I journey indiscriminately.

Might I explode,

[implode]

find gravity
in a dash of

cognition;

wrap within my gradient wind
that pithy countenance against glass

that waits

pressed for recognition
behind clouded panes?

Dare I set an avenue
paved for my own feet

veiled or bare?

How quickly the time has passed
since the day you became my wife.
After all this time it feels as though
we’ve been together all of my life.
They have been mostly good years
the difficulties have been few.
And the best thing I have ever done
is to fall in love with you.

`

I love the wee and trippy hours of an
after-midnight when that glass slipper
lays glistering aloof, in soft moonlight
while weary dreamers poise inked quills
to carve their thoughts onto pale parchment
from a woozy head -- too early in the day
to be about one's inescapable routines
too late of a night to do all else but swoon.

This is the cherished witching-hour in a life
where most everything is held, transfixed
in the baffling clarity of glad cerebration--
intoxicated Muses dance in celebration.

Darkness sometimes shudders
on the broken edges of my loneliness,
beaten back by you, by us,
from the empty shoreline of the island
that I used to be, never farther than
the next time I am gone from you.

once he told me
'love does not exist'

with all the attention
to his own needs,
those he touched
were left fruitless

he was blind
to others

and

blind faith
bore no peace

I knew
his reality
existed only
in his mind

and mine

became a life
worth living

and when the rain falls
I ask myself,
'would god shed tears over
humanity when humanity has
forgotten why we were taught hope'

if every planet up there
became as bleak as earth
would he scream or shout
the way humans do

i imagine his anger
over the willingness to die
before our time is over
because someone said
today's youth are restless, useless
and too insular to care
too concerned with
wanting to fix all of the blackness
without ever setting foot
into the light

If I write a poem
with the beat out of time
will you tell me
or decline

then what will I learn
don't save me the pain
please
give it to me
straight and plain

when my ego is bruised
should I just give up
if so,
I sure as hell have
loose screws

Is poetry,
imagination, metaphors,
and cliches
that say one thing
and mean something else

is it in my brain
or in the strain
of your brain
to understand or refrain
from what you've read

I don't believe in a soul,
If I had one,
it's been carted away from legacy.

Be amidst one child devil,
of propensity undiscovered,
a gutless trilobite.

Swimming ostensibly,
existing recognisably,
hidden.

Begrudgingly filing a request for reward,
rewardingly,
soulless may create my non existence.

In bloodless comfort,
existence does not gratify a soul,
why live it.

Then is death.

That death brings life.

To a soulless trilobite.

Making a stand for individuality.
Two fingers formed into the international sign
for up yours and ‘V’ for victory.

A war against the ignoble scum suckers
of this universe. Undeviating,
in the search for originality.

Fighting for the right to be what or who you are,
In the face of a disapproving world,
outside their concept of reality.

In the final analyses, the conclusion must be,
Acceptance is all most seek.
But hold your ground, let go of ambiguity.

There was a time when I could sing.
Hold a note to the mailbox and back,
then breathe.
There was a time when I could write.
Not just words,
but explosions of emotion carried out through
a hand of passion.
There was a time when I was a Mom,
someone who's very day shone from the sons,
only I could give birth to.
There was a time when I was a daughter.
A balance of pride and joy from a father
who seemed happy to have me around.