Memorial Day Shadows

shadowsOut on the roof, where truth might be heard
closing on midnight, sharp actions and words
Both were led from the past to the here
by walking the path with footsteps of fear

Shadows that come and dance in the night
some come for fun and some come to fight
Shadows that come to dance in the day
flee from the light, but stay for the play

Intuition’s the path to the edge
intuition leads the birds to the ledge
Intuition leads one to the lie
one to the truth, and one to the guy

Pain grabs her collars to shake out the why
though no answers given can satisfy
the crack down the middle has gone to the core
whatever existed, exists no more

Her fist in his stomach, that fist on his arm
had the flavor of physical harm
but bruises that form on bodily parts
weigh next to nothing against those of the heart

Stories have legs built big and bold
and there are those that are never told
in attics with tiny cracks in the floor
flawed foundations and secret doors

Trust jumped out the window and ran
into the abyss away from the man
But trust long ago had fled and roamed
and perhaps it never really made a home

So the edge was built into things from the start
the end of colors that had drawn these two hearts

It is a night to remember, and a night to forget
to hold with love and heal from it

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Sucking Soggy Marsh

Wound is muddy,
sucking soggy marsh
draining down

Pain is sharp, clear like glass
pointing
bright as a purple thistle

arriving like an ancient letter
you forgot you sent yourself, saying:

Scrape the mud off your feet
look through the glass
walk your wound into pain
pain into bloom
bloom into puff — blow away on the wind
the seeds of the new
love

Everything Arrives On Time

IMG_4391“It’s the wrong season
for this unfolding,
this bright and painful
spring apprenticeship
to cracking
and bursting forth,”

I whisper heatedly in the blossom’s ear.

Because, damn, I could have used your purple body-heart wisdom
when the harvest moon
peaked over pine mountain
high over strawberry fields

back in that simple season of music and fire.

Where were you when the caterpillar
was wandering around in that big garden
eating the wrong things and
stumbling over its entangled legs?

The blossom replies:

But does the full moon ask
why it wasn’t whole last week?

Does the apricot tree
complain of its flowering?

Does summer arrive mourning winter?

The big hard sun dissolves all
and calls forth new things
in the silence of summer’s eve

Perhaps everything arrives on time