"The wind had to blow the clouds here
before it could blow them away."
~ Wislawa Szymborska, No Title Required

Perhaps there is a young woman in Paris
who lives above a boulangerie.
Each morning she awakens to the aroma of fresh bread.
And each evening, she dips her bread in a warm
and spicy vegetable broth.
Morning and evening. Day after day.

Life is wonderful this way,
a fragrant new morning,
a contented supper each night.
Happiness rests within these moments.

We didn't talk today

You couldn't even look at me

But that's not even the worst part

The worst part is...

I know I can't fix it.
---

I can't turn back the clock
And make a new ending

I can't go back
And do things differently

I can't unsay the things I said
Or undo the things I've done.

So here we are.
Two friends
Turned lovers
Turned strangers once more.

And I can't even tell you I miss you.

The world that
comes to display
is falling apart with
crisis of anger flame
filled the scenery
with a battle view
words have no
forms are falling
from the lips
to witness the
senseless of act
remain in a silent tone
through a broken
heart and devastating mind
to confide the untold story
from the tragic play
of a suffering pain
with an awakening call
remind of the innocent loss
that peace needs to take place
with the call for unity
to define justice

I am a beta test
a thin-skinned receptor
a hypothesis; flawed
an occupational hazard.
I see my reflection in you
a placebo
a fun-house mirror
a retaining wall.
Precursive, sub-syndromal
vitamin-enriched
hypothetical as a gesture
an aperture lens, a fixture,
a past-due date.

Wildflowers
Written by Kelly Ann Wilson

I think people get lost sometimes
Even with all of their brilliant light

But I’ll hold onto the you I know
Through all of space and all of time

And women, we are so smart and strong
And capable

And I see that you can make it through
All on your own

So, I’ll just be there waiting
I’ll be the first to tell my old friend, hello

May you find yourself again
Where the wildflowers grow

Written February 18, 2024
© 2024 Kelly Ann Wilson

King Charles the first
Was considered the worst
So they cut off his head
Till he was dead.

Characters emerge
Gripping my mind with fear
My heart now pounding

If I could catch my dreams
All the ones that made me smile,
I would wrap them in a memory
And save them for a while.

Perhaps that small Pacific isle
It was nineteen ninety two,
The sun, the sand, and palm trees
The beach and me and you.

There was that cabin in the woods
Snow capped mountains all around,
We slept before the fires flame
Quiet nights without a sound.

London first, then on to Paris
Notre Dame and then the Louvre,
Wonders up and down the Seine
None more wondrous than you.

your life,
was like a night game
played out in the rain...

your love,
like fabled moths
flying to the flame...

your heart,
like a songbird
trapped in a gilded cage...

your soul,
a wounded animal
twisted in pain and rage...

just your precious being
setting both our souls afire
touching and in reach...

your eyes, spoke to me
of the tiniest desire,
as you ran out of speech...

I was with a woman
some time ago, who wore her love
like a pistol on her hip.

With her suspicious heart for ammunition,
one inevitable wrong move by me
and I was going to be done for.

Pretty soon I stopped
trying to avoid her aim.
She had already put holes
where we needed to breathe.