionate
not that judgmental
A Woman of Substance,
Cited as An Instance,
Her name Lady Constance …
The rest giving Distance!
Then, she become married
On her wedding carried:
A Worshipful Bridegroom,
Who could wait for their room
But would rather off zoom
To it long swept with broom …
But mid-street Fatal Crash,
To the Man A Fate harsh …
Now married soon widowed:
By Death overshadowed!
There is no better love under the sun.
A mother who knows how loss feels.
Loss of one she loved under the bright sun.
That is how I define a mother’s love.
What is love without test?
It has stood the test of time, strife.
It has stood annoyance, many a blast,
But what of the test of loss, loss of life?
A mother’s love who knows no loss is put to question.
Its stands because it must, not knowing its cause.
Probably it is ordinary and without depth nor notion.
The cause it runs is without passion, it must pause.
It is irritable, tired from being mandatory.
It fails, it gets worn and insignificant.
It screams for revival and reformation voluntarily.
A love that knows no loss is at its least on instant.
A widow mother’s love will never be withdrawn.
No, it won’t. It purposes to make merry.
It knows how it shall feel to have them gone.
It cherishes every bliss, love comes with much sorrow.
A widow mother's love is firm. It is thorough.
A widow mother does not forget you sulking child.
It is like so with the love of God,
It knows the feeling of being robbed of love.
Quietly the nights pass
Sleep not the Widowed refrain
Mind filled with regrets
I am a widowed woman of significant age.
Not unable to keep house, cook or bathe a child,
no dancing for me those days seem over,
but, yet - I can paint a picture or go fishing,
with the best of them.
I am strong yet vincible, not young,
but abled.
I am a widowed woman of significant age.
Her only talent is
To steal the dance
And so the beat begins.
Round and round
She turns to your tune
Loving the heady spin.
Hear her words
Pour forward from her
Intentions spilled too thin.
Her clutch for long straws
A quickening of heart
A desire burns to win.
A long year unites
Illusions of love
Pure mimicry is her sin.
Black magic fingers
Red lips share burnt breath
Whispers scorch his bare skin.
She's a snare!
A trap!
A pull from within.
It's so close
To true love I pause
At the twin.
But the mirror reflects
A scorpion's
Sting
Like a black widow spider
The wrong Queen
Slays her King
You should have made me
The song that you sing.....
I truly loved you
Upon this dark and sunny day,
Kneeling by your flowery display
My teardrops fall like dripping dew,
Remembering my time with you.
Cold hard stone is all that is left
To warm my heart that’s lost, bereft.
Today our life had just begun,
When in a moment, it was done.
I lay, in sorrow, by your side,
Forever yours, your mournful bride.
Do raindrops know
when dandelions cry
flowing flaxen feelings
like honeysuckle hues
cuddling a marigold morning
Will weeping willows wake
parched parades of poppies
silted by searing seasons
stigmas of seedless seduction
shadowed by stormy sunsets
Can rainbows of renaissance
twist tulip tongues
so stamens of wilted whispers
oscillate osmotic overtures
of pistil pardon
Do thundering trumpets
mourn misty meadows
when dandelions cry
tides of tawny tears
widowed in floating fields of life
We play this game each time we
talk, in person or on the phone,
he is the backboard with the basket,
I dribble on to find the right
positions taking careful aim,
as I am trying hard to dunk my
well-aimed shots into that hoop so
narrow, so hard-rimmed it makes
the ball rebound on me —
but very rarely, once in a while,
I happen to drive one home, that
is taken in with wailing sounds,
slides through the tangled net, and
then, eventually, will plummet,
hard, and land right on my toes.
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