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

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

Content With the Cold

What part of it mattered, Sir Universe?
What part of it shifted your dust any closer to mine?
What particles of us loved any more or lied any less when we looked in the mirror each day?

What caused us to trifle with Truth?
Frozen days are coming.
Darkened days, at full throttle, now.
What pieces of our hearts remain to force the thaw?

What sadness, were we to be, or not to be, content with the cold. 

Fragrant

I have been to lavender fields on what you might call
“A great day.”
Oh that the flowers would have told me,
“Love buds not with him — come fast away!”
He’ll not pray that you sit
He’ll not fight the good fight
He’ll not be by your side ‘til the end
You’re the bride and the groom
You’re your own epic bloom
You’re your bravest and loving best friend

Pulsar Day

What if I befriended time
Then took its outstretched hand

Separation was no more
Despite life’s shifting sand

Daytime, nighttime were as one
Without the fear of loss

Silver seconds, yearnless years
And age no bridge to cross

I beckon thee to join with me
In unrelenting drive

To put away some thought of death
To embrace what’s alive

Each minute is a golden hour
Each breath a pulsar day

When time gives us its outstretched hand
We must not look away

She Really Is

She is not He
Nor an It or an If

She is Where It’s At, Has Always Been, and Forever More Will Be

Where If Goes To Become

She is Where He Needs To Be Attending To

She Really Is

She Is Peaches and Mittens
August Fire, Mountain Avalanche
She Is Baseball and Criminal

There’s no more Not Knowing Such Love

She Is Leading Me

Insults and Injuries

I bemoan and decry
How
No one — absolutely no one

Whether in writing, or whether verbally
Neither by smoke-signal, ancient code, pony-express, street sign, Social, nor any other means of communication or Media

Except Shakespeare, himself

Provided instruction on the following:

Seeing the writing on the wall;

Surviving the sudden, unspoken goodbye;

Understanding in any way, shape, or form, heartbreak;

Avoiding the subsequent self-loathing;

Navigating the wrong kinds of depths, whilst working to resurface;

The exact location where one may file a writ of replevin to retrieve back their spirit — unshattered, whole, good as new — and perhaps their house key, as well; and,

Walking with confidence therewith.

Inspirational Credit:
“Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.”
-William Shakespeare

The Greatest

Our colors, like water…like oxygen…work well together…like art from artists, were we to work in earnest.

What say you, America — will we work on love, on great…’fore the hour becomes late?

Original Thought Credit:
“…the greatest of these is love.” -1 Corinthians 13:13
“When America ceases to be good, she will cease to be great.” -Alexis de Tocqueville