waken

had a dream that I was playing the violin last night.

their scrolls were bobbing in the ice, the vapor was

freezing on the strings.

made me want to reach for my rosin,

but instead I felt your hand pulling me

out of my dream.

hear the static voices screaming, SHEILA!

cry out as the spirits jump on top of me,

causing me to fly much like her blossoms

that blew in our yard last night.

the flowers looked like paper mâché hearts,

the white and pink on them torn.

much like my far-gone heart, beaten and worn.

watched the wind make them scatter and I’m

wondering how I let myself even care that they mattered.

 

fate

it’s hard to accept my fate when i’m running from it.

tripping over my feet while getting slapped in the face by

the palms trying to hold me back. forcing me to stop,

to pluck the thorns from my eye, ignoring the thoughts that

i’m not ready to die. so i think back to before

and it’s easy to remember that i held you first. but

you can’t remember i was the one that loved you first.

 

it’s hard to accept the passing of time, counting all those

desperate moments that i call you mine. watching you run out

the doors, tossing rocks at the cars, throwing the chairs to

the floor. watching you grow faint from screaming all those gory

words. and now i grow faint as i watch the roads

turn to grass – lose my hearing, feel my voice not make

a sound.  but it’s easy to remember i felt you first.

easy to remember i was the one that loved you first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sudden

it wasn’t the look of confusion you saw in her eyes

it was the look of fear

for even the cattle know when death is coming for them

much like those hyenas at my door again

coming to torment me, even though

I left them a feast at the table

patrol about and contort their ravaged mouths

causing me to flee, much like when I run

from him when he turns savage

but this time I remain, to open the door

to his frantic moans and pained eyes

whisper to calm my heart while his brain loses control

seize him into my mending arms until his terror has passed

then kick the hyenas aside

to walk my son back to his dreams

 

stay

I don’t have long to spend with you – but we have those spirits

passing through our house again.  I feel them, he feels them.

I’d think you’d feel them if you were open to it.

I don’t need to tell you that last week was rough.  

I saw red and heard the bees in my ears –

my world went numb again, but he doesn’t care, 

and I’m left blue and scared.

I don’t have long to tell you – I’m grateful that you’re here.

you let me run out, even in the dark of night,

 when I see his pale face and hear his sighs.  

you help me ignore all the frogs as I try to drive down the street,

watch them bounce off my wheels, but I don’t stop.

I keep on going, keep on remaining

much like the shadows that play in our house,

and I’m gently reminded that those souls must be

welcomed here.  they have lived Sufferer’s torment more, 

they are tired of living in fear.

shower

you’ll never know what secret thoughts I think,

entertain; as my eyes match my fogged up

window.  catch myself against the side to

keep from falling; falling from all my damn

sobbing.  secret thoughts to make this hell end.

awful thoughts, selfish thoughts.  the banana

leaves try earnestly to shake me from my

disturbing trance.  those distant violins

try to keep me awake.  they beg me to

follow their sorrow, but they have no clue

what’s in store for my crazy tomorrows.

you’ll never know what secret thoughts I think;

dark thoughts that would make you run, make you sink.

watched

watched you burn our mouths with gooey, orange

marshmallows; the sting made us close our eyes.

cringing, watched you sprinkle Tang on the floor.

it stuck to my feet as i envisioned

so many bangs; my dumb brain felt the heat.

watched the smoke rise above the green buds with

pink tips while rubbing my arms; damn arms felt

whipped.  watched you tear through my muscles just like

they were cotton.  watched you forget all the

sweet words i spoke; good life, it’s forgotten.

 

 

leaving

dreamt my life was leaving last night.

panic threw itself on top on me – crushing my breath.

soul escaped my fingertips, fled from my

O shaped mouth; much like what he likes to draw,

minus the teeth, minus the red.

dreamt my life left me; flat like a sheet, empty like a shell.

it was tired of being anemic and pale.

motionless, I watched it walk away.

tried to scream, plead for it to come back,

but my cold mouth froze up, still shaped like an O.

felt the wind rush over me one last time.

instantly made me regret that I had to go.

notions

my only hope is that Sleep will find him.

tuck him gently in her long, scarless arms

to rest his constant mind.  arms pale as this

paper – pure as your snow.  Sleep will sing him

the sweetest songs to take away his bad

thoughts; erase the memories of the day

gone wrong.  whisper affectionately in

his ear that he his good, he is strong, and

that he is loved.  as I move away from

his now shut door, I pray that Sleep comes for

him.  whisks him away to a place where he

does extraordinary things; after

all, dreamland is an even playing field.

no worries for me in that hopeful place.

my only wish is that Sleep finds him, and

after that time, she then remembers me.

une fois que

you felt too much once,

feel too much still.

his pain was your pain,

like his pain is my pain,

now and always will.

you cried too much once,

cry too much still.

with hearts crumbling,

souls fading,

we loved too much,

once and always will.

 

 

chill

A few days ago she held the branches like a parasol – shielding her face from the heat she once loved, lived for even.  This same woman used to plant her face against the icy window on a February afternoon – just to sense its glow.  Close her eyes and envision the red.  Remember the way grass felt under her bare feet – lick her lips recollecting the smell of water leaving a garden hose.  Mutter under her breath, wishing winter to leave – she was sick of seeing dead leaves.

This woman now settled in the place of perpetual summer – feels the all too familiar chill to her bones.  She puts on extra layers while the lizards lie like statues at her feet. Watches the hawks bounce on the January winds and forget that she is driving.  Digs out her grandmother’s quilt from her closet (the quilt of pale random squares, playful tufts of thread, and white downy backing), and she will remember the sweet dreams of her youth.

Winter found its way to her, and she just wants to be warm again; be happy again.  She wants to remember what hopes brought her to the land of palms.  Stop cursing the march of time.  Mutter under her breath, and wish winter to leave – she was sick of certain memories.  Be grateful that her winter really isn’t winter; except for right now.