I can do it, myself
Famous last words – right?
I didn’t need someone else’s 12 step’s.
They wouldn’t find me sitting there holding hands and singing “kumbaya” like some pathetic teenage drama queen.
I could stop whenever I wanted.
I just didn’t have time right now.
Later, when time wasn’t pushing on my back like the north-eastern winds – chilling me to the bone.
Later, when there was peace and quiet, to work through the need.
They didn’t want me to try this today, or even tomorrow. Not if they wanted to live.
Okay that sounds a bit drastic. I wouldn’t kill anyone would I?
What kind of person is willing to kill over a cup’a joe?
But some days, when I have had only one.
and the printer runs out of ink,
and the tires have that squeak.
When they’re rub’n down that last nerve to a nub
What do they want from me, anyway?
A girls not made of stone.
I can do it myself
Just not yet
I want my grave
to be empty of all the dreams I had
An empty grave, filled
with naught but a rotting corpse
Knowing I have set them free
Living now beyond my mind
I can die
Frosty kisses nibble
around my ears and neck
Pink cheeked and breathless
I dance within his grip
Icy arms grab at me
sends me giggling
through the snow
snow flakes caress
his touch, I know
though dark descends
hiding indiscreet tryst,
Lights sparkle in the night
I make my Christmas wish
And yet he breaks my heart
I’m lonely once again
That wicked boy Jack,
a Frosty dream,
his love I can not win.
Today it’s easy
to leave it all behind.
When roads grow steep,
When heart aches creep,
Filing corners of my mind.
The long haul isn’t used
for Sunday walks in the park.
They’re nights of dread,
of an empty bed,
wandering in the dark
When sea’s are high
and darkness blots the sun,
hold fast and wait,
it’s not to late,
loves worth it, when it’s won
Dip your toe in
swirl the depth
If you want to find
in the silt
Gems locked in your mind
only way to know
tis gold or foolish dream
is to pull it out
and test its strength
but you must get in the stream
When I was a little girl – my grandfather used to take me panning for gold in the mountains above our home. There are lots of things that glimmer in a mountain stream – some of it is fool’s gold and some of it is real. If you sit on the bank wondering – it won’t do you a lick of good in the end. You have to be willing to get wet if you ever want to get the gold. I was thinking about writing and that maybe my book isn’t all that great an idea, maybe just a foolish dream…and the above poem came to me. Maybe its a fools dream, maybe not, only one way to find out.
Their voices grip my mind
They beckon me to tell
to make the voices heard
breathing life to those who dwell
deep inside, waiting for
the time when they are freed
To laugh and cry and love and die
to live and hurt and bleed.
I am but a vessel,
a hollow empty jar
holding those meant to soar
to fly among the stars.
I sit at the bottom, waiting, inspired to write
Looking up, the worlds distorted, blurry in my sight
The hunger aches, desire burns to craft my lengthy prose
But life itself blocks the path, my words they do not flow
Words sift like murky silt across my addled brain
A surplus of ideas with no where left to drain
The time has come to raise the dam and let my words flow free
And show the world without a doubt the writer I can be
Underwater, looking through the story I must tell
A magical land of fae and wolf & heaven and of hell
Rushing now the words flow out, my ink upon the page
As my characters live and breathe, at last take center stage
cedar arms cradle memories bound by ragged ribbon
dreams called forth as I sleep, the ache of love forbidden
bitter sweet never meant-to-be’s, tomorrows forever hidden
the touch of my soldiers lips, linger on mine, unbidden
we dance, the two of us, between once was and what will never be
my soldier boy, in army dress, the girl in white is me
red blossoms grace my bridal bouquet, red blooms on army green
he fades to mist and then he’s gone, I’m left alone to grieve
brittle parchment, the sad remains of foolish girlish whim
the echo of a maidens prayers, the hope that died with him
nothing left of what once was but letters from Berlin
held inside my dresser drawer, bound by ribbon times worn thin.