abandoned keepsake

I am a war torn casualty hopelessly lost in an unfamiliar landscape.
I pick myself out of the rubble of a crumbled existence,
casting aside the well worn masks of my own invisibility.

I am stopped in this breathing place,
my quiet cocoon of safety
where unpredictability does not dwell,
but neither here does life,
neither here do I.
The silent screams that well up inside me never find their way out
and my door remains locked, the world shut out.

"The war is over," I try to convince myself.

This is my holding pattern.
I wonder will I ever feel brave
enough to unlock that door and
venture forth into life again?

Who am I without my captor's angry lies,
that cruel mouth that formed words defining me,
those rough hands that molded me
into the shapeless form of his invention?

I never thought to tuck myself away in safety,
hide myself in a tiny crack, or between pages of a book,
my treasured keepsake that I could run fingers over later,
smiling and whispering, "Yes, I know you."

No, I abandoned myself years ago,
left myself a motherless child.

The hands on the clock go round and round.
I dig through rubble behind a locked door,
searching for the girl I abandoned long ago
on the battlefield of disenchantment.


-bruised orange

Smashing dishes under cover

I lie in bed, under cover,
fear rising up through the pores of my skin;
it leaks from my hair.

My door is locked; there are no monsters under my bed.
The only demons here live inside my head,
in muscle, bone, cell memory.

Tall and impenetrable is the brick wall that locks me out, that locks me in.
Sarcasm drips from the corner of my mouth, first laughing, then crying,
my face stuck in a perpetual open mouthed gape of surrendered indecision.

Anger trickles through my toes, almost imperceptible,
a shallow breath slowly exhaled, a child hiding in the dark.

The cool porcelain of disavowed feeling snakes between my fingers,
settles in my palm.

Who protects me from my own rage?

Nowhere left to hide,
smashing dishes under cover.


--bruised orange

My love is a current, steady and true (a sonnet)

Were you to pass a thousand years drifting
In memories doubly drenched in sorrow,
You would find me pacing the shore waiting
To welcome you home, life's new tomorrow.
Within this land of love's patient slumber,
I will cradle your tender, worried heart
'Til time allows you to disremember
The burdens of grief which set you apart.
Then bring your ship sailing straight home to me;
I am forever your warm water port.
I've sent sweet scented streams out to your sea,
Now awaken to my gentle escort.
My love is a current, steady and true
I am your safe harbor; I wait for you.

Saturation

I chase words and phrases
round and round inside my head.
My thoughts slide.
They are soft butter on a hot knife.

Dripping from the blade,
they slip, without pretense,
into my waiting hand.

I cup these thoughts in my palm,
and pour my melted butter words
onto your paper heart.


--bruised orange

splinter

jammed under my nail is the pain of you
with blood that cannot flow (from a wound that cannot bleed)
my finger in my mouth, i try to suck you out,
tiny flaw that flashes white hot in my skull.

the carrion of your memory has left an imprint impossible to erase.
i would cut off my hand to be free of you,
but too late, your poison courses through my veins,
your pith of pain absorbed,
rooted forever in my bones, my splintered soul.


--bruised orange

on depression, and the repressed desire to stay connected -- how gray is this wall

The words of encouragement which you write
are a whispered song behind a wall so tall and wide, so tall and wide.

I see you through a fog, thick and dense. This place of isolation,
this bubble of unfeeling, is not my permanent residence.

(I tell myself this, with the sincere pat on the back)

I hold a knife to my own throat, I choke.

Oh, I've got something to share, believe you me.
(I laugh, as the words slip out my mouth, slide to the floor)

What a joke!

Just tell me this, how do you save yourself when the hole you've dug
is so comfortable and warm, and the wall so tall and wide, so tall and wide?


--bruised orange

fear and longing at river's edge

i stood apart under the weeping willow and looked out across this river of separation.
there you were, on the other side, lost in your own contemplation.

the wounding arrows of your youth held you fast to your bank,
and i cried alone, in the shadows of my yesterday.

weren't you always there on the other side wanting me to cross over to you?
and wasn't i always here on these banks, waiting to hear your call?


had we plunged bravely into the swirling eddies of these dark waters,
we would have found the safe passage of our journey,
the warm current of belonging to one another.


--bruised orange

i withdraw my application, my heart was never in it anyway

the joyful dancer of my youth
prances about my room, whispering
truths to my all but deafened ears.

'go away,' i respond. 'you belong to a time
i am no longer a part of.'


she takes my hand, but the skeleton of
my existence pulls away from her.

'did you think it would be so easy to get
me out to the dance floor again?'


i am a stubborn woman,
lost to the steps of dancing ways.

no, i choose now to sit here and watch.
the tango of life dances, her fluid body
pouring itself across the floor.

i am a poet, you see, and i set myself
here on these sidelines because observation
and reflection are the only things that keep my
heart beating.

participation? she speaks a language too foreign
to my ears for comprehension.


--bruised orange

she walks alone

she wanders alone down gritty streets
paved in the good intentions of her idealism.

these roads, marred with the holes of remorse
for all her failed attempts at living,
have led her,
in stumbling,
broken paced fashion,
to the realization that her life has
been a series of ineffective day trips.

she never had a destination in mind,
only bumbled along on a journey marked
simply by the passage of time,
and the graying of her hair.


--bruised orange

abandon

you would chase ghosts down a narrow corridor
seeking absolution from your own regrets.

don't think for a minute you'll find your answers there.
the love unfolds at whatever pace you are willing to set.

joy is reserved for the heart that forgives the past,
and beats itself wildly into the future.


--bruised orange

machete

before it is too late,
i want to speak to you from the tender places inside,
from my quiet islands that sing the lonely breezes when the moon shines in her fullness.

but, oh, these tangled vines of my interior keep me strangled in silence.

how can i break free, when my voice is stifled by these twisted branches of my past,
and my hands are bound by the overgrowth of too many neglected years?

i want to cut them out, to be free from their grasp,
to cultivate a new garden upon the fertile soil of these fallow fields.


--bruised orange

just the thing

the lines that fall apart and end up in the trash
are part of this poet's repertoire as well. perhaps,
if i brought them out and sang songs to them they
would feel loved enough to complete themselves.

i want to be more than incomplete. i want to begin
at the beginning, and run on through to the end, in
satisfaction.

but sometimes, it is within the spaces, within the stops
and starts and crumpled paper disappointments that we
find the very thing that we need to be at peace.


--bruised orange

have courage, dear heart

and the moon came down from the sky
long enough to listen to your story.

did you remember to give voice to your dreams?
were you brave enough to speak them aloud?


--bruised orange

"Write", she says.

"I have nothing to say", I answer.

But, of course, it is a lie. I have plenty to say.
It is a matter of staying hidden.

Sometimes, I want to be invisible.

"Don't look at me", I say, "Just see me."

I am the invisible substance of subconscious,
and I want nothing more than to be found.


--bruised orange

i had not gone fishing that night

i had not gone fishing that night.

the sun was down, with dark clouds hovering low.
me, in my rudderless boat, staring at the sky.
was i thinking of fish? I think i was just lost at sea.

i was thinking, (well, i don't remember exactly)
caught up in a brief break in the clouds. the stars
were out, shining their shining. i saw them,
but didn't. i was looking for the moon, her full, hovering
beauty imprinted still on my mind.

but this night, the moon was but a sliver of light, and i...
i was without remorse. i had come to that place of understanding
that the moon's light neither waxes nor wanes within the confines of
shadow. she becomes invisible in this shadowland, and perhaps this
is for the best, for who can take the beauty of the moon on a starless
night and call her their own? she was not mine to have.

and the tide, it pulled me in, it pushed me out; this motion set about
by the moon. (oh, my moon!)

i looked out, saw the waves come lapping gentle onto my boards.
the crash and turbulence, the rocking of my boat, shook me from
my reverie. i looked down, saw these dreams gasping at my feet.

oh, beautiful dreams born of moon and tide, how did you land here,
and why? i saw your gasping, your grasping at calming waters.

who was i to return you to your sea?
i was only a lost and rudderless boat.
i had not gone fishing that night;
i was no fisherman.

yet i took you home, slipped you into my
warm, salty waters and called you my own.


--bruised orange

convection currents

i'm reading tea leaves again.
this comes along with counting tiles, i suppose.
conversations carried out to their inevitable conclusion
inside my mind always have the worst endings.

when did i become so insecure?

i'm wondering at this point about the wisdom of wearing
hearts on sleeves and all that jazz. it would be
better for my mental health to be more stone-like.

i am a rock, i am a rock, i am a rock.

too late, i realize,
i am rock candy,
and you have me in hot water.


--bruised orange

can't find the off-switch

oh mind, your whirling dervish dancing

leaves you dizzy and reeling. do you not

know answers fly apart in the centrifuge?


--bruised orange

float on by

a crack of light shines into the dungeon of my heart.
i see the dust motes float on by.

this too shall pass whispers across my room,
and the dust motes float on by.


--bruised orange

walk on through

as you walk on through your dark night,
remember, love, your pale shaded color
will gleam again brilliance in morning's light.

i have no answers for you, and cannot pull
you from your sadness. yet i fly in circles
surrounding you, these slow tracing wings
feather soft and fluttering nearby.

if you can hear my words whispering quiet
calm upon your tender, broken places,
listen now, and know you are loved.

walk on through to me, love. i will wipe those
crystalline tears from your eyes, and cover over the
torn places of your crepe paper heart.



--bruised orange

cheers

a woman sits and drinks alone at her table tonight,
in remembrance of all loves past. in her darkness,
glimmers of chance dance across the room, for
these are things born apart from the bottle.

hope, that slow gasping fish of dreams, makes eyes at her,
and she raises her glass in a toast,
but the lights come down, and he swims away.

the future is a place for young lovers
with stardust whispers and moonbeam glances
she reminds herself, and pours another drink.


--bruised orange

bo whines some more about writer's block

the words i write now have no good flow.
these child like stitches, clumsily holding together
pieces of fabric that don't even match.

knotted cord of words, tangled in my throat.

but i remember days of butter soft verses
sliding off my tongue, creamy smooth and luscious.


--bruised orange

exclusion, self imposed

so i'm standing outside the coffee shop
staring through the large plate glass windows.
it's one of those intimate, quirky little places.
pressed tin ceiling, art (originals) on the walls, pieces of
furniture that look more like they belong in a bedroom
than any public place. maybe that's my problem.
maybe it isn't impersonal enough. because i can't
seem to get my feet to move over the threshold.
i'm just standing here on the street, staring through
to the other side. on the other side sit the group of
poets i am supposed to be joining. they talk easily
with each other, they share their works. i'm wondering
at this point, what sort of poets they are, these smiling,
laughing easy talking people. these are definitely not my type of poets.
i'm wondering what kind of poetry these easy talkers have inside themselves.
what could they possibly have to say? probably poems about flowers and
butterflies and trees and stuff. this is not the group for me.

i turn and walk on down the street.
a dirty, crumpled sheet of newspaper bounces along the sidewalk in front me.


--bruised orange

boredom spread thin

People keep telling me I have a sense of humor.
I look around and wonder what drugs they are taking.
If this is funny to you, please get in the line on the left,
you will get a booby prize.
If I am boring you, go shoot yourself now, as this is downhill from here.

And speaking of boredom, I read a quote the other day
that said that boredom is rage spread thin.
I've never really thought of boredom as something soft
and creamy to go on toast, but I can see it happening.

To the waitress at Jim's: Yes, I'll have the eggs over easy,
and wheat toast, boredom on the side, please.

I'm trying this next time. She will probably give me that look
that reminds me I am from a different planet. I need this sort
of thing in my life.

nanu nanu


--bruised orange

on losing words

i seem to have lost words again.
the sense of desperation i feel over this is palpable.
i wonder, where did they go? who can i blame?
and will they ever return to me?

oh muse, you are an unfaithful lover
i gave my heart to you and you've taken
it and skipped town.


--bruised orange

remembrance

alone in my stillness, i wait to see the flowers dance across the meadow,
for then i will remember the joyous ways of our togetherness, how we moved
across the vast prairie of a greater love. now, it is a tiny mouse who hides in
the tall grass, trembling with every vibration of the earth, afraid to move.
yet the sun shines down each day, whether we are alone or together.
i see the beams of light fall upon your face, and remember how we danced
together across the vast prairie of a greater love, how the dew kissed our toes,
and the meadow flowers sang our hearts through from morning to eventide.
i remember you, i remember me, and a song we sang from the union of our hearts.
this song echoes through the dark night as stars wink across the sky.


--bruised orange