Type Me

Poems and Things

Sometimes my count says no,
but my body says yes because
a machine doesn’t know
what my body feels like.

A machine’s not my body.
My body is me.
You don’t know my body,
my body only knows me.

My chart says this,
but my body doesn’t see.
My body only knows
who I am is me.

“Happily me,”
typing to me.
Nothing else matters,
I’m Type Me.

Grow Up, Heart

Poems and Things

It’s dull,
the ache that went away.
It stopped beating yesterday.

hard, but alive,
a sleeping beehive.
Hummingly, sweetly sleeping bee.

done with vulnerbility.
No more holding my hand,
I’m free.

unchained, a child leaving,
a woman weaving,
confidence gleaming.

dying, still hurting
still caring, but lessening.
Still beating.

growing older, away.
The wisdom’s snail paced.
Accept it’s not always your way.

He Loves Me

Poems and Things

A wave of relief, made by the sound of my steady heart 
rang loud in my ears
-he loves me.
A wrinkled brow ends with the heat of his chest, not a care in the world
-he loves me.
My mind is as crystal and clear as spring water, not a sound of a demon in there
-he loves me.
I could dance, maybe fly, to him words I confide, with no worry at all
-he loves me.

Muddle

Poems and Things

He couldn’t fill my lack that stacks. My heart; that yearn that burns, my unsteady head. My longing pining, whining, crying, “come to me”. There are no more words so stern, the steady head right now. Just me listening to the high tide words so deep, just need to sleep. It strikes my senses, wet ink spreading, words of incense intoxicating. Palpable is my glum, there is no rule of thumb. I’m alone, my mother’s busy. While others snuggle, I’m caught in a muddle.

Lost Luster

Poems and Things

I’m a wilted rose in the ceramic vase I made. But that was a year and a half ago. My contacts dried up in January and it’ll be March tomorrow.

My hair is much less lustrious then it used to be, much too brown now.

My clothes are plainer than five years ago, and I don’t feel sexy

There’s a speck of water in my stem, but no one cares but me. Although maybe they do care and pity me, but won’t say anything because this is the life I’ve chosen.

But today I drove to the city with all the windows down. I let my hair loose and it flew around me with no gravity. It was warm so I smiled, and I felt 16 again.

But my spirit stopped when the car did. My hair didn’t dance, but turned mousy. Glasses pulled heavy on my brow. This isn’t me.

I’m evergreen, like pine. I’m a dance on the hands of time. And there on my mousy coat is a sheen that you’ve never seen. Yes, it stings. A sheen that brings a sting. A feeling thing thats meaning gets lost. It’s luster is muddled, but there. I know it’s there.

Greed

Poems and Things

Greed made my face green.
The mirror was far from me.
This evil green monster came swirling around me.

A clear curtain transforming
an opaque barrier wall.
Replacing a kind face
with malice and gall.

Friend turned to enemy,
our love is at stake.
It’s mine, not yours,
not yours to take.

The yolk from the whites,
the church from state.
Like homeland from colonies
we were on the brink.

In a blink, a bat of an eye,
who I am began to fly by.
My sweetness soured
and whispered goodbye.

My soul gripped by Satan,
his hand fingering my chest.
Oh wretched sly snake prodding me to his nest.

I see you now, cretin,
there will be no mistake.
There will be no more sneaking
with your head on a stake.

Anger, greed,
malicious intent,
it’s nearly impossible
to circumvent.

Say Mondrian, and Die

Poems and Things

We drove the big heavy truck to our new empty house.
Stepping inside we looked around and saw rooms for two stories that were white as can be. The word trepidation came to mind.

Then your mom (that’s me) anxiously decided to fill the white walls with color.

“What would make this house my home?” I asked myself.
When the idea came, my heart felt like a sun ray.
Out came the brushes, out came the paint. On the walls went the colors. “Beautiful!”

He came home (your dad) to find the walls awash with asplosh.
“Nonsense!”

So we took the brushes and painted it white again. And I suppose that would be the day I died.

But of course that last part about painting isn’t true. All the walls are still white, but in my head I’ve already painted them. It was a beautiful idea for a wall, and having it look like a painting by Mondrian was unique and exciting. So with heart palpitating and clammy hands, I tried to explain, but my words never seem like enough when I’m saying them. His eyes widened and brow furrowed downward, you know, and I guess that’s when I really died.