Looming Anniversary

I originally came to complain
To cry so silent here that just my Creator could make sense of this outpouring
This graffiti-papered grieving
To tell the sky what it already knows
My disdain for the wafting scent of muscle on the backyard grill next door
My need for mercy for the muscle and might ripped from my chest
To scream to the sky of this guy, who took
And took
And took what I gave readily — easily — from love
And kept, and refused to acknowledge was gifted to him
Yet looming, this anniversary, I can neither complain nor cry
After all
For all the love letters
Eternal
Penned by lovers, that, too, paper and letter the sky
And God gave a garden and set my eyes
That I would see
Gardens of flowers for me

Friday in French

A wind I’ve not heard before
Today
A rush upon the rain
An energy
A constant speaking, the whirring
A struggle to understand
Some language I believe in
And cannot yet decode
Thus, a dread

Faith filled,
I will not prophesy
But beware

Land Brave

What historic shadows do we live with?
What bricked, mortared, and hole-riddled, but still beating heart will we keep saying suffices?
What love? What?
This battered banner
These stars
Ready now, to tell true stories
Able, finally
To let go
To grow

harim and mayim speak

The mountains welcomed me, “You’re back!” and promised me they’d have my back, should some Great water way — or two — recede, retreat, or otherwise act as cowards for too, too long.

Oh, harim, how they cried to me, spoke truth to me, “Here’s Jenny, an ally to thee.” At once the Sun shone once again, as I embraced my Westward friend.

Her shores were rocky, her waters cold. But I, at midpoint, felt less old — and trampled — then. And my ears acquiesced.

For t-w-e-n-t-y years before, life’s fog obscured Jenny’s lore. She sang it then, she sang it now: “Courageous woman, to the path you’ve chosen, the mountains bow.”

Super, and Care-Full With Your Pen, Mannerisms, and Metaphor

Sonny, (I can call you that because I’ve grey and am much older than you)
You don’t look like a man who’dve (proper grammar? I surely don’t care)
Said what you said (but you said it, and it stole my heart)
In Chapter 25 (chapter twenty-five., to be precise)
Or even a man who’dve been able to “focus” this long (though you lay claim to seeing its virtue, so I’ll believe you)
Given the amount of time (I’ve spent more than my fair share of it and secretly believe it’s ubiquitous)
And number of exhalations I know (I know) it took away
From your habitual daydreaming (I’ve a penchant for it, too)
I could (sadly, I will) continue sharing unrequited love-jabs here
But it’s late and the (glorious, but damned) mosquitoes have made their entrance
So I laugh (always — most often at myself), and tuck your bookmark (thanks) in my bra strap (ha) instead of your book (your book, bravo) and go inside for the night (and, how dare you quote Whitman?!)
Goodnight (goodnight)