my lies 082619

I sit up high

in my broom broom moving boom

hands upon the turny bop bop beeper

but all I see is what I see

and all my thoughts are reruns

from the ones who passed before.

 

I walk my woofer happily

saying eww eww icky poo.

but my heart doesn’t feel

and my mind cannot comprehend

a thing as simple as its own end.

so I make up ties and cries and sighs

but all the things I know, are lies.

 

There is an end

to comprehend

with only never afters.

no darkness or light

to try to fight

no struggles nor pains nor laughters.

 

Remember 081019

When you miss a person

Remember a time

She made you laugh.

Not the times

She made you cry.

 

That will make it easier

To forgive her

For the times she made you cry.

 

Then you will desire

To heal the wounds

Left neglected for so long.

 

And if the time has passed

For healing wounds,

You will remember her warmly

Because you did share

Love

And peace

And happiness.

 

Complicated

Life is not complicated.

It is either yes or no,

Stay or go.

 

Do you love him?

Do you want him?

Can you live without him?

 

All three can be answered

With yes or no.

No explanation required.

No validation needed.

 

Feelings will be hurt.

And hearts will be broken.

As ashes fill the air

From burning bridges.

 

But simple questions

Call for simple answers

Spoken honestly

To the ones you leave behind.

 

Recovering 052119

Love is an old addiction

And I am in recovery.

Every day I wake up craving it.

It is the first thing.

It is the last thing

I think about.

I think about.

I think about.

 

And you were my drug of choice.

My drug.

My choice.

 

Maybe one day,

I will be a servant

To another mistress,

Slave to another’s touch.

 

But today it is you.

And today

And today

It is you.

 

Old cravings fade so slowly.

Old desires don’t let go

And I go on

With the hunger,

The yearning,

The pain.

 

Let It Go

There’s nothing to say.

What could you say?

So why say it?

Let it go.

 

A note from long ago.

Unanswered.

The writer waiting

For a response.

 

It’s all just words,

Just bluster.

Words, words, words

Written on the wind

Washed away with the rain.

Swirling down the drain.

Let it           go.

 

Breathe.

Let silence

Wash over you.

Through you.

Beyond you.

Let it

Go.

Keep me in your prayers

I recently hit a rough spot

In a life filled with rough spots.

In a weak moment,

I told an acquaintance.

She said, “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

I’ll keep you in my prayers.

That is all she offered to me

In my sorrow and pain.

 

Now to some that is enough.

A social understanding

That we are all helpless

In a raging shit-storm.

So I will say this phrase

And we can part

And avoid any unpleasantness

And think there is hope.

 

To me, prayer was always

More for the one who prays

Than for the object of her prayers.

It makes that person focus on a problem

Until a solution appears

Which should eventually lead to an action.

 

“God, please give me that promotion.”

Eventually, you will realize that

Until you merit that promotion

By going the extra mile,

You don’t deserve that promotion.

And that will change you

Into someone who deserves the promotion.

 

But does God listen?

“Prayer hotline, this is God,

How can I help you?”

If God is God,

Shouldn’t he already know our sorrow?

Will he help us only if we ask?

And only if we ask in the right way?

Does that mean that God wants us to suffer?

Should a parent not feed her baby

If the baby doesn’t ask?

 

If God will listen to me, and not to you,

Does that mean that God favors

One person over another?

One group over another?

Does this mean the racists are right?

Of course not.

 

This is an ego trip,

If you think you have a direct

Hotline to an all powerful being.

Is God your errand boy

And you just give him a honey-do list?

 

If you must pray,

Ask for guidance

On how you could help,

And then help.

 

And the next time someone

Tells you their sorrow,

Ask, “How can I help?”

And then do what you can.

 

Prayer is not a substitute for action.

It is action.

 

“He prayeth best,

Who loveth best,

All things both great and small,

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.”
-Cooleridge

A Jar of Macadamia Nuts

“Things aren’t important.

Things are important.

Does that make sense?”

 

She stood before me

In the supermarket.

A friend, I haven’t seen in over a year.

A disease that is slowly melting her cartilage away.

She smiled joyfully at me,

In front of the shredded cheese.

Her happiness had nothing to do with the cheese.

I hope.

 

“I think so.” I replied.

“Big things aren’t important.

Small things are.”

 

Her smile continued.

“Yes last year I couldn’t stand.

I might have to have surgery to fuse my spine.

I won’t be able to move my head ever again.”

 

I said, “Like this?”

Slowly moving my back, neck, and head from side to side as one

Imagining what life would be like,

Like a naive child learning about homeless for the first time.

 

“Yes,” she said.

We stood, for a moment, in silence as the Friday shoppers passed us,

In a frenzied passion,

As if the three for two special

Held the meaning of life

Or the riches of Solomon.

 

“You look well,” I said and I meant it.

In fact, she looked beautiful,

With a knowledge and understanding

That few possess.

 

 

“Thanks,” she smiled again.

Her eyes closed as discomfort from her condition took hold of her.

“I can only get around now for small amounts of time

And I’m about done.”

 

I noticed a jar of Macadamia nuts in her hand

And looked around for her cart.

“Is you cart somewhere?”

 

No, this is all I came for.”

I looked confused

So she continued,

“Last year I couldn’t stand,

I couldn’t clean.

I couldn’t be the mother

I wanted to be.

Everything I thought I once was,

I wasn’t.

I couldn’t even bake.

I love baking.

For now,

At this moment,

I can do things,

Small things,

Simple things.

Today I can bake cookies.”

She looked at the jar in her hand

And smiled sadly.

“Today I can bake,

Silly really.”

 

Not silly at all.