A Death Called Dove

“What a short time I had been given to experience love. I felt as my life had only recently begun and now it would surely end at sunrise.”
― Meredith Taylor

sweetesttootsieroll

Found then a little dove cowering in the birth of new

A blade came near and scant to miss

only a hairs breath relinquishing bliss

Flying before her time with wind both a friend and foe

Thinking to see, her wings grow tired

Blind fear rushes never more inspired

A shy grasp at what becomes a mysterious fateful lore

Trying but giving away the hidden life

Reduced to nothing and shut in by strife

Again the hungry clock stood its watch over gentle dove

Only to alight were she would never to fly

Wings fail to carry her to comforting sky

Talented feathery quills of reaching passion stoned to silence

Will giving her gifts to the clouds that call

Only create little pieces in the memory of all

Just dreams of doves laying torn in dawns fading embrace

O fragile dove you’ll ne’er see forever pain

Walking in silence ’cause your wings are maimed

Also published in Broowaha Citizen’s Magazine

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Cold water, Dry run – Heal the wounds of yesterday –

“Pain feels like a fast stab wound to the heart. But then healing feels like the wind against your face when you are spreading your wings and flying through the air! We may not have wings growing out of our backs, but healing is the closest thing that will give us that wind against our faces.”  – C. JoyBell C.

Trying hard to find water in a dry land. A parched, dry, burning throat tortures me. My lips, peel like mud flakes baked by the noon heat. Life was here, now, only the memory of life conveyed in the carved, hard mud of me, a dry lake. Then a soft wind blows, the temperature drops slowly, a coolness invades, and the clouds gather promising a new thing is on its way. Soft drops escape at first, slowly building a faceless mob. Each drop makes a mark, dimpling the ground. The little craters overflow and begin to form a growing conglomeration of streaming water alliances, gathering momentum and finding their way to the thirsty lake, filling the deepest cracks first.

 

Notice the deepest cracks are the ones first filled with the life-giving water. Likewise, notice how the deepest hurts are the first healed when the fulfillment of your hearts desire comes to pass. It’s a beautiful to see life restored. There is a fulfillment in hope and contentment after suffering. It feels so good, like cold water after a hot run.

Also published in Broowaha

First published in Opinions Of Eye

08172011

Faint

“She smiled and feigned enthusiasm, although she cared little for the game.” 

– Julie Klassen, The Tutor’s Daughter

colormeinvintage

 The stroke of your memory taints

leaving lines barely seen

Like the taste of your love feigns

leaving songs barely song

The hunger left is soft pain

feasting on your touch

Smeared colors of your body trace

lost desires slowly die

Down the Rabbit Hole

Written by the Muse in memory of her beloved man, Barry,  who I met through his group, The Posse’s Lair, on Facebook,

How far down does the rabbit hole go?

You always wanted to know.
Shall I follow you there?
Are you clearing a path as you
Have cleared paths for me before?

Will you wait for me?
You know my impatience.
I was your shadow, turn around
And I was always there.
I looked up
And you were always there.

We were inseparable, compatible,
One body sprung from the other.
It’s a painful separation.

How far down does the rabbit hole go?
I peer inside, it’s dark, and I call out
Only to hear my own voice returning to me,
“Where are you? Can you hear me?”

I’m afraid of the dark.
Will I find brier and root
Blocking my way to you,
My compass star,
Who gave me reason to love,
To laugh, to sing?
Now only this echo is my guide,
Or is it your voice
Calling back to me?
I never could tell the difference..
And that brings me some comfort.

How far down does the rabbit hole go?
You always wanted to know.

Muse

We‘ll be there soon Barry, Viva La Revolution!

 

Scorpion

“We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother’s shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.”– Alfred Lord Tennyson

I gathered the ugly scorpion to my chest, holding it close

though it stung and poked my skin, the sting is what I chose

The violence of the act is not mine, but the memory stays

I relive it over and over, for this torture I eagerly pay

I understand my choice, led to this daily deprecation

I bite off the flailing stinger, using my meal for extrication

The dire creature lays at my side, in an obvious and final death

Over the shame of my choice, without pain taking my breath

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