At The Bell

Fling that thing to the Moon
That thing that’s ailing you
Red flags, white flags, too

It’s not a day too soon
Let’s leave crazy to loons
Whose flightiness consumes

Consider this day new
Its call goes out to you
To sing the champion’s tune

We Begin

An hour, now, clutching the cold morning coffee, an acrid-filled, comfortless cup.

Still dark.

Consumed, we, with what’s bearing down at the door — bellowing “more, more, and more!”

Its roar.

Will this new blanket be warm enough, this day sustain hope beyond the front-porch light?

Windows fogged.

Still, dawn’s bright, there, without, meets a heat — long-stored and stoked — here, within.

We Begin.

Still Grieving

These why-natured questions no human has answered
Nor monsters willing, either
Invade my slumber

Nightmares, demanding I wash the dishes
Become thinner and wear clothes that aren’t mis-matched
Occupy mistress status

Keep me searching

Leaving me susceptible to sages insisting
A renaissance woman now, I ought dress for my inner warrior
The muse who I let be stolen

At 3am I harken her

A ghost now, still grieving for answers from man-shaped monsters — those captains who’ve abandoned the ship
She cannot answer back

Hot Monochrome

She is streamers
She is stars
She is the red that sustains Mars
Bars don’t exist
On her heart

She is steadfast
She is dangling
She is silver-Mediterranean
Alien and best friend
Alike

She is words
She is breath
She is life seducing death
Express your intent
So to stay

She is present
She is feathers
She is coppery hot weather
Whether you like that
Or not

Just Like Yesterday

Were I to wear cowgirl boots on New Year’s Eve’
Would they walk me to your shine?

Were you to spin 70’s tunes on your record player
Would your dancin’ feet meet mine?

What did you wish for on your birthday without me
A shared path for us to find?

What I begged of the Ghost of Christmas Past
A machine to turn back time….

Unmanned

Wounded child
Not a man
Far too old, you play

Absent fingers
Hollow heart
Empty end of day

Highschool sweetheart
Dead to me
You abused my grace

One word for you:
Therapy.
Father-wound to trace