Abusers

I tried to write about abuse
How the hitting makes the
Hurting ease
The shame and fear rage out and strike
Bleeding, pulsing - crimson shrieks and shouts
Curling fists and guts
Determined to be done
To be finished with the fear and frustration
Cursing, blaming, hating another person
And yourself is somehow easier
More natural
When loving isn't easily
There, anywhere
Absent from us like
Light in the darkness jumping shadows

But then, I wasn't sure
If I was writing about him or her...

On the occasion of the death of Wilburn Esters Cox, my step-father.

 

 

Eulogizing

 

Death always takes us

Willingly or not

To the edge of this

This life we weave with determination

Gathering our fears, spinning them taunt and defiantly into beliefs, faith we call it

Constructing ideologies and routines to help us along the way

Wrapped in such fabrics

We protect and present ourselves

Whole. Secure. Saved.

 

Death always takes us to the edge

Willingly or not

Where we, stunned

Stand starring into abysses 

Pelted by torrents made of one part anger and two parts fear

Shards rip us bare

Clothing us in our particular loss

 

Death always takes us to the edge

The translucent boarder of this

This being

Willingly or not

And then stands there with us in the void

Holding our hand

Until the unknowable breaks ...

Ergo Ego

Skinned knees and scraped egos

Heal slowly

Scabbing over and puffing up

Before growing new

Skin and tender humility 

Covering

Today's hurt and tomorrow's

Maturity   

 

 

Sweet Sophia

Sophia wind comes.

Yesterday the ignorable breeze.

Today, furnace heat.

From incomprehensible flutters to overwhelming screams.

Within the flit of a thought and obsessive dreams.

Revealing consort and coy muse.

Sophia.

My bothersome, demanding, essential imp.

The Holidays...

The drive that lasted for 4 hours and the wait that was longer
The deep, abandoned, rolling to tears laughter of children
The wraith like memories of ripping wrapping paper
The twinkling lights and flashing fancies from yuletide strands
The raising of the tree
The ritual prayer of our token cleric
The feast marked by odd dishes and common routines
The retelling of stories, forty days and forty nights worth of heritage
The settling into familiar seats and sighs
The late comers and early deportees
The insertion of Tab A into Slot B
The luxurious and the sorted
The games and the game with both having scores and winners
The holidays

 

Tilted Off...

Tilted Off...

tilted...off

                           balance

unsettled...dis

                      eased

you seem so earth bound, so in place

all of you...well...many of you

no matter

for my restless and my peculiar sprite

                    screams...unheard

muffled into whispers

by convention and intentional

limitations...imposed on me...embraced

by me

for

there

is comfort in the arms of not doing...of shifting upon

the pea in the mattress...limping away from the stone in the shoe...enduring the unpleasant

incessant prodding

of ... of... you

to...for

too long

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD----- STOP!

i give up

...fine..now what?

tell me what to do! damn you.

---------silence----------

i need a translator for this constant, loud, chattering white noise...

 

 

Lost and...

Viscous
The light rises
Lifting the veil of morning


Gazing into pools of possibility 
Ripples of mist and moments
Pushing aside delirium


Daring to dance
Eyes shut tight
Thoughts and head a tilt

You left me yesterday
Or
Was it the year before
Everything aches, still


Tenuous mourning.

On Writing Poetry

 

Sometimes, I have an idea...a fancy
A particular phrase that gets my attention 
                                   or 
A bothersome feeling that just won't be captured in prose
Then I write it down in short
         Broken lines    

                                            and
                        Phrases

          and 
See what comes out.
Then it stares back at me
Talks to me
Calls my name or yours
As I look at its particular shape
Hear its weedy voice
 I might tweak a word or two to get it to look
Or feel or sound a bit better
As it speaks about you or me
Our living, believing, breathing, selves
 Then I name it Poem 
– Because I have to --
Then I hit post and hope it has value to someone else.


(Because of a conversation between poets. Thank you. You know who you are.)

My Poems Know Your Secrets

See them hiding there…behind
The ass-umptions
Peeking within the cheeks of clauses
Phrases 
Phantoms daring to pronounce
Your memories
Best forgotten and sullen
Actions 
Pole dancing impressions on the axis of
Anxiousness
Sliding silently along the line
From hip to clit
A cocked look from the slit ‘tween
Consonant on vowel
a.e.i.o…you
Know the no-nos
Whispering around conjunctions
Reminding you of other _unts
Too old or too young for sanctified hosts
Oh God…please don’t tell anyone
…still
God knows and my poems…
My poems know your secrets

 

This one is a bit naughty...and more true that any of us want to tell. Yes?
— -Kim

When The Snow Comes #poetry

When the snow comes

It's fur cloak of white
Muffling and blending plans
Cardinals become red birds
And
Sophisticated adult schemes
Fall to childhood dreams

Screen Time

I started looking into this screen

For something that I needed

That needed to be done

Click, scroll, click

Until I find myself

Looking for something more

That I know

I won’t find here

In screen-time

On Being Sick #Poem #MondayBlogs

Stopped
By
Pain in the back
Stilled
By
Mucus and head aches
Silenced
By
Laryngitis and miscellaneous fears

Stopped. Stilled. Silenced.

Filtered sun through mid-day blinds
Distilled thoughts of shallow mind
Yield
Little light or clarity

Sheets damp with familiar musk
Covers twisted into a personal husk
Descent 
Into loathing and disdain

Stopped. Stilled. Revealed.

In sickness and in health
The union within of lies to self 
Broken
Stolen
Dying…yielding

While Reading Poetry on a Rainy Sunday

While Reading Poetry on a Rainy Sunday

Words dance and weave
Emotions
Into singular assaults 
Passions 
With a clash of images 
And colorful sensations
Each 
Kindly interrupted by its 
Crisscrossing cousin 
Uninvited visits
Roughly terminated 
Twisting
All to be known faintly
In murky melancholy 
And egregious imagining

Abusive

I tried to write about abuse
How the hitting makes the
Hurting ease
The shame and fear rage out and strike
Bleeding, pulsing crimson shrieks and shouts
Curling fists and guts
Determined to be done
To be finished with the fear and frustration
Cursing, blaming, hating another person
And yourself is somehow easier
More natural
When loving isn't easily
Present..
Absent from awareness like
Light in the darkness jumping shadows

But then, I wasn't sure if I was writing about him or her...

On Missing Robin Williams

I want to write
About you
Your laughter, maniacal antics, wit
Witticism, whimsy
The way you made me think deep
Through the belly rolling, stomach cramping “please stop”
But not really…so much fun laughter…sent
To ponder the silliness of my existence
The absurdity of my serious self
Your fantastical smile and that particular sadness
In your eyes just beyond reach, casting a spell of
Connectivity
Humanity

I want to write about
The innumerable truths you spoke
Written in lines, given to you…owned by you
Known through you
“Words and ideas can change the world”
My world…
Why not your world?
Damn it.

I want to write about you
But
I
Can’t…it hurts too much
Robin…
It hurts too much.

 

Releasing

My finger tips
Hold the thread of you
Dangling precariously

We had passion…
Promise
Promises

You linger at my touch
Hovering above the abyss
Pleading

We had the future…
Promise
Promises

It’s simple, a little flit, easy
Releasing the rest of you
To fall…fall

The last inches to go
Infinitely gone
Done

Generation Motivation

If you are looking at
Me and My Generation
Shaking your head
Grumbling WTF?!
Walk away and do something
AMAZINGLY better
I'm good with that
Jack

Being Skinned #MondayBlogs #Emotion

Being Skinned

The layers peel
With a severe ease
Sub-dermal lament resides
Desire

Peeling

Cracking drafts of promises
Too familiar, too simple
Latent memory unveiled
Need

Peeling, peeling

Like dead skin from a sunburned thigh.

Poetic Death

Poetic Death

 

If I ever were to scribe

Verse and rhyme

Upon a broken line

Calling up metaphor

And trite analogy

To describe to thee

My Poetry

Shoot me

Please