Monday, March 18, 2013

No Wiggle Room

This last crucible left me
hanging awhile. More nails 
than usual were pounded in 
to keep me strung up and out
 until it was accomplished.
Resurrection had no priority
in the plan to finish it once and
for all by walking off the back
of the ferry into night's belly. 
Cold water takes good care
to numb the pain before 
the gurgling and gasping 
end comes, right?
 Grief and sadness can be
 frozen first, right? 

An old friend once told me - 
never make plans or
 rewrite the rules made
 on the mountain
when down in the valley.
I forgot to be scared, aware or 
concerned about this minor detail. 

I needed a sign. Speaking with
authority it came into my field of
vision. The Captain insisted I take 
notice and obey the written rules. 
I didn't have permission to 
disembark the vessel, middle 
of the ocean, eye of the storm. 
Period. Period. Period. 

Please don't call the suicide prevention help line for me. This is way better. Poetry is the best way for me to put chaos in order. I don't know if other people have moments of complete and utter darkness or not. I hope it's a rare thing. I've said it before, I don't want medicated. I'm not sold on the results I see. A lobotomy isn't the answer. Love wins. It does. 

On the other side of a rough patch, I always know I've learned some crucial lesson. I always have a growth spurt. The agony bears good fruit. 

I think I wrote this out loud so some other person facing pain and darkness would know that they are not alone. Leaving's not the only way to go. There is the option of going through it instead of around it. 

I love you. I understand. Here I am in the trenches with you, shoulder to shoulder. Muddy. Bruised. Fatigued. Just like you. I raise a glass to you. Let's scream, "L'Chaim" together. To life. To life. To life.  Where's Tevye? 

Today, I'm relieved someone else writes the rules. And sometimes that same captain beckons me to step out of the boat and double dog dares me to walk on water. I am. And I'm not looking down. 

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Tattered Stories

Bindings hang heads
weak with worry. Thread
 rots worn signatures who like 
the familiar neighborhood. Spines
find no sturdiness in molting cheesecloth
clinging like a hen's last determined feather
 or a shimmering snake skin discarded.
Still, the book magic strengthens 
the sentences and paragraphs,
and the pages and chapters 
hanging on for dear life  
to words inked. 

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Phoenix Promises

Ivory lace and wedding satin 
coffined by an undertaker 
instead of the local laundromat -
 before, not after the bridal day. 
Six satin covered buttons 
included gratis 
in case closure is needed 
during the afterlife.

Penciled sketches 
sprang to life 
via storyboard design. 
Original haute de couture 
never intended to be flaunted 
down famous runways.

Surrendered, sacrificed, 
unfinished, unworn - 
this weighted lace hem 
will never trail behind 
her barefoot path. 

Habitual sarcasm can't be allowed 
to ridicule the love stitched 
(now needle pricked) 
dreams we dreamed.  

Cram cremated remains in an urn.
 Light candles. Pray continually. Wait.
Her resurrected beauty may rise, 
born again from ashes
 appearing cold and dead. And so
help me God, will I.